Title: Hush
By: jettblack0110
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Summary: A heart can't be broken if it isn't there.
Warning: Character death
Word Count: 2849

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A hush descended on the viewers as a man slowly stood and made his way toward the stage. He had dark brown hair, almost black, and even darker eyes. His suit was immaculate, but there was something in his demeanor that showed he was utterly exhausted. Maybe it was the slow, calculated steps up the stairs. Or maybe it was the lethargic, deep breaths that expanded his chest. Or maybe it was the way his eyes were hooded, protecting his true emotions from the room.

In any case, he was striking, and the viewers stared, one by one, at the man now standing at the podium. He just stood staring back, but not really looking. It seemed he was inside his mind, convincing himself that he could do this. Apparently he won the argument against his doubt, because his hands came up and gripped the edge of the podium. His knuckles turned white with the force, and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He began speaking.

Five Days Earlier:

Nick Stokes snapped his cell phone shut and placed it in the cup holder with a small smile.

"What?" the voice next to him asked, laced with amusement and apprehension. Nick took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at the man in the passenger seat.

Greg Sanders was staring back at him with a crooked smile, knowing that Nick had just gotten news of some kind. In the light of the rising sun, Greg's brown eyes sparkled just the way that Nick liked, the way that made him fall in love with the younger man in the first place. Something about the way Greg's gaze was always adoring, but also wickedly intelligent at the same time roped Nick in like a helpless moth to the flame.

"Grissom wants me to give a presentation about the whole green blood case at the next convention," Nick said with pride.

"No shit? That's great, baby," Greg said, his grin transitioning from the teasing half smile to the megawatt beam. "Congratulations." Greg's hand slid across the center console and settled on Nick's thigh. It was silly to Nick, that he had been with Greg for nearly five years, and yet the younger man's touch still made him giddy and jumpy. Greg's hand was just sitting on his thigh, a deliciously intimate touch, and Nick's muscles were tensing from the excited thrill. "When is it?"

"The next convention is here, actually, at the convention center," Nick said. "It's later this month."

"What are the odds that Grissom will give me the day off? I bet you giving a lecture would get me totally hot for teacher," Greg said with a manic gleam in his eye. Nick gave Greg a sidelong glance and let out a groan.

"Don't start, G," Nick said in a slightly strangled voice.

The hand on Nick's thigh started stroking up and down ever so softly. "Start what?" Greg asked in a low voice, a voice he only used in the bedroom. "Hmmm?"

"I swear to God, Greg, if you—"

"If I what, Nick?" Greg asked innocently. His hand was stroking higher up his leg with every pass, getting closer to the area that could quickly become an embarrassing problem as they neared the assigned crime scene.

So instead of answering, Nick pulled the Denali over onto the dirt shoulder of the highway before throwing it roughly into park. Without missing a beat, his right hand threaded through Greg's messy hair and gripped hard, maybe a little too hard judging by the brief grimace on Greg's face. But it passed almost as quickly as it appeared, and it was replaced with a look of pure animal want.

Without any finesse whatsoever, Nick pulled Greg's head toward him and crashed their lips together. It was a violent kiss, complete with smashed noses and clicking teeth as their wet tongues slid against one another. Nick used his grip on Greg's hair to angle his head better, thus gaining the upper hand in the kiss.

Nick pulled away, leaving Greg with his eyes closed and his mouth half open, panting hard. "If you don't stop, Gregory," he tugged lightly on Greg's hair, "You and I both will be in trouble."

Greg looked as though he could barely form words. "Point taken," was all he said as the evil smile returned and he folded his arms across his chest.

"Good," Nick said. He placed his hands back on the steering wheel and took several deep breaths, attempting to bring his body back under control. He smiled a little at what had just happened, thinking that it was like this all the time. His relationship with Greg was the longest he had ever had, and he still loved every minute. He wasn't bored with Greg like some people would have predicted. Their sex was still brain-melting, their domesticity was addicting, their being—it was just perfect. Nick felt like he fell a little more in love with Greg every minute. He could only hope that Greg felt the same.

"Nick?"

Nick looked expectantly at Greg.

"Dead body's not going to be there all day," Greg reminded.

With a muttered ‘right', Nick put the SUV in gear and finished the drive to the crime scene.

