TITLE: Living among the breakage
BY: Demon Faith
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slash: Nick/Greg
SPOILERS: Major for 'Overload', 'Who Are You?', 'Stalker' and 'Play With Fire', and general reference to events in Seasons 1, 2 and 3.
TIMEFRAME: Four sections - Nick's childhood, post-'Who Are You?', post-'Stalker' and post-'Play with Fire'
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Reference to child abuse, aftermath of traumatic events, some strong language.
SUMMARY: 'There is no end, but addition' - The Dry Salvages.
DISCLAIMER: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is the property of CBS Broadcasting and Alliance Atlantis Productions; Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders are brought alive by the amazing George Eads and Eric Szmanda; Ronny Cox sings 'Silver City', from which song lyrics were shamelessly stolen; TS Eliot wrote the 'The Dry Salvages' from which the excerpts of poetry are taken; and 1000whispers is the brainchild of Caroline Crane - credit where credit's due. I make no money from this pleasure.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For the 1000whispers challenge - to write a CSI fic around a TS Eliot extract. And it was indeed a challenge!
The title and summary are both taken from my prompt, and all the dividers are from this beautiful piece of poetry. I had no appreciation for TS Eliot before this challenge, but my research has definitely changed my mind.
Many, many thanks to Intrepid for her 'Anthology' transcripts, because my memory is truly terrible. They were invaluable.
NB For those who care - the first part of this was written before the conclusion of Lent; *however*, all the slash was written after. I did not break Lent to write this!

***

//There is no end, but addition//

 

"I'm home, Mom!"

 

With a resounding slam of the front door and a shout to wake the dead, it was no stretch to believe that the entire neighbourhood knew that Nicholas Stokes had returned home.

 

Katarina faced him, hands on hips, and stared him down. He gulped guiltily, but still tried on his blinding smile. No give. He looked up through his eyelashes at the stout maid, but his thick-lensed glasses rather ruined the effect. However, the woman finally turned away, and he could breathe a sigh of relief.

 

"Cookies are still hot - do not burn yourself."

 

Nicky just beamed and picked one up, promptly dropping it. He frowned at it a moment before reaching for the barbeque tongs and scooping up the cookie. Smiling in accomplishment, he faced Katarina, who was watching him with considerable amusement.

 

"Your parents have a party tonight. You will stay in."

 

Nicky rolled his eyes, as if to say 'whatever', then moved through to the sitting room, carefully holding his hand under the cookie so as to avoid dropping crumbs. Katarina hated crumbs - particularly on bedclothes. Nicky raced upstairs to try and hide the evidence before Katarina got around to his room, but he was met with a neatly-made bed and a note saying 'Not fast enough'. Huh.

 

Placing the cookie carefully on the bedside table, he crept along the corridor to his parents' room. He pressed his glasses against the sliver of light from the ajar door, and watched his mother sleeping. She always slept just before the parties - Mom always hated them, saying they were full of 'arrogant corporates and their women'. She always wrinkled her nose on the last words, and Nicky knew his mom hated the tan blonde women even more than the parties.

 

His mom was always strength and justice, perhaps even more than his father, and he moved away now, afraid of her in sleep, in the helplessness she seemed to display with closed eyes and only the barest whisper of breath.

 

Nicky returned to his bedroom and his cookie. It was now cool to the touch, and then it was gone in the time it took to fish his science book from his satchel. His father wanted him to be a lawyer, but Nicky was going to be an astronaut. He wanted to be the one flying through space, looking at all the planets real close up and seeing if maybe he could be the first person to ever touch their alien soil.

 

Mom said he was a dreamer, and that wasn't a good thing to be, not when a gavel could decide people's lives. Dad wanted it to be Nicky's gavel, but Nicky could never see himself in the wig and robe, never imagine holding someone's entire life in his small pink hands.

 

"Nicholas! Are you home?"

 

He stood and ran at his name, coming to attention at the bottom of the stairs. His father fixed Nicky with his gaze, the judge's bite not entirely faded from the dark brown orbs.

 

"Yes, Dad?"

 

Nicky waited for the stern face to crack into a smile, but none came. Instead, his father turned his back, and began to pace, speaking in an even tone.

 

"I saw your grade teacher today - she asked me why I had missed your parents' evening. Naturally, I said I was busy, and she said, she said 'At least you reviewed Nicky's grade card'"

Nicky closed his eyes, briefly wondering if he'd be in more trouble for the card or for his teacher calling him by the nickname he should've grown out of at six.

 

"Care to explain yourself, Nicholas?"

