Title: The Grissom Effect
By: Rhysenn
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Because that's just what Nick Stokes does. That's how he deals. Post-Grave Danger.

***

The nights are the worst.

Days aren't that great either, Nick thinks wryly - but at least it's bright all around, the sun is shining and the shadows are just in his mind. But at night - the artificial lights slice through his drawn curtains and cut him like a blade, gouge into his mind and dig up the memory of a death box of glass, the taunt of a glaring bulb that just goes on-off-on-off until -

Shattering, and then darkness.

He usually jerks awake then, his body shaking violently and drenched in sweat. Gulping mouthfuls of air, sobbing and kicking and choking and reaching out for something to cling to, someone -

But of course, there's no one next to him in bed, and his own pathetic gasping noises reverberate in the empty room. There's no one to tell him it's just a dream, no one to comfort him and steady him, the way Grissom did when he gripped Nick's hand, and never let go.

There's no one to hold him, and Nick knows that's entirely his own fault. Nick Stokes, who has to be so fucking under control all the time, even now - I'm all right, honest, guys, thanks to you all, and I'm just glad to be back.

Nick fucking Stokes, who has to go and visit the daughter of the fucking psycho who put him in that hell hole - not that he doesn't genuinely feel sorry that she's suffering as much for this vicious cycle of events that set the wheels in motion that ended him where it did.

He is sorry, truly is, and that's why he went to visit that girl, because that's what Nick Stokes does. That's how he deals.

But it's just. He thought it'd make him feel better, seeing her, talking to her, but if he were expecting some sort of cathartic relief he didn't get it. And Nick's starting to realize that maybe nothing is ever going to make him feel better - and that thought sends a tentacle of black dread coiling in the pit of his stomach, makes the tears sting the back of his eyes and a wild panic rise bitter in his throat.

He went back to the lab the night before, even though he's officially been given ten days off to recuperate. He wanted to say hi to everyone, thank them for their support - but he knows the other reason he's not admitting is that he just doesn't want to be alone at night, in the dark.

To his surprise, it seemed everyone was on graveyard shift, including Catherine and Warrick. Catherine, in her brisk motherly way, told him that anytime he needed to talk, she'd be there. She obviously had enough experience dealing with petulant teenagers to know that pushing it just wasn't going to work, and Nick's secretly grateful for the space.

Warrick, on the other hand, tried gallantly to be a friend in need - but only ended up breaking down in tears and raving about how sorry he was and the flip of a coin and how brave and strong Nick was to have not... you know.

Nick had to pat him on the back and assure him that no, he didn't blame Warrick for what happened, and yes, he was fine (or at least, he didn't add, he would be slightly closer to that illusion if he didn't have to comfort his sobbing friends who were hell bent on guilt-tripping themselves).

Sara just looked flustered when she saw him, as if she had no clue how to behave or what to say, and plastered a grin on her face for the entire time she talked to him - which was a grand total of three minutes. Sara is sincerely concerned, Nick's sure; she just generally has trouble letting people actually know that.

Greg asked him to come over to his place sometime and hang out and hit the Playstation - they've been keeping a longstanding score that's been snowballing in Nick's favor. That was cool of Greg, Nick knows, as in these situations Greg usually found every excuse to insist they start on a clean slate over the most minor game infraction.

And Grissom. Grissom just called Nick into the office, closed the door, and looked at him.

Nick managed to hold that gaze for all of two seconds before ducking his head and muttering to the floor that - that he was coping with everything and he just wanted to do his job and all he really, really wanted was for everything to go back to normal. The way they were.

But this - this is not normal, Nick thinks wretchedly, pulling the blankets in around himself and shivering even though he's still sweating profusely. This is not the way things were before.

And a dark, terrible, miserable part of his soul that still lives in that hole in the ground doesn't think it will ever be.

Nick remembers he saw this same knowledge in Grissom's eyes the night before: after Nick finished his soliloquy, Grissom had this - this look in his eyes, not pity, not condescension, not even sympathy... just sadness. And wanting to do something, but not knowing how. And that pierced Nick so deep in his heart he almost couldn't breathe - because it was the closest thing to what he needed to see right now, what he needed to feel.

