Title: Lines
By: Caster
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG
A/N: It's another Nick/Greg! -throws confetti- Huzahzah! But be warned: within this story lie spoilers for Grave Danger; everyone else was writing one, so why couldn't I? However, as you probably already know, there's very little angst here. It's my firm belief that there's enough pain in the world. Why create more hurtful situations when we can make someone –anyone- happier with a decent ending?
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, Nicky wouldn't constantly be in peril. Instead, I'd focus on the Nick/Greg love and it would become CSI: The Suburbs, where our favorite CSI team lived in a nice little neighborhood and they'd all be in charge of Neighborhood Watch. Grissom would print the candy bar wrapper that someone littered with and you better believe Cath would haul in the guy who drew graffiti on the stop sign.
The song used here is A Message by Coldplay on their awesome new album X&Y.
Summary: Greg's going to make Nick understand one day. Post GD.

***

In the beginning, Greg had wondered whether Nick would be who he was before That Night.

He wondered if he'd still be subtly charming of if he'd grow scared and bitter. Maybe he'd no longer smile in that breathtaking way or maybe he'd become cold and irrational. Perhaps he'd be forever scarred or perhaps, more frightening than anything else, he'd want to end it all. Permanently.

But when Greg saw him walk out of the hospital the morning of his release, he still seemed to be the man he was before. His hair had grown out a bit and he was thinner than he'd been previously, but when he saw Greg, he smiled that smile that made Greg want to fall to his knees and thank whatever deity was responsible for this miracle. They had found Nick. They had found Nick. It was the four most beautiful words Greg had ever heard.

The ant scars were gone and his lips were no longer chapped. His voice had returned to its full working order; that is, it was no longer raspy as it had been the first few days of recovery. And for once, the entire crime lab wasn't hanging off his neck, repeatedly asking him if he needed anything, if he was okay. Because he didn't need anything but he wasn't okay.

He just needed to deal with it in his own way.

Nick Stokes walked across the parking lot towards Greg and the younger man hoped he didn't look too eager to see him. He'd dressed casual but not too casual; enough to look respectable but not so much that Nick would suspect it had taken him forty five minutes to finally decide on what to wear.

"Hey man," Nick said, smiling again once he reached him. "You didn't have to meet me here."

They both knew that no one had held a gun to Greg's head; Greg scoffed, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated flourish. "The last thing I wanted you to do is take a cab, so consider yourself incredibly fortunate that the Greg Sanders Taxi Service had a car available. By the way, you'll be getting my bill in the mail."

"Greg Sanders, CSI and humanitarian," Nick replied lightly, placing his small suitcase in the back of the car before moving to the front passenger seat. His parents had brought the suitcase when they came to visit him two weeks earlier. Greg had never met them before, but he had an idea of what they might be like. His father was, appropriately, all business. His mother was all manners. Despite this, she still managed to shed a few proper tears while his father made calls; to whom, Greg would never know. And quite frankly, he didn't care. With the both of them combined, it was still the popular opinion that Hodges had shown more emotion during the entire ordeal.

Greg didn't even want to think about it.

"So," Greg began as he slid into the drivers seat, "You hungry? Need to stop somewhere?"

"Nah, I'm cool. I just wanna go home and sleep in my own bed."

They didn't say much after that, the younger man occasionally filling the void with chatter about the latest cases. Weaving their way through Las Vegas traffic, Greg risked several sideways glances Nick's direction as he spoke and sometimes the Texan would surprise him by catching his gaze, forcing Greg to immediately look away.

However, within Nick's eyes there was life, not suicidal desires or bitterness. And Greg knew then –he knew- that Nick had fought too long and too hard to get out of that box; he wouldn't throw everything away.

In Greg's opinion, he was made of steel and concrete.

He was solid and he wasn't going anywhere.

My song is love
Love to the loveless, shown
And it goes up
You don't have to be alone

…

Your heavy heart
Is made of stone
And it's so hard to see you clearly
You don't have to be on your own

In the aftermath, Greg wondered if Nick would be scared of small spaces or green lights or the dark. He wondered if he would have an extreme fear of ants or no longer go to scenes by himself. Whether he would quit his job. Even worse, unknowingly leave Greg and move back to Texas.

But Nick never did any of those things.

