Title: Interlude
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Nick Stokes
Rating: PG-13
Warning: None
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me and I don't make money off of them
Summary: Nick makes a fashion statement.

"What... is that?"

"What?"

Gil raises both eyebrows, staring pointedly at Nick's upper lip.

"Oh." Nick suppresses a quick smile. "Well, Griss, where I come from, we call it a moustache."

"Ah. And what is it doing on your face?"

Nick decides to ignore the question. He looks around the hotel room. "Where do you want me?"

"In here. Warrick's checking the bathroom."

Nick nods and continues looking around, trying to decide where to start. The room is pristine, nothing out of place. Except for the dead young woman lying curled in a foetal position in the middle of the king-sized bed.

Warrick walks into the room and stops short when he sees Nick.

"Whoa! Watch out man, there's something crawling on your lip."

"Ha, ha," Nick says sourly. He turns his back on Warrick's amused face and pulls on a pair of gloves. "Who called this in?" he asks Gil.

"We don't know. The receptionist claims a call came from this room, a woman's voice asking for help. The problem is that when hotel security reached the room about three minutes later, they found the body in full rigor mortis."

"Which means she'd been dead hours, not minutes."

"Right. The room is registered to a John Geller, whom we haven't located yet. We have no luggage, no personal belongings, nothing except for the clothes she's wearing. "

"Security cameras?"

"Greg's checking that out. You two see what you can find in here. I've got to get back to the lab."

At the door, Gil crosses paths with David Phillips. David's eyes widen the moment he sees Nick and he opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it with an audible snap when Nick glares at him.

"No visible signs of trauma that I can see right now," Dave says, carefully moving the body. "Doesn't look like she was moved. She probably died here."

After the body is removed, Nick starts processing the room. He almost succeeds in ignoring Warrick who's working in the bathroom, occasionally humming "I Want to Break Free." Almost.

By morning, Nick is seriously regretting the moustache. He'd taken a week off from work and from shaving. Getting ready for his first day back at work, he'd shaved, but on a whim he'd left the moustache. He was actually pretty pleased with the look. Judging by the high levels of amusement he's encountered so far, it would appear nobody shares his opinion. He stares into the mirror as he's washing his hands and squares his jaw. Nothing wrong with experimenting with a new look.

When he walks into the locker room, Warrick and Gil are there.

"Breakfast?" Gil asks.

Warrick shakes his head. "Sorry, not today, I have to meet Tina. Apparently we need patio furniture."

Nick doesn't quite look at Gil as he answers. "Sure, sounds good." And Gil doesn't quite look at Nick as he nods in satisfaction. Not for the first time, Nick feels that they couldn't be more obvious if they tried, and he wonders how nobody ever seems to notice anything.

"Stop staring at it," he mutters at Gil. He slams his mug on the table, then curses as coffee slops onto his cuff.

Gil hands him a paper napkin. "Was I?"

Nick leans forward and grins as a sudden thought occurs to him. "You're wondering what it will feel like, aren't you?" he whispers.

Gil stares at him for a couple of beats. "What it will feel like?" he finally asks in a deadpan voice. "What do you mean?"

Nick tries to maintain eye contact, despite the heat rushing to his cheeks. Eventually he has to look down, conceding defeat, and dabs at the coffee stain on his cuff. For a few seconds, as they tried to embarrass each other (well, he tried; Gil succeeded) it had felt natural, effortless, the way the best moments had been for them before. Nick absentmindedly dips the corner of his paper napkin into his glass of water and continues dabbing at his cuff, trying to ignore the awkward undercurrent returning between them.

Gil reaches out and stills Nick's hand.

"Stop that, you're just making the stains bigger," he says softly and runs his fingertips lightly across Nick's knuckles before drawing back again. Nick's groin tightens at the quick surreptitious caress, and he starts to look up, then almost jumps out of his skin as Sara collapses on the seat next to him.

"Hey, guys! Mind if I join you?"

Yes, Nick thinks, even as he smiles in welcome.

"Moustache boy, any luck with the prints?"

The tip of Nick's pencil snaps off under the sudden pressure and he tosses it to the side in disgust. "None," he grits out. Warrick calling him moustache boy is one thing; Greg quite another. He stands up slowly and walks towards Greg in a casual, non-threatening manner, but Greg has seen that move before, and he nervously backs away.

"Um, I just stopped by to tell you that we might have an ID on the victim. She seems to fit the description of a woman reported missing in Henderson two days ago. Her parents should be here within the hour," he says in a rush, then hurriedly trots off.