All Grissom said to him was, "Whenever you need me, Nicky."

Not If. When.

And not Nick. Nicky.

Nick nodded numbly, and fled from Grissom's office.

Now, in the dead of the night, the darkness has a mind of its own. It jeers at him, laughs at those final, desperate moments when he was beyond endurance, beyond hope, when the muzzle of the gun against the pulse of his jugular vein was the last sensation he wanted to remember.

Until he heard something he wanted to remember more.

Grissom's voice, calling out to him - that familiar, still-calm voice anchored him, and he made it the center of his universe, clung to it with every last vestige of determination he had left. He closed everything else out of his mind - the widespread sting of ants crawling all over his skin, the shallow burning in his lungs from not being able to suck in enough oxygen, the cool, seductive feel of the gun in his hand. He shut all that out, and focused on the one thing that brought him back -

And when everyone else suddenly stopped digging him out and scrambled away, Nick screamed and begged and then Grissom was there, telling him about the explosives rigged under the box, reasoning with him, making him promise.

In that little glass box of terror and panic and blind hysteria, Grissom was his - his sanity.

Nick lets out a little noise, like a sob and a sharp inhalation; he closes his eyes and bites his lower lip.

He's never thought of Grissom in those terms - never let himself think of Grissom that way. Grissom has always been... Grissom to him, his supervisor, the best damn CSI in the history of the Las Vegas crime lab, the one whose entomological insights are more lofty than Nick's ornithological knowledge just because. And the funny part is Nick isn't even jealous of that, not really - because he understands perfectly why everyone is just smitten with Grissom and anything he had to say. Because so is he. All the time, for years, ever since the day he first met Grissom.

Nick climbs out of bed and looks at the clock. Only half past one, and the night already feels like forever. Then he remembers, with a jump in his heart, seeing on the roster yesterday that Grissom is off duty tonight.

His feet shuffle across the floor like lead, directing him to his open drawer full of unfolded clothes. He drags on a decent tee-shirt and jeans, finds his car keys and heads out.

The cool night air stings his face, but serves to raise him to a more conscious level of... well, consciousness. The kind that's actually coherent and clear, not wild and insomniac, and is useful for driving, particularly if he doesn't want to end up wrapped around a tree along the way.

Don't wanna waste Grissom's effort, Nick thinks, with a self-deprecating twinge of his mouth. Saving me and all.

He doesn't know why Grissom's always the first person that comes to mind when he thinks of his rescue. Nick doesn't bother figuring it out - he just takes it as a nudge in the right direction, starts his engine and heads down the street.


* * *



His nerve fails him precisely when he's standing just outside the door to Grissom's apartment. Well, fails is probably putting it lightly - it sort of just rushes out of him, like air from a balloon. A lot of air, from a big, rapidly deflating balloon. He sucks in a ragged, hitched breath, as if literal air could fill the figurative - breathe, he orders himself, but the panic gleefully floods in to fill the void, and when he reckons his heartbeat is erratic enough to spontaneously induce cardiac arrest, Nick lets out a painful sigh, hunches his shoulders, and actually turns around to leave.

Then he jerks himself to a stop. Get a grip on yourself, Stokes, he tells himself sternly. You need this. You need -

He stops just short of the name, startled by his own brutal honesty - and when you're actually genuinely surprised by something you tell yourself despite the fact that you've probably already known it all along... well, you really need some help.

The rising panic attack either agrees, or is protesting otherwise. Nick grits his teeth and slams himself back against the wall of the corridor, hopefully hard enough to jolt his senses back into proper function. A really primitive defibrillation method, but hey, if it gets the job done. He bangs himself against the wall once more, relishes the crack of his bones and the way it vibrates through his skull, jarring everything momentarily. It feels nice. Disorienting.

He does it again, and again, until -

"...Nick?"

The tentative voice jerks him back to non-self-inflicted, but equally disorienting, reality - Nick's eyes flash open, and a Grissom-shaped figure dressed in pajamas is standing in the open doorway, staring at him with a puzzled expression on his face and a rolled up newspaper clutched in his right hand.

"Nick," Grissom says again. "What are you doing?"