Several months passed and he wondered how Nick was dealing although, quite frankly, he seemed to be doing pretty well. He was still part of the life they feared he would leave behind; he still told bad jokes and had the same habits, same smile. His eyes were darker somehow, heavier and tired, but Greg saw the resolve within them. He silently adored every line that appeared on Nick's face when the Texan laughed and he found himself suddenly and constantly thankful for everything in his life.

Still, the night had come where they were both off. There weren't many of those anymore, so Greg found his favorite club clothes and styled himself up before jumping into his car and driving down to Nick's place. He had memorized the roads by then and he bet money that he could drive to Nick's apartment blindfolded. He rolled up the driveway and hopped out, quickly running up and knocking impatiently on Nick's door, bouncing from his toes to the balls of his feet and back to his toes again.

A moment later, several locks were twisted and the door opened.

"Greg? What are you all dressed up for?" Nick was never surprised to see Greg standing on his doorstep anymore. The younger man often popped in for no apparent reason, bearing food or beer or the latest multi-player XBOX game.

Greg grinned in response. "Wanna go club hopping tonight?" he asked, tilting his head towards the opposite direction of Nick's door.

Nick gave him a look that clearly stated No. Greg grinned even wider.

"Oh, come on. Drinks on me."

"Greg, I don't-"

"I'll even help you find something worthy to wear."

"Greg, despite what you may think, I don't even own club clothes. I haven't been to a place like that since college."

"You've got a black t-shirt, don't you?"

Nick sighed and still couldn't fight off the smile growing on his lips. Greg was certainly persistent when he wanted to be.

"Multiples."

"Great. Black t-shirt and jeans. You'll be one of those strong, silent types that women love to love."

"Are you even listening to me?"

"You have shoes other than the ones you wear to work, right?"

"I'll take that as a "no"."

"Oh, come on. Two guys hanging out with a couple of drinks? We can even listen to music that's not about achy-breaky hearts and whiskey."

"Are you insulting country music? Dude, that's a line you just don't cross."

"This is my look of terror. Now are you going to let me in or what?"

Nick sighed and finally opened his door, allowing the younger man to enter; at least they wouldn't have to stand on the porch. Greg seemed to be a bundle of nervous, brilliant energy that night. He needed to get out of the world of forensics and back to the world of the living; it was a hard thing to do, especially in their line of work. It was as if CSIs were an entirely different species, observing the world but never taking part. They knew the lengths people went and they knew what any given individual could do when left angered or pained.

But if Greg still had faith in the human race, far be it for Nick to squash it. Besides, he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Greg had made a beeline straight for his closet, calling from inside with things like "No one's worn brown plaid since the seventies!" and "Hey, why don't you ever wear this? It's actually pretty decent looking!" It wasn't as if Greg knew much about normal fashion; he had a style all his own, branding his unique mark on the world.

Nick rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom, listening as Greg tossed things around, muttering about Nick's less-than-appealing wardrobe.

"Nick, is this seriously all you have?"

"It seriously is."

"Don't get funny with me, mister. I'll drag you to the mall so fast you won't know what hit you until you get your credit card bill next month."

"I don't party much."

"So I noticed. Oh, hey! These jeans are acceptable," Greg said, tossing a pair of dark jeans on Nick's mattress with decisive authority. "Very GQ."

"Very what?"

"GQ. You know, the magazine?"

"Never heard of it."

"That would explain this orange sweater in here. I really hope it was a gift from your sister or something, because –aha! Black t-shirt!" A shirt flew to join the jeans and Greg stumbled out, tripping on the mess that had accumulated in the mere few minutes he had spent searching the closet.

"This," Greg said, gesturing proudly to the heap of clothes on the bed, "Is club tested and Greg Sanders approved. You can thank me later."

"I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"Unless you physically beat me down, then no. Now go get pretty or we'll be late."

Nick made something like a protest, but it was lost as he knew it would be. With a sigh, he locked himself in the bathroom, dressing quickly and doing something with his hair other than just letting it lie flat. Some cologne he forgot he had and glasses he was desperately going to need by the end of the night were donned before he took a quick look at himself, abandoned all hope for a normal evening, and emerged.

The moment he let himself out, Greg whistled appreciatively and grabbed his car keys, motioning for Nick to follow him.

