Title: A Hundred Indecisions
By: Caroline Crane
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Summary: Follows Down the Line. Greg can't stop shaking.

You're staring at your hands when he walks in, too engrossed in watching your fingers tremble to look over your shoulder at him. You try so hard to stop it; you've been sitting in the early morning light for almost an hour, willing your fingers to stop shaking. Nothing works, though, not concentrating or just ignoring it or even those stupid fucking breathing exercises the doctor said would help you relax. If anything they just make it worse, because you can't concentrate on your breathing and the trembling in your hands, and the trembling wins every single time.

You hear him stop in the kitchen and drop his keys on the counter, hear his too-loud footsteps on the linoleum, then muffled against the carpet as he crosses the living room and finally stops a few feet away from you, his breathing steady and even and a lot less comforting than you know it should be. "Hey." That offhand, too-casual voice he uses so often with the people at work that sometimes it can't help carrying over to home, but you still can't help resenting it. "What's the matter?"

"He noticed." Your voice is soft, resigned maybe, but you don't bother with the false cheer because you're supposed to be able to be yourself when you're home. Only this isn't your home, and even after almost a month you haven't figured out how you're supposed to act here. What he expects shouldn't be important right now, but you can't help wondering anyway, especially when he's talking to you like you're still in the lab and anybody could walk in at any second.

"Who?"

"Grissom. I was giving him some reports and he saw. I couldn't stop it, even for a few seconds. It just won't stop."

You hear the heavy exhale behind you, almost feel the warmth of breath against your skin even though he's still standing too far away for it to reach you. He's tried to get you to talk about it, of course, because that's what he's supposed to do. That's the whole reason you're here in the first place, because he doesn't think you should be alone while you recover. Only you're starting to think you might never recover, not completely, not even once all that's left is the scars along your back, and you don't know how long he's going to put up with a boyfriend who can't even touch him.

"It'll stop. You've just gotta give yourself some time."

It's meant to be reassuring; you can hear the pleading in his voice, the edge that means his patience with all this is starting to thin a little. And you can't really blame him, but you want to hurt him anyway, before he hurts you. Because he's already hurt you once, when it took him three fucking days to come to the hospital and see for himself that you were still alive. That pain's still a little raw even after all these weeks, but you don't talk about it. You Do. Not. Talk about it, because you're not going to give him any more ammunition than he's already got. You know you're here because he's got some weird sense of responsibility, that it's all just bad timing and if he'd just drug his feet about asking you out for a little longer that you wouldn't be here right now. If he'd just waited he'd have gotten off the hook, because there wouldn't have been any dates or any painfully awkward kisses and he wouldn't feel obligated to take you home and treat you like a wounded lover instead of just some guy he wasn't really that interested in in the first place.

"Jesus, Nick, I can't even touch…" The words taste as bitter as they sound but you don't regret them, don't regret bringing up the one subject that you know makes him uncomfortable. He hasn't even tried, hasn't touched you once since he brought you home – not like that, anyway – and you're sure as hell not going to make the first move, because pity is one thing but pity sex is ten times worse. A thousand times worse, because you still want him so bad it hurts almost as much as the burns, and some days he can't even look at you.

You don't have to say the words out loud. He knows what you mean, knows it as clearly as if you'd looked him in the eye and said 'I can't even touch you without shaking, can't jerk myself off at night when I picture you sleeping in the next room, and let's face it, you're not going to do it for me'. Part of you wants to say it just to see the flash of guilt in his eyes, but that would just make things weirder between you and it's not like he owes you anything. If Catherine's sample hadn't exploded and taken you with it – if you'd just been on break when it happened, or maybe down the hall getting a Coke or flirting with the new receptionist just to watch her blush – this thing between you two would have run its course, died a natural death and left Nick to move on with his life completely guilt-free.

Sometimes you want that for him. You think about packing up the few belongings he brought from your apartment when he insisted that you come stay with him until you could get out of bed on your own and it stopped hurting so much that you wanted to scream, but you can't even pack up your stuff without dropping something every three seconds. Think about doing it anyway, letting him watch you struggle until the guilt gets to be too much and he has to help you. He might even try to talk you out of leaving, but in the end you know he'll be relieved to let you go. You picture him driving you back to your place, walking you inside – because Nick Stokes is nothing if not a perfect gentleman – and promising to call you and check on you. You want to laugh at the thought of that first – and probably last – awkward call, Nick asking if you're all right and if you need anything. And you do…you need so much, but you can't ask for any of it, because even if he could give it to you you're not going to take charity. Not from him, not any more than you already have.