And Nick wants to laugh, because he knows Grissom isn't asking what he's doing here, but what he's actually doing. Grissom's trademark ineptness in social conversation shines through and this time, it grates on Nick's already-shot nerves.

Banging myself against the wall outside your apartment, Griss, Nick wants to snark in reply. Is it really all that ambiguous?

But his polite Texan upbringing vetoes that, and instead he settles for, "Didn't mean to disturb you, Grissom. Sorry." He nods lamely toward the paper in Grissom's hand. "Were you, uh, reading?"

"No." Grissom's brow furrows. "At first I thought it was a neighbor's dog snuffling outside my door, so I just ignored it. Then I heard the repeated thumping, and I decided to come out and check for myself."

Nick can't hold back a bark of laughter. "Armed with that?"

Grissom tilts his head, in his usual manner, and regards Nick with that odd intellectual mix of almost-amusement and serious-thought. Then he lowers the paper in his hands.

"Well," he says, and there's definitely a smile in his eyes. "Fortunate for me, then."

Nick suddenly can't do this anymore, this banter that used to come so easily to him, like a protective shield that has suddenly turned to smoke.

"Grissom," he says, defeatedly; his voice frays on the edges and he slumps back against the wall, less violently this time.

Grissom's expression instantly sobers.

"Come in, Nick," he says quietly; and he doesn't go towards Nick to shepherd him inside the apartment, just takes a step backwards and holds the door open for him.

And that gesture comforts Nick immeasurably, somehow, because that's just Grissom - he doesn't hold your hand, he just shows you the way.

Nick peels himself off the wall, and as he shuffles through the open doorway he brushes past Grissom - and they just touch, by a hair's breadth, for a heartbeat - it makes him inhale sharply, and in that brief moment Nick feels a little, just a little, less dead inside.

Nick steps inside Grissom's apartment and turns around; he even manages a tiny grin, which he knows doesn't go unnoticed by Grissom. It earns him an arched eyebrow, and Nick actually finds it in himself to give a hoarse chuckle.

"Nothing," he answers. "It's just... well. Cute pajamas."

"Cute?" An inflection in Grissom's voice tells him that his choice of adjective leaves some to be desired.

"Yeah," Nick answers. "You know. Looks nice on you."

"Well," Grissom closes the door behind them and shoots the bolt home, "for most people pajamas are normal at two in the morning. For people working graveyard, it's a luxury. Like fetish-wear, I suppose."

Nick's blood pressure does a little cartwheel and for a moment he forgets to feel like shit, for encroaching on Grissom's precious night off, for everything else.

When Nick finally raises his eyes to meet Grissom's, he is confronted with the depths of Grissom's gaze - serious once again, completely neutral yet completely filled, and above all, entirely centered and focused on him. Only him.

And at that moment all Nick can think is, This is all I need. This.

Grissom finally speaks, softly. "Talk to me, Nicky."

To hear the affectionate name from Grissom damn near sends Nick to pieces, but this falling apart is different from other times. But the problem is there's still volumes and volumes of choked-up-pent-up-whatever inside him, and Nick doesn't know where to start.

"Thing is, Grissom..." Nick doesn't know why he still calls him that. Grissom, a name which belongs in the lab and is supposed to put respectable distance between them but now, only makes him feel closer to the other man than ever before.

Nick trails off, and hunts around fruitlessly for words to say what he really means. He's got so used to "I'm all right" and "really, I'm fine" that it seems he's lost the natural ability to articulate anything else.

Grissom fills in. "Let's sit down," he says, and Nick finds himself maneuvered by firm, gentle hands down onto the sofa. Again, he likes this more than he should.

"You... " Nick starts, and then the rest of his sentence skitters out of reach - but the silence that buoys his words isn't the horrible kind that he's used to hearing, echoing and endless, in his brain and all around him.

"You made me promise," he finally says, in a rush.

Grissom's gaze doesn't falter. "Yes, I did."

"But it's just," Nick stumbles on, almost blindly; he can feel Grissom's attention pricking up, and somehow that helps him continue, "The thing is, I don't think I can do it anymore."

"Do what?" No judgment, just... just Grissom.

Nick closes his eyes.