"You have a favorite party joint?" he asked as Nick locked the door to his apartment.

"I can't believe you're even asking me that. I don't party."

"Then I'll re-introduce you. I know a place that's not half bad."

"Is it filled with people like you? Because I can only handle one Greg Sanders at a time."

"Don't worry. I'm the one and only; anyone else is just a poser."

The "not half bad" club was packed.

Of course Greg would pick the most popular, hippest, hottest club in Las Vegas. The closer they got to the door, the more uncomfortable Nick began to feel. He couldn't dance. He didn't know any of the latest music. He couldn't even socialize that well unless the person was dead or guilty of murder.

Despite these limitations, they paid their admission and headed right for the bar.

"What's your poison?" Greg asked over the music, referring to the multiple alcoholic beverages at their disposal.

Nick shrugged. He had never been any particular fan of liquor; still, a little buzz wouldn't kill him.

"Just a beer, I guess."

Greg nodded before turning and ordering a beer and a Pink Wilson. They made theirselves at home on two barstools overlooking the crowded dance floor. Nick took a swig of his Budweiser, hoping it could calm his spastic nerves.

"So," Greg said, motioning towards the floor with a tilt of his head. "Wanna boogie?"

"You know I can't dance."

"I've never witnessed it myself. Whose to say you can't?"

"Trust me on this one, G."

"Oh, come on. Just one?"

"I recall warning you that I'm not a good club guy. I do bookstores and movies."

"And square dances?"

"Maybe."

"Another mysterious layer revealing itself."

Nick laughed, taking another swig of his beer. "I detect sarcasm."

Greg took a quick glance around, taking in his surroundings, the faces, the colors and voices. It felt good just to be alone with Nick even if they weren't actually alone by any means. He was about to settle back and maybe get Nick relaxed enough to mingle when he met a pair of interested eyes. The eyes belonged to a man who was making his way purposely towards them. Greg hoped the guy would pass them and move on to someone else, but the man seemed to know exactly what he wanted and Greg couldn't ignore the way he pointedly stopped in front of them.

At first, second, and third glance, the man was undeniably gorgeous. He was probably a decent guy with a nice personality and a steady job. Maybe he adopted little puppies off the street or donated to several different charities simultaneously. Greg still hated him with a passion.

"Hi," he said over the music. "I'm Warren. Mind if I steal him from you for a few minutes?"

Warren angled his head Nick's direction, Nick looking appropriately stunned. Steal. What a perfect term. Greg wanted to tackle him in protest, but what could he say? Sorry. He's mine, he just doesn't know it. I brought him out here but I'm not sure why, so hit the road. My life is empty and filled with nightmares. Let me have this one thing.

However, Greg smeared on what had to be the most painfully fake grin he had ever worn. "He's not mine to steal from. Just make sure to bring him back in one piece."

Despite the fact Nick was the focus point of their exchange, he wasn't exactly being asked his opinion on the matter. He quickly set down his beer and shook his head in protest. "Wait, Greg, I'm not really-''

"He's just shy," Greg confided, grasping Nick's shoulders and pushing him towards the moving crowd and Warren.

"Greg, I don't even know how-''

"This is good for you, trust me. Human contact is healthy."

Greg quickly sat back down, watching as the man lured Nick into the pulsing crowd, the Texan shooting Greg a "you're going to pay for this later" look. It looked as if Nick was trying to explain that he really had no idea how to dance at all, but Warren seemed like one of those charming, patient types. Greg continued to observe, fearful Nick wouldn't move or would do so awkwardly.

But the song began; a beat you couldn't lose, a moment that engulfed everything. They began to move and Greg couldn't seem to even blink. The fact was that Nick could dance; the college days he occasionally spoke of hadn't been forgotten. He remembered the moves, the way to sway.

Seconds, minutes, hours? Either way, time passed, Greg not tearing his eyes away. The guy got closer and closer, touching Nick as if he had any right to while dancing and moving to a song Greg could no longer remember. Was Nick smiling? Laughing? Greg's fingers tightened around his glass, unaware he could shatter it at any moment. Nick was alive out there with a complete stranger. He just wasn't alive with Greg.

The man got nearer, their bodies almost flush, and he leaned closer, their lips brushing and-

That was it.