The laughter that's bubbling up in your throat dies instantly when you feel him sit down next to you, then his hand in your hair and down the back of your neck. And God, it's been a long time since he touched you deliberately, and you turn into it for just a second because even if it's pity you've never really been that proud. He's petting you like you're some goddamn kid, and you wish you had the pride to pull away. You wish you could get your fingers to stop shaking for two seconds so you could reach up and force his hand off your skin.

"Look, Greg…"

You know what's coming. More than that, you know you don't want to hear it, and your legs still work so you stand up abruptly and turn your back on him to stare out the window. "Don't, all right?" you tell the windowpane. You've been having a lot of conversations with inanimate objects in Nick's place lately, so it doesn't even feel that weird to be talking to the glass instead of him. "It's not your problem. If I can do my job I'm pretty sure he won't make a big deal out of it, and if I can't…" You shrug and glance over your shoulder, forcing a bitter grin because you don't want to cry in front of Nick. "If he fires me it's his loss. I mean who wouldn't want me, right?"

He actually flinches at that and you hate yourself for being such a bastard when you know you should be grateful, but it's hard to be grateful when you've spent a month living with him and you feel more like a boarder than someone he's supposed to care about. You should know everything about him after living with him for almost a month, but the fact is that you don't really know any more now than you did when you were just two guys who happened to work in the same building. You know what kind of coffee he buys, that he eats cereal for dinner in front of the TV on his days off. You know he likes those lame robot shows on Discovery, and you know he snores because you've spent exactly 26 nights staring at his bedroom wall and listening to him snoring on the couch.

You've pictured a million different scenarios in your head while you listen to him sleeping day after day; they all start the same, with you getting out of his bed and coming out to the living room to wake him up. Sometimes you can let yourself believe that he'd let you touch, that he'd touch back and he wouldn't even mind if your fingers trembled just a little against his skin. But most of the time it's not like that at all, so you stay in his bed and listen to him sleeping and tell yourself that tomorrow's the day you're finally going to tell him that he's been great but it's time you went back to your own place.

You hear him moving when you turn back to the window, feel him stop just behind you and tense in anticipation of the hands on your back. The burns are mostly healed now, leaving behind a mass of new, overly sensitive bright pink skin. You wonder what you'd do if he ran his fingers across it, if it would feel weird the way the water from the shower does or if his hands on you would feel good even against the scars. But when he does finally touch you remember how careful he was with you in the hospital, because his hands avoid all the scars he knows are under your shirt and instead they land on your shoulders, above the worst of it and then smoothing their way down your arms.

Thumbs press against your collar bone and for a second you think about leaning back into him, giving in to the pity just long enough to let the warmth of his chest sooth the ever-present itch in your back. You'll tell him you have to leave; you'll tell him any minute now, but it can't hurt to let him give you this before you do. When you do lean back he freezes for a second and you're sure you've made a mistake, but before you can pull away his arms tighten around you and his hands slide a little further down your chest.

"Does it hurt?" The words buzz close to your ear, and the heat there stings more than the heat on your back. You feel your head shake and know your hair's brushing his cheek, maybe tickling his nose or his neck, but it doesn't matter because his hands are still moving. His lips brush against your skin, just below your ear and God, you've been dying for him to do that. You hate yourself even more for letting him do it when you know it's just because he's trying to cheer you up, to make you forget for awhile that your job's on the line and everything you ever wanted could be gone because somebody else fucked up.

His mouth leaves your skin long enough to ask if this is okay, and you thought you already answered that but you nod again anyway just to be sure. For once in your life words seem beyond you, and wouldn't it be ironic if you survived an explosion just to have your brain short out from the simple act of Nick Stokes touching you? You laugh at that and discover that you still have a voice after all, the sound a little hysterical because Nick's mouth is moving on your skin again, nipping at your earlobe and pressing soothing kisses to the column of your neck. His chest burns against your back and you want more, want to reach out and take what he's offering even if it's the only time you'll ever get it, but you're trapped in his arms and he seems determined to take this as slowly as possible.