"What I promised you," he whispers, and he's not talking about what happened in that box anymore.

"What did you promise me, Nick?"

From Grissom's voice, Nick can tell neither is he.

And suddenly Nick realizes it's not about him anymore, it's about - this is about them. Nick tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"To be the best damn CSI that I can be," and his voice threatens to break but he holds it together enough to finish, "to make you proud, Grissom."

His voice finally cracks when he speaks Grissom's name, and he's a shredded mess of emotions as he blurts out,

"That's all I've ever wanted."

The overwhelming sense of déjà vu makes the sides of Nick's mouth curl bitterly. He has thought these words countless times before, actually said them out loud once, even if it was just to a tape recorder he didn't expect anyone to find - but heck, his entire career, his life at the crime lab has been a protracted exercise in proving, beyond all doubt, that he was worthy of Grissom's... praise? Confidence? Respect?

All that, and something more.

After a silence, Grissom says, "I'm sorry, Nick."

Nick looks up at him; then he laughs humorlessly, and it's an awful, harsh, angry sound.

"Don't," he chokes out fiercely; it's a plea and a threat, and he feels the tears in his eyes. "Don't you do this to me, Grissom, because I can't take it, not coming from you..."

"I think I owe you an apology," Grissom continues; he doesn't move, doesn't back down, and there's a tentative, halting note in his voice. But then Nick realizes it's not out of difficulty, or reluctance - but because there's that invisible line between not knowing how to say the words, and not saying them at all.

"For ever letting you believe that I wasn't." Grissom pauses. "Proud of you. Always."

And Grissom has just crossed it.

Nick thinks back on all the times Grissom's pointed glances and clipped words made him wilt and flinch inside, how Grissom's favoring Sara or Warrick over him in some small trivial thing always made him feel inferior, and so crushed, because he thought it meant that he simply wasn't good enough for Grissom, and could never be.

Now Nick looks at Grissom - and he can see that Grissom is thinking the exact same things, replaying all those scenarios that made Nick feel approximately the size of a weevil - and Nick sees that both of them are only just realizing exactly how wrong they each were, in their own ways.

Nick blinks, and tears spill out of his wet eyes; he makes a noise like an embarrassed laugh and a sniffle and turns away, but can't, because suddenly Grissom is there.

Grissom's arms go around him, pulling him closer, and Nick finds himself crying silently as he buries his face in Grissom's shoulder; his body is shaking in the warmth of Grissom's embrace, and the explosion of pain in Nick's heart makes his entire chest clench so much it feels like his ribcage is collapsing inwards - but it's a good pain, if there's even such a thing. If not, there should be, because this is it, him needing to be with someone so bad it physically hurts, and then finding himself here, like this, with Grissom.

And it's already starting to hurt a little less.


* * *



"I just realized that I haven't asked if you want anything to drink."

Nick opens his eyes - this is the first thing Grissom has spoken since pulling Nick towards him, holding him in his arms and letting him cry all over his pajama collar. Nick isn't sure how much time has passed - but it's been long enough for his arms to have found their way around Grissom's neck, and Grissom's hands to settle on his back.

"How about some coffee?" Grissom suggests amicably; and it's as if they're just taking a break from work together at the coffee machine, not huddled on Grissom's sofa with Nick clinging to him like a lemming.

But it feels nice. Normal, and not in a painstaking, forced way - it feels like before, and yet it really isn't, and Nick doesn't know how Grissom can make him feel this way by simply asking him about coffee.

Nick reluctantly pulls back a little; Grissom moves away as well, but only slightly, giving Nick the space he needs but not withdrawing entirely.

"No, no coffee for me," Nick answers tiredly. "I... actually, I just really need to sleep. I don't think I've had more than three, maybe four hours of real sleep in the past few days." Nick wipes his eyes and the drying wetness on his face. "And I can't sleep at my own place, it's too... I just can't."

Grissom's expression doesn't alter one bit.

"Of course," he says simply. "You can stay here for the night, in fact, for as long as you like."

Grissom's words send a tingle through him, and Nick forces himself not to read too much into what Grissom is saying. This sudden gravitation towards Grissom, this needing him for support - more than just support - it's just the trauma talking, Nick tries to reason, and nothing else. Except that it's really not. It's not just the trauma, and it's not even sudden at all, only something that's been latent enough to be denied all this while.