Nick sighs. It's rough for anybody to have to come in and identify a loved one's body, but he always feel worst for the parents. He hopes their trip will be wasted, but an hour later they have a name for their victim: Mary Leffert, 24 years old, kindergarten teacher, engaged to Specialist John H. Geller, also 24, currently on a second tour in Iraq.

"Is John here on leave?"

Mr. Leffert shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "He shipped out two months ago. He's returning in May and they're getting... they were supposed to get married..." He looks down and falls silent. "I don't understand," he finally whispers brokenly. "I don't understand."

Nick gently ushers the couple out, wishing there was something he could say to comfort them. But all they know after two days is that Mary Leffert died because of a blow to the base of her skull and that the room had been booked online with a credit card issued to John H. Geller in a pretty clear case of identity theft, even before they found out that was the fiance's name. Nobody in reception could provide a description of who finally checked in, although they're all adamant that it must have been a man, otherwise they wouldn't have released the room key. Nobody knows why Mary Leffert went to the hotel, or if she was even there of her own free will. Not much to go on at all.

"The receptionist answering the call sent security to the right room and she's adamant that the caller never mentioned the room number," Warrick says, flipping through the transcript of the receptionist's interview. "See? Right here: ‘Help me, please help me. I don't want to die.' That's all the caller said. She had to have been in the room. "

"If the receptionist remembers correctly," Greg objects. "The cameras recorded nothing. They don't cover the entire hallway, only the areas in front of the elevators and the stairwells. Still, there doesn't seem to be any movement, no change in the shadows, nothing, from the time of the call until the two security guards get off the elevator and run towards the room."

"You know, whoever called didn't necessarily leave the floor. She could have come from and gone into a nearby room," Sara says slowly.

Gil nods. "Let's go with that. Sara, check with the hotel, see who's registered in the other rooms and let's process them. We'll need a court order. Catherine, keep on working on who actually booked the room. The rest of you work with Sara."

Nick lies in bed exhausted, but he's too wound up to fall asleep. After a double shift and processing as many rooms as possible, they're still coming up empty. The case is turning cold. He reaches for his phone.

"It's got to be someone who knows both Mary and John. A jealous ex." he says the moment Gil picks up.

"Sofia's working that angle. She managed to contact the fiancé in Iraq. He claims, and both sets of parents confirm, that they've been together since junior high. There's never been anybody else for either of them. At least not that he knows about or is prepared to admit to."

"Another dead end. Shit." Nick mutters and he leans back against the headboard. He's fairly certain that Gil is going to pull them off the case at the next shift, and if Gil doesn't, Ecklie will. Nick doesn't like it, but he accepted the fact almost immediately when he joined the force: resources are finite and some cases, more than anybody cares to admit, remain open.

He can hear Gil's breathing and he imagines him lying in bed. The picture, and the emotion it evokes, are so vivid, his stomach twists. Suddenly, more than anything, he wishes they were together. He settles for a poor second, trying to prolong the conversation.

"Gil?"

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing. Sorry if I woke you."

"That's OK. You didn't."

They're both silent for a while. Nick can't think of anything more to say, but he doesn't want to hang up either.

"So, did you shave the moustache?" Gil asks suddenly.

"No. Why would I?"

"I thought you didn't like facial hair."

Nick smiles in the darkness. "I don't like your facial hair," he corrects. "I think my moustache is fine looking."

Gil doesn't respond.

"But I'll make a deal with you. If you shave off the beard, I'll get rid of the moustache."

"I like my beard." Nick can hear the smile in Gil's voice.

"Well, I like my moustache."

"I guess that's it then. I'm going to continue looking suave and you're going to continue looking like you're stuck in the mid-80s."

Nick snorts.

"I think I still have a Members Only jacket somewhere. I could lend it to you," Gil continues and Nick starts laughing.

"A Members Only jacket. My dad had one of those. You must have been one cool dude in your 30s."

"I was," Gil agrees complacently.

"So I guess the straw hat must have come later," Nick teases, his grin widening as he hears Gil's laughter.

"I'm not going there. Get some rest, Nick."

"Yeah, you too. See you later, Gil."

"See you later," Gil responds softly.

Nick hangs up and lies down, one folded arm under his head, smiling up at the ceiling as he thinks about their conversation, about the gentleness in Gil's voice before he hung up. He strokes his moustache, the feeling still unfamiliar and not altogether pleasant. He'd been planning to shave it off before the next shift.

Maybe he'll keep it a while longer.