You don't even know what he has in mind exactly, if this is his idea of foreplay or if he's just trying to make you feel less like a freak. Then his hands leave your chest to slide down your arms again, strong fingers closing around yours and you don't even notice until he catches your hands that you've been trembling this whole time. Only you're not sure if it's the damage or Nick's dick pressing against your ass that's making you tremble this time, because he's hard and you know that that, at least, isn't pity.

"I didn't know…" His breath is hot against your neck, and you note between the wild beating of your heart and the throbbing in your groin that your hands don't shake when his are wrapped around them. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to. I thought maybe you'd let me know when you were ready."

You open your mouth to say something sarcastic, tell him that he's an idiot or maybe ask him why he didn't bother to ask, but you're starting to think that your tremor has migrating abilities and you're almost positive it's taken up temporary residence in your voice. Nick's not going to hear you stutter because of this, not if you can help it, so you just tighten your grip on his fingers and press back against him a little harder. The brief flare of not-quite-pain in your back forces your eyes closed, but as soon as it surfaces it's gone and you can breathe normally again. Well, as normal as having Nick hard and throbbing against you will allow.

He lifts one of your entwined hands to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, and when you open your eyes you realize for the first time that you can see your reflections in the glass. Just barely, because the sun's starting to rise and the light's already making them fade, but you can just make out the fact that he's been watching you this whole time. "Maybe you should see somebody. A doctor."

The hesitation in his voice makes you wince, because you know he's expecting you to lash out, fly off the handle just for suggesting that maybe you can't handle this on your own. But the thing is that you can't – you know you can't, you've known it for a long time. You've never been so scared, but you don't know how to tell him that what you need doesn't have anything to do with doctors or muscle relaxers or even time off to get your head in order. "I did. The doctor says it's just a stress-related reaction, that it should go away on its own. They don't think it's nerve damage or anything, but they're running some tests anyway."

He nods and you're almost disappointed that he doesn't try to argue with you, doesn't insist you get a second opinion. You know it won't do any good anyway, but for some reason you've been expecting a fight from Nick about this. You've been expecting him to think there should be some logical explanation, some quick medical fix to make it all go away and turn you back into the guy you were when he first took you out and spent the whole night looking over his shoulder to make sure nobody from work saw you together.

"Did they give you anything to help?"

"No. Just some breathing exercises that are supposed to help me relax. So far, though…" You pull your hand out of his and hold it up, fascinated by the way the tremor slowly builds up again until you're shaking like a leaf.

He reaches out and catches your fingers again and just like that it stops, and all you can feel is warm skin and slight pressure from Nick's fingers squeezing yours as though somehow he can make it stop forever just by holding you tight enough. "I can help."

"Help what?" you ask, and your voice does tremble a little now because his hips are sort of rolling against you and his mouth is pressed against your neck again.

"Help you relax." His lips part against your skin, tongue hot and wet against the pulse point in the side of your neck. "Let me help you."

And God, you've wanted this for too long, since way before you even thought it might be in your grasp, back when you thought all those weird looks Nick gave you meant he really thought you were weird. Because that's the kind of luck you have it comes at the worst possible time, when you're just broken enough to be pathetic but not broken enough to pretend that you don't want with everything in you. Before you know it you're turning in his arms, ignoring another flash of almost-pain in your back and pulling him toward you, hard and fast before either of you can change your mind.

The kiss is all about hunger; your fingers open and close on his shirt like you're trying to get him closer, trying to crawl inside him where it's safe and warm and you won't have to worry about whether or not you can still do your job now that your hands aren't steady anymore. Only they feel pretty steady when they're clenched around Nick's shirt, and when he wraps his arms carefully around your waist and starts backwards you just hold on and let him carry you both toward the bedroom. You wonder fleetingly why he doesn't stop at the couch, but then you remember that it's been almost a month since he was in his own bed and maybe, just maybe he wants your first time to be in the place you've been sleeping since you moved in with him.