Grissom is looking at him with concern. "Have you talked to the doctor about getting some pills to help you rest?"

Nick shakes his head.

"No. No pills," he says adamantly. "I don't want any of that stuff."

"Why not?" There's no insistence in Grissom's tone, just curiosity.

"Because," Nick starts, and feels foolish. "Because it's bad enough to have nightmares, man, it's even worse when you're so doped you can't even wake yourself up from them."

He feels like he's six years old again, afraid of nightmares and the too-real sensations they bring; he remembers how he used to pray that he just wouldn't dream at all, he didn't want dreams, he just wanted to sleep.

Nick is suddenly aware of Grissom moving, getting to his feet beside him. Then Grissom leans down, just a little, and Nick forgets to breathe in that split moment just before Grissom reaches out and touches the back of his hand to Nick's forehead.

Nick breathes again; Grissom holds the touch for a few moments, and then frowns a little. "Do you want some aspirin?"

Nick can't help cracking a wry smile. "What, for the pain?"

It's not lost on Grissom, who gives him a look but leaves it at that. "You're running a slight temperature, probably from lack of sleep. Aspirin, a nice shower, cookies and milk, and good old-fashioned rest. My mother swears by that."

Nick tilts his head up at Grissom. "You have milk and cookies?"

"No." Grissom doesn't bat an eyelid. "But I do have Quaker oats. Would you like some Quaker oats, Nick?"

"Uh, no," Nick says quickly. "I think I'll just skip straight to the old-fashioned sleep part, thanks."

"All right, then." Nick catches the amusement on Grissom's face as he turns away and walks toward his bedroom. A few moments later Grissom emerges carrying his pillow and blanket in his arms.

"Bed's all yours," he tells Nick.

Nick blinks. "Hey, no way, you're already letting me crash here. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Bed, Nick. Let's not quibble over this."

"You're in pajamas, that goes well with the bed."

"Old-fashioned sleep goes well with the bed," Grissom replies, with a hint of a smile. "Pajamas are just nice to curl up in, wherever you sleep."

"But I'm the one -"

"Nick," Grissom said firmly, already walking towards the sofa. "You take the bed, I'll take the couch."

Nick watches Grissom dump his pillow and blanket on the sofa; then, against Grissom's no-room-for-argument tone and his own better judgment, Nick clears his throat.

"Actually," he ventures, "I was kinda hoping... you'd take the bed. With me."

This makes Grissom stop arranging his blanket and turn one hundred and eighty degrees around to face Nick.

Nick braces himself for the inevitable rejection; but when it doesn't come, he swallows and forces himself to finish,

"It's just," he hesitates, and then says in a rush, "I just don't want to sleep by myself tonight."

It's the truth, yet not all of it. But he doesn't want to mess this up, not when it matters more than anything else in the world, not when this is all he has to cling on to right now.

Grissom is looking at him in a thoughtful way, as if evaluating the truth-but-not-quite of what Nick just said. Nick holds his gaze, and waits.

Finally, Grissom picks up his pillow. "All right then," he says, and gathers up his blanket and heads back to the bedroom without another word.

Nick blinks. He can't quite believe Grissom gave in that easily; in his mind he was already guessing which variation of the "we can't do this, Nick, I'm your supervisor" speech Grissom would dish out to him.

And then Nick grins. Just spontaneously, the grinniest grin he's ever grinned in a long time. He goes over to the sink, downs a glass of water to quench his thirst, goes to the bathroom to take a leak and then heads straight to Grissom's bedroom.

He finds Grissom already settled in one side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard with a thick forensic journal open in his lap. When Nick enters the room Grissom glances up at him over the rim of his glasses, and Nick feels a flutter in his stomach - because just looking at Grissom, sitting in bed wearing those cream-colored tiny-blue-spotted pajamas with the fluffy covers drawn up to his chest - this, Nick thinks, this just feels unbelievably right.

As he makes his way around to the other side of the bed Nick starts to strip off his tee-shirt, before he suddenly remembers this isn't his own bedroom.