 

His first instinct was to run, but that never got him anywhere. He opened his eyes and faced the judge's stare, swallowing hard and praying his voice didn't shake.

 

"I...forgot."

 

It was feeble excuse, and forgetfulness was on equal level to deception in his father's eyes anyway.

 

"I suggest you fetch it then."

 

The voice was ice, but Nicky gratefully took the exit. Another breathless run up the stairs, and a rummage in his schoolbag finally yielded the small slip of card. He sat still for a moment, catching his breath. He reached automatically for his inhaler and sucked in a draught, controlling his rasping breaths before once more running down to the hallway.

 

Wordlessly, he handed over the card and waited for his father to review it, wincing at every twist of his lips. After an eternity, he looked up from the card with something resembling distress.

 

"You received a three in History."

 

Nicky had been hoping he'd somehow miss that bit, but those eagle eyes never missed a trick - particularly when it came to reviewing History and English grades.

 

"I...I...was top in my Science..."

 

"And where will that get you? An assistant in some lab? Justice, law and politics are what matter, Nicholas, and the history of our nation is the key to your future! And now I find that you deliberately hid this from me...go to your room."

 

Nicky turned and moved swiftly up the stairs, knowing the wetness of his eyes must be from dust. Yes, dust. It was almost worse that he hadn't shouted - just spoken in a condemning sneer, as if Nicky wasn't worth his attention. Wasn't worth his time.

 

The muted colours of his room swam around him as he cleared the nasty dust from his eyes, and then wiped his steamed glasses on his handkerchief. He fingered the pale blue embroidery on the corner, the loopy 'Nicky' that his Mom had sewn there years ago, back when it was okay to be Nicky the kid and he didn't have to think about Nicholas, the future lawyer.

 

He heard the sounds of preparation around the house - his father's clipped requests, Katarina's brief replies and the soft voice of his mother, still laced with the exhaustion that had overtaken her light laughter.

 

It was pitch black outside before the house was silent, and only the soft creak of the stairs let him know anyone else was there. The door eased open slowly - Katarina, he knew, only so cautious after the time she had swung it into his head.

 

"Nicky? I have cookies..."

 

He crept out from under the bed, his favourite disappearing place, and smiled weakly at the sight of far too many cookies and a glass of milk. He took them gratefully, and she ruffled his shock of black hair affectionately.

 

"Now, I have to leave you tonight. Do not worry - my friend's daughter will watch you. You be good, okay?"

 

Nicky nodded, swallowing his mouthful to kiss Katarina's cheek. She smiled at him before closing his door and the house fell into silence again. It was soon broken by a hurried babble of Spanish, and the sound of the TV in the living room being flicked on.

 

He changed into his pyjamas quickly, folding his clothes neatly and taking his underwear to the laundry basket. He risked a look down the stairs, and caught a flash of red hair before he hurried on to the bathroom.

 

The cold water seemed to burn his face and the toothpaste tasted bitter after the sweet peanut butter cookies. Nicky moved carefully back to his room and slipped under his covers, shutting his eyes tight to forget his father's stern glare and the tiredness of his mom's voice.

 

He must've dosed for a bit because the creaking door woke him up. Katarina had promised that he could oil the hinge someday soon, but they had never gotten round to it. Now, he watched as the door opened slowly, and there was another flash of red.

 

This woman was tall and thin, and her smile was wider than anyone's he'd ever seen. Strangely, she reminded him of one of the women his mother hated so much, except this lady's dark skin was natural and her hair shone red and black instead of blonde.

 

"Good evening, Nicky. You sleeping well?"

 

Her accent was thicker than Katarina's, he thought. All the time she smiled, and he tried to smile back, wondering why all those white teeth made him think of a crocodile at the zoo.

 

"Fine thank you, ma'am."

 

She moved closed, her body swaying slightly. She sat on the edge of the bed, and there was silence as they both observed each other for a moment.

 

"I want to be your friend, Nicky. There's nothing to worry about."

 

Her hand touched his arm, and he wanted to run, but running had never got him anywhere. Besides, this was a friend of Katarina, she had said so. And Katarina never lied.

 

As the grandfather clock struck midnight, the front door slammed. There had never been more dust in his eyes, he thought, as he crawled away under the bed. He stared at the door, willing it to open, for Mom to be there like she'd always promised to be, like she should be. Never more dust.

 

That was where Katarina found him the next morning.

 

~

 

What was strange, he thought, was that life went on as before. Sure, Mom now looked at him as if he would break at any moment and Dad spent even less time