Title: Gil is a Completely Normal Guy
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Nick Stokes
Warning: R (?)
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me and I don't make money off of them.
Summary: PWP. Gil is a completely normal guy. Who sometimes daydreams.

Grissom stares thoughtfully into space, his eyes traveling along the various jars and artifacts on his shelves. He and Warrick have been working on a case for almost 5 days straight and although every instinct tells him they've got the right suspect, they cannot make the connection. He's been going at it too long, concentrating on minutiae, trying to force the small details and inconsistencies out of hiding. It doesn't work that way for him. He needs to be in a focused but receptive state of mind, to let the evidence tell him the story. Case after case, he's finding it increasingly hard to be in that state of mind. He needs a break away from all this. He needs a vacation.

He idly follows that trail of thought. Vegas has been almost unbearably hot and dry. Cool and damp would be nice. London. Theaters, galleries, museums. Just right.

No. Gil knows himself. He'd start scheduling his days, chasing this exhibit and that concert, his vacation turning into an obsessive quest to leave nothing out. He needs something relaxing, peaceful.

An island in Greece. Still hot and dry, yes, but with the cool Aegean at his feet. Nothing to do but laze in the sun, catch up on his reading. A picture springs fully-formed into his mind, and as he leans backs and closes his eyes, it fills with heat and smells and sounds, and he loses himself in it, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders and neck.

The indefinable aroma of the sea, musty and eternal, yet somehow fresh at the same time. The sharp tang of the pine trees behind him, a waft of oregano whenever there's a breeze. The bitter smell of coffee and the sweeter one of evaporated milk, every time he sips from his iced coffee. The coconut suntan lotion Nick uses.

The small waves lapping against the shore, and the sound of pebbles rolling back and forth against each other at the edge of the water. The shrill cries of children, the regular thwacking sound of a tennis ball hitting wooden paddles, the high-pitched laughter of two women as the coolness of the water catches them by surprise. The never-ending rhythmic buzzing of cicadas, a constant background to summer. Nick's soft snores, as he lies on his back, asleep next to him.

The tight feeling of his skin, a combination of dried seawater, sweat and slight sunburn. The heat of the sun on his arm, which the moving shade of the umbrella has left uncovered. The wrinkled spots on the pages of his book, where water from his hair dripped onto them, and the oily bookcover, where he leaned it against his lotion-covered legs. The damp towel underneath him. Nick's hair, stiff and spiky from the sea, and his jaw, unshaven, rough.

The sun glinting on the water, so bright that he has to squint, even with his sunglasses on. The small strip of white at Nick's waist, where the band of his trunks has pulled down slightly. Nick's tan belly rising and falling slightly as he breathes, the tight muscles visible even as he naps. The small winding trails of dried seawater, white against his smooth brown skin.

The tastes will come later at night: The sweet tomatoes contrasting with the salty feta cheese in his salad. The taste of ouzo, cloudy from the added water and burning a trail down his throat as he swallows it.

And every time Gil kisses Nick that night, on their way back through narrow cobbled streets to the small room they're renting, when they close the door and the lilting Greek music grows muted, when he pushes Nick's shirt back off his shoulders and down his arms, when he pulls him down with him on the bed, the cotton sheets rough against their sun burnt skin, it tastes different.

And everywhere Gil kisses Nick, his smiling mouth, his fluttering eyelids, the hollow of his neck where a vein is beating wildly, his belly, his restless legs, his cock, his mouth again, it tastes different.