It was just a common residential neighborhood. They had been directed to a house in the middle of a cul-de-sac, directly facing the street that lead to it. Nick parked the Denali along the sidewalk of the house they were called to, his eyes already searching for Brass or Sophia.

It was Brass today, stepping out of his cruiser and walking over the Nick and Greg.

"Hey boys. We got a 419 call, that there was a body in the garage. We have the garage door company on the phone getting us the code, so just sit tight for a minute," he said with a slightly bored voice.

"Sure thing, Jim," Nick said, lilting the ‘i' in Brass' name. "I guess we could start unpacking," he directed at Greg, who nodded and hopped out of his seat.

"You wanna call it?" Greg asked.

"Call what, G. We haven't even seen the body," Nick said a little incredulously as he pulled his shiny kit out of the back seat.

"So? We could just guess. I bet you a week of dishes and laundry that it's a domestic violence case."

"You're so full of it, G."

"Is that a yes, then?" Greg was looking at him challengingly, and Nick stared back sternly. Then he broke.

"Throw in scrubbing the toilet, and you've got yourself a bet." Greg smirked as they walked to the end of the driveway.

Brass was up at the garage door, punching in the code to open the door. Nick and Greg stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the moment of truth.

Greg turned to Nick and grinned. "You're so going down, Stokes."

"You wish, Sanders," Nick returned, giving the younger man a nudge. The door started creaking open, revealing the first foot of dark interior. Foot by foot, the shape of a pickup truck was revealed, facing outward toward the driveway, and there was indeed a body lying on the oil-stained cement of the garage. Shoulder to shoulder, they started walking up the driveway.

But the truck roared to life, diesel engine growling menacingly. It caromed out of the garage, straight toward the two investigators.

Nick barely had time to take a huge breath before he felt himself pushed forcefully to the side. Along with the thud of his body hitting the cement, he heard a much more foreboding sound. It was the sound of flesh hitting metal, the sound of cracking bones as they came in contact with the asphalt.

He was up and running before he could even register the sounds of gunshots as the detectives shot out the tires of the vehicle. Barely saw as the truck crunched into a light post. He was focused on the crumpled heap in the middle of the cul-de-sac.

Later, he'd learn that Greg had pushed him out of the way, exposing his entire right side to the truck. He'd learn that the truck's bumper collided with Greg's hip, breaking his femur instantly and crushing eight of the twelve right ribs. It didn't end there, either. The truck obviously had thrown Greg several feet, and the impact with the asphalt had cracked his skull and caused several of the rib fragments to puncture his lungs and other organs.

But he didn't know that now. All he knew was Greg was hurt, and he needed to get to Greg, to save him.

He heard himself yelling Greg's name as he hurtled toward the heap of broken man. Greg was on his back, his right arm pinned under his body and his legs bent at awkward angles like those of a dead spider. His head was thrown back, his mouth open as he gasped for air like a desperate fish out of water. His eyes were wide, like he couldn't believe what happened.

Nick couldn't believe it.

Ignoring the sharp pain, Nick fell to his knees on the pavement next to Greg. He pulled the younger man's upper body onto his knees, cradling his neck on his arm.

"Greg! Greg," Nick said weakly. The lump in his throat was already painful, his eyes already wet.

Brown eyes rolled slowly to focus on Nick's face. "N—Ni," Greg tried, choking on his gasps.

"No, don't talk. The paramedics are coming, they're just a minute away. You just need to hang on until they get here. Just stay awake with me."

The eyes closed briefly, but opened again. His breathing was growing more labored, little coughs starting to punctuate the ragged gasps. Nick brought the thumb of his free hand to Greg's lips, stroking over the full lower lip like he did when they lay in the afterglow of making love. He hoped to comfort the injured man. But the body in his arms was starting to quake as it went into shock.

Nick pulled his thumb away, wanting to scream when he saw that it was bloody. Greg was aspirating blood, a sure sign of internal trauma.

He could barely talk over the tears in his voice. "G, G you need to stay with me. I need you to stay here, don't close your eyes." He cradled Greg's head, only to place his fingers on a warm, sticky patch of matted hair. "Oh, God," he cried as he looked at his scarlet fingertips. "Brass, where are the paramedics?!" He couldn't hear Brass though.

Greg's breath was sounding different now. A rattle from deep within his chest. Nick had heard this once before, when he watched his grandfather draw his last breath. It was the death rattle.