He stops in mid-movement, his tee-shirt already halfway up his torso, and looks over at Grissom.

"You mind?" he asks.

There's a twitch on the sides of Grissom's mouth. "Not at all."

Nick grins, pulls the tee-shirt over his head and drops it on a nearby chair. Then his hands automatically go to his jeans; he hesitates, and glances at Grissom again.

"Uh," he says, "these too?"

Grissom's eyes haven't moved away from him since earlier, and Nick thinks he catches a flicker of... something, passing across Grissom's face, and it takes a moment for Grissom to answer.

"Whatever makes you comfortable, Nick." There's that same something again, veiled, barely perceptible in the texture of Grissom's voice.

Nick quickly unzips the front of his jeans, lets them fall to the floor, steps out of them and climbs into bed. His mind is spinning with the excitement of this - this, being in Grissom's bed in nothing but his boxers, with Grissom gazing at him in that something way - and Nick has never seen Grissom look at him like this before.

They've been crossing a lot of lines tonight, Nick thinks dizzily. What's one more?

So he leans across the bed, and kisses Grissom on the mouth.

The moment their lips touch, Grissom goes completely still; and as Nick reaches out to steady himself in this awkward half-leaning, half-kneeling position, he can feel that Grissom's entire body is tense and rigid. Grissom's lips are dry, and they remain inert and closed against Nick's - he's not kissing Nick back, but he's not pushing him away either.

It's a clumsy, desperate kiss, but it's Nick's own way of defining that something, because he knows Grissom never will, not on his own. And when Nick finally pulls back, he thinks he already knows the answer.

"Nick." The word leaves Grissom's lips in an exhalation, slightly raw and breathless; and it makes Nick ache, because he can't argue when Grissom says 'no' by saying his name.

"I'm sorry," Nick whispers automatically; and it hurts. It really does.

There is silence - and then Grissom takes a slow, deep breath, and it sounds like Grissom is going to ask him to leave.

But instead Grissom just says, "Why?"

"Because..." Nick shrugs uselessly, and can't meet Grissom's eyes, can't find the words. "Because."

"Because we all need a little human contact every once in a while?"

The tone in Grissom's voice is quiet, almost sorrowful. Nick looks up at him, surprised; but it quickly fades, and the plain, undeniable truth is all that's left.

"If it isn't wrong," Nick says sadly, "then why won't you kiss me back?"

"Because this is the wrong time, and you're not in the place for this right now," Grissom answers patiently. "We both know that."

I'm single, Nick thinks miserably. You're single. And I need you. More than you'll ever know.

But Nick also knows how selfish he's being, and he doesn't want Grissom to feel as if Nick only wants him for the support and strength he can give him. There is that, of course, Grissom is the most stable, constant person he knows... but there's also so much more about Grissom that he cares for, and Nick knows now's not the time he can show Grissom that.

"You'll get through this, Nick," Grissom says quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "Some time not so far down this road you'll be able to leave all this behind, because I know you're not the kind of guy to bring it with you. And then..."

Grissom halts, and it's indeed a rare occurrence to hear Grissom unsure of his words.

"And then we'll see," he finally says; there's a wistful tone in his voice, and when Grissom looks directly at him, Nick feels the burn of tears start at the back of his eyes.

He bites his lip, and nods.

"But until then," Grissom starts to say, but Nick is there.

"I know," he says softly. "And thank you."

Grissom tilts his head pensively - an unspoken understanding passes between them, one that fills Nick with a new feeling of... hope, something to look forward to, a reason to move on.

Grissom lifts the bed covers to let Nick crawl under them, and Nick quickly finds a comfortable spot curled up next to Grissom. He feels Grissom's arm go around him, and there's something protective about his manner.

And for the first time in what seems like forever, Nick feels safe.

"So is this what you do on your nights off?" Nick asks, peering over at the forensic journal that has half-slipped off Grissom's lap. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy. "Sit up in bed all night and read?"

"Yes." Grissom smiles down at Nick. "But it's always nice to have company, for a change."

Nick snuggles a little closer, until his head is nestled against Grissom's side.

"Yeah," he says sleepily. "It is."

Then he closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.




- fin -

***