Greg felt himself walking before he could do so otherwise, and now that he thought about it, he didn't want to stop. He fought past members of the faceless crowd with only one mission in mind, only one image in his head.

He reached the pair and without a single thought, his hand shot out and he grabbed Nick's arm, instantly ceasing the other man's actions. Even over the music, they could communicate and Nick gave him a look, as if to ask What are you doing?

Greg grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer before kissing him. Hard. It wasn't perfect; he missed at first, but it only took a small shift and suddenly their lips fit like pieces of a puzzle. He had been waiting for so long and he had been there first; this was him throwing his cards on the table. It was all or nothing, now or never.

He shot Warren a look that was deadly. "Get lost," he said over the noise before dragging Nick off the floor, past the bar and their drinks. Past the thumping music, sweaty crowd, speakers, waitresses.

"Greg," Nick protested breathlessly as he was dragged towards the vacant parking lot. "Greg, what the hell are you doing?"

Greg shook his head, finally letting go of Nick's wrist. "What am I doing? That's a good question. I don't know what I'm doing, but that guy…" he said, pointing towards the door of the club helplessly. "This world. It isn't ours anymore. We can't be a part of it. He's questionable but I'm not. You can put all your faith in me and I won't let you down."

"Greg-''

"You were alive in there, Nick. I can do that. I can make you alive if you want."

"It was just a guy I was dancing with, G." Nick gave him a look; burning curiosity, wondering, hope. "What's this about?"

"I've waited six years. I get a chance before Warren does," Greg replied, almost angrily. No one would understand Nick's fears or doubts or hours; why couldn't Nick just see the one standing right in front of him?

Nick gave him an incredulous look.

"You're everything to me, got it? And every person in that club can line up behind me, but I was here first."

It was at that moment Greg felt he should probably start apologizing and taking it all back. But how many chances had they each received? So many guns, stalkers, explosions, traumatic events where they probably should have died and didn't. And this life that they lived was a good one, but it could be made better; they could be together. Their lives could be complete if only they would take that chance.

And he didn't want to be silent about it anymore.

"I just don't want to waste anymore time," Greg whispered. "And I understand that you'll probably want to think about it or something, but we've had all these chances and…" He took a look into Nick's eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying? Since the beginning I've been here for you. I want to be here for a long time after this."

In his future, Greg predicted scattered broken hearts with a chance of doom. But he stood there anyway, refusing to move until he was completely and irrefutably shot down. He stood tall, looking Nick straight in the eyes, his fingers curling around the cuffs of his jacket sleeves.

And then Nick smiled. His eyes were wet and the only thing he could manage to say was, "God, I'm glad you finally said something" before his arms were around him, each clinging to the other, not caring if they could breathe or not, not caring if anyone saw. They didn't have any reasons and they weren't really part of this world anymore anyway.

In his ear, Greg could hear Nick whisper "I love you, I love you" over and over. Greg closed his eyes and thanked whatever deity was responsible for this miracle as well.

So much time lost due to fear.

But they could get it back now.

That was all that mattered.

And I'm not gonna take it back
Well I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
And I get that message home
…

My song is love
My song is love, unknown
And I'm on fire for you, clearly
You don't have to be alone
You don't have to be on your own

In the end, Greg stopped wondering.

He and Nick's routine didn't change much; it didn't differ from what it had been even before the nightclub. Armed with this knowledge, it was easy to see that they had always been in love; the only difference was that Greg didn't have to hide the fact he was staring and Nick could kiss him anytime he wanted to. Simply put, there wasn't anymore guesswork. It was just them and it felt weightlessly wonderful.

Brass had called one night; it was a night like any other. Nick and Greg had been in the lab, running the multiple blood samples from the latest crime scene; they had been discussing, planning, debating. By that time, everyone in the lab knew about them; then again, it seemed they had always known.

"Yeah," Brass had said over the phone, his words rushed and hurried. "Gil was supposed to come by and pick up the Hoffman case file." It was an unasked request, but they knew a desperate detective when they heard one: There's no way in hell I have a chance of escaping this precinct. Come get this file or it'll get lost in the shuffle and we won't find it again until this time next year.