"No! Greg don't give up. Please stay with me. The paramedics are almost here. They're right around the corner. Just keep breathing." But his eyelashes were fluttering. A thin stream of blood was flowing steadily from his lips. He was growing pale. "Greg, please! You need to stay with me. I'm right here. Don't—don't leave me here alone." The last part was said in a quiet, tear-choked voice as he was crying freely now. But the rattling continued, the body quaked harder, the face became paler.

"Lo—love," gasp, "y—you." And then, silence.

After that, Nick barely remembered what happened. He remembered crying like he never had before, the feeling of the thick, hot tears nowhere near easing the pain that was his being. He remembered hands trying to take Greg's body away from him, but clutching it tight to his chest as he buried his face in the bloody hair. Past that, though, nothing.

Nothing until waking up in his apartment the next day and finding Catherine asleep on his couch. From there it was a haze. He remembers little details. Like Grissom asking why he was listed as next of kin in Greg's file. Like Doc Robbins handing him a paper bag of Greg's personal effects then later fishing out the silver ring and putting it on his own finger. Like Greg's parents flying in and embracing him like he was their own son. Like setting up funeral arrangements.

He ate enough to survive, but very little more. He slept as much as his body needed, but always waking up after dreaming of dark brown sparkling eyes. He drank, though. Whiskey. Two bottles in three days.

He went through the five stages of grief. The denial took the longest, because any second he was expecting Greg to bounce through the front door. Anger, yes, it was there. His split knuckle could attest to that. He bargained—why did Greg have to go? He should have pushed Greg out of the way. Depression was the most frightening. Where at several points in time he held his pocketknife to his wrist. But then, unexpectedly, acceptance. He remembered Greg saying that they were going to grow old together, but he wanted to die first. So he wouldn't have to live without Nick. He wouldn't have wanted Nick to hurt himself. He had big plans for Nick—he'd want Nick to see them through.

So yes, technically he had grieved. But there was nothing saying the hole where his heart once was had healed. When Greg's parents asked him to speak at the funeral, he almost declined. He wasn't strong enough to do it. But at that moment he looked down at the two silver rings on the third finger of his left hand. This was his responsibility.

Present:

He passed a weary hand over his wet eyes, the dam only breaking at the end when he said that the dead young man took his heart when he died. His elegy was over.

He walked over to the casket, his left hand pulling a bulky silver ring off his right finger. He leaned down, placing a kiss on the cold forehead before placing the ring on a cold finger. He nodded at the attendant, who somberly closed the casket. Seven men rose from the pews and joined him on stage.

They each placed a hand on the side handles of the box. The lover and the father at the head, an older man with graying hair and a keen blue gaze was paired with a big black man next. Behind them were a young Asian man and a police officer, and last at the dead man's feet were a young man with wide eyes and protruding ears paired with a middle-aged willowy man whose regular features would exude sarcasm, but today were laced with regret. The procession walked down the aisle between the pews, four women following. The mother cried on the shoulder of a brunette who hushed her like a mother would comfort a child. Two blondes followed, one stalwart and controlled, the strawberry blonde looking closest to the grieving mother, acting as mother herself to the dead man. The doors closed after the procession passed through with an ominous echo.

At the cemetery, the priest said the final words, and the desolate man rose from his chair. He placed a dozen perfect red roses on the casket, pulling his hand back quickly as a missed thorn sliced deep into his palm. He stared at the blossoming blood with a look of deep concentration before sitting back down. Squeezing his palm into a white fist. The rest of the mourners placed their own flowers as well. The older man with blue eyes, he placed a light blue laboratory coat on the casket, and on top of that he placed a black vest with many pockets, a patch on the front labeled Sanders. The lover broke down again, silently though. His shoulders quaked as he cried into his hands, the dead man's mother placed her hand on the back of his neck and whispered in his ear.

It was though he could barely watch as the casket was lowered. But when it was at the bottom, he stood determinedly. He grasped a handful of dirt in his injured hand and walked to the edge of the gaping hole. A silent tear dripped off his chin, into the black. He opened his fist.

Red-tinged soil landed on the casket, where the man inside's heart would be. The burial continued, but without the lover.

A small family that visited the cemetery several hours later saw a man in the distance, sitting with his back against a large cottonwood tree, overlooking a serene pond. He was fingering a plain, silver ring.

There were no tears on his face.

***