You don't have time to hope that this means the end of sleeping alone, because his hands are working your shirt up over your chest, so gently you wonder how he can possibly know exactly where all your scars are. Because he's only seen your back a handful of times since he brought you home, in the very beginning when he helped you get your shirt off before he left you alone in the bathroom to wash yourself. Back then you would have given anything if he'd just stayed, if he'd offered to help you, but you didn't want to be any more of a burden than you already were so you never asked him to. You wonder now – as his mouth works its way down your neck to suck at your collarbone – whether he would have minded, if he would have smiled and kicked the door shut before he reached for your sweatpants and helped you pull those off too. And you would have given anything for that back then, but you don't have to regret it anymore because he's doing it now, easing your jeans down over your hips and his hands are just as gentle as you always imagined they'd be.

Maybe Nick's not all that good with words sometimes, but he sure as hell knows how to use his hands, and somehow he makes undressing both of you seem like the most natural thing in the world, like the thought that maybe you should be helping is completely ridiculous. You still hate the fact that you couldn't help even if he wanted you to, but then his hands are on your bare skin and you forget about everything except for the fact that Nick Stokes is on his knees in front of you, grinning up at you like he knows the secret of life.

Then his mouth is on you and you're not so sure he doesn’t. Hot and wet and God, you have to remember to ask him where he learned to do that with his tongue. Not that it matters where he learned it, because he's with you now and suddenly this doesn't feel much like pity anymore. It feels more like worship, with Nick on his knees in front of you and only one hand stroking your thigh because the other's busy jacking himself while he sucks you off. And you know that should bother you, that you should want to do for him like he's doing for you, but you can't make yourself care because it's just so fucking hot to watch him work his hand and his mouth at the same time.

Your hands clench around the sheets on either side of you, your muscles tense and you feel the stretch of all that brand-new, too-tight skin across your back as you arch into Nick's mouth. The pain is welcome for once, though, because you never thought you'd be here and just a few minutes ago you'd been trying to talk yourself into packing up your clothes and making Nick drive you back to your own place. Weird flash of your empty apartment, and you realize you're starting to forget what it looks like right before you come. The burst of white pleasure behind your eyes chases all thought out of your mind, and you'd be embarrassed at how long you didn't last if Nick wasn't coming too, forehead pressed against your thigh and his low moan raising goose bumps along your skin.

There's a second after it's over when you're not sure what to expect, when Nick's eyes are still closed and his head feels heavy on your leg. The weight feels good; solid and warm, just like Nick, and before you remember it's a bad idea you untwist one of your hands from the sheet and reach out to stroke sweat-damp hair away from his forehead. Your fingers start to tremble almost immediately; shame washes over you hot and angry because this was supposed to help you relax, and it feels like you've let Nick down by shaking against him.

He looks up when he feels your hand against him, or maybe it's the sudden heat rushing through your whole body that makes him raise his head. The reason why doesn't matter when he catches your hand in his again, raising trembling fingers to press a kiss to the center of your palm. And your heart does that thing you try so hard to ignore whenever he smiles at you, but you don't bother trying to pull away because even if you wanted to you aren't sure you could. Instead you move over to make room for him when he crawls onto the bed with you, on your side because your back's still too sensitive to sleep on.

You're face to face and part of you wants to turn away, to get out from under that steady, measuring gaze just long enough to catch your breath. But you were already tired from a whole night in the lab of pretending you're fine, that there's nothing wrong with you and everything's exactly the same as it was before the explosion, and now you're too weary even to move. You don't flinch when he reaches for your hand again, lacing your fingers together and watching while your own fingers shiver against his. You don't react to the flicker of worry in his eyes before he forces his features to relax into a grin, and you don't let yourself hope that it means something that he's worried about you. You still don't know if this is anything but pity, after all, and you aren't sure anymore if you want to know. For now all you really want to do is sleep, and you're grateful enough not to have to sleep alone that you'll let him hold your hand even if your fingers won't stop shaking.

He tugs on your hand and you look up in time to watch him lean toward you, and when his mouth presses against yours you part for him, squeezing the hand that's wrapped around yours. By the time he lets you up for air your hands are pressed against his chest, but you don't take that as a sign either. You don't let yourself think about tomorrow or the next day or even what will happen if your newest flaw starts to affect your work, because your fingers are flat against Nick's skin, pressed tight against him under his palm, and for the first time in weeks they're completely still.