Without a second thought, they had jumped right into a Tahoe and drove down to the precinct. The precinct was an entire melting pot of scum; rapists, murderers, car jackers, and druggies were shouting from lockup while the ringing of phones littered the air with incessant noise.

The two CSIs didn't need a map to know where they were going. Brass's office was just down two hallways to the left.

And that's where their first trouble was born and died.

"Aren't you those two fags from the lab?"

Nick remembered the way Greg had halted in his tracks; he could still feel how his own heart had crashed towards the floor, the gentle thud of it hitting the tile. Where had that question come from? And how did it get all the way to the police precinct? The fact was that neither of those two questions mattered. What concerned him were the five officers who had been taking their break and were crowding a little too close for comfort right in the middle of the police station, grinning in a way that made the two CSIs worry.

"We're from the lab," Nick had agreed, not backing down despite the urge to create some space from their interrogating group.

"But you're Stokes and Sanders, right?"

"That's us," Greg had replied, giving the officers a cool look. "Is that a problem?"

"It's definitely them," the officer announced. A scoff emitted from those listening in the room. He turned back, grinning. "I can't believe you have the gall to show your face here. Give us one reason you shouldn't have your asses fired."

They had been through six years. Six years of Greg's different hairstyles, of near death experiences, of Greg's flirting and Nick's slow acceptance of the fact that he had silently been in love with a man for more than half a decade. Six years of people wondering about "those two", about the uncertainties. Who were these men to question them?

A moment passed and Nick could tell that Greg was ready and willing to shoot off some scathing remark he probably picked up from Hodges. But he was saved the trouble by the opening of Brass's door. The Lieutenant had stuck his head out before quickly understanding the problem and stepping out altogether. He didn't have to ask in order to know what was happening right outside his own office; he wasn't deaf and he wasn't dumb. He had heard the question from inside and a guilty silence hung over the five officers.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Brass spoke. And when Brass spoke, people tended to listen. He shot the offending speakers a pointed look.

"Stokes was buried alive. Sanders was caught in a lab explosion. They don't need a reason and they'll never have to answer to you. Got it?"

Oh.

So that's how it was.

It sounded so incredibly simple when phrased that way; evangelists complicated it and those who spoke with ignorant words threatened them with God and religion. Someone was always ordering them to give a reason, an explanation for their being together. And Nick and Greg would have been glad to give one if only they had a reason in the first place.

But the fact remained that they had never asked for the connection they shared or the understanding each had for the other. It just happened naturally and they weren't doing anything wrong.

They made no apologies.

And I'm not gonna take it back
And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
But I'm nothing on my own
Got to get that message home

…

And I'm not gonna stand and wait
Not gonna leave it until it's much too late
On a platform I'm gonna stand and say
That I'm nothing on my own
And I love you, please come home

But because there really was no "end" per se, nothing stopped other people from wondering about them.

"So why?"

Nick glanced up from his clipboard and gave Grissom a perplexed look. It was four minutes until the end of shift and Nick was filling out the last of his paperwork while Grissom was finishing up the latest crossword puzzle in a relatively empty break room.

"Why what?"

Grissom cocked an eyebrow and rested his elbows on the edge of the table, looking thoroughly exhausted. And why shouldn't he? After all, he lived a life filled with death, deceit, and the genuine pain of others.

"Why Greg?" Grissom clarified.

"Are you asking me why I'm in love with Greg?" Nick asked incredulously. It wasn't something Grissom would usually want to know; most of the time, it was a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. He never interfered with the personal lives of his team and it was odd that he would start now.

The other manconsidered the question a moment before he spoke. "That's exactly what I'm asking. Why the wild hair and clothes? The music?"

"I love him because he's Greg," Nick replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and quite frankly, it was the simplest way to answer that particularly common inquiry. They made each other happy and complete. It was natural for them and it felt strange when someone demanded an apology for it.

Grissom was silent for a moment, turning Nick's answer over in his head before he gave the Texan a small smile; it wasn't a smile most would describe as happy, but Grissom was rarely anything but pensive. It was simply a content expression, as if he'd just discovered the answer to some complex riddle.

I love him because he's Greg.

That seemed like a good reason to him.

Besides, Nick and Greg didn't need a reason anyway.

My song is love, is love unknown
And I've got to get that message home.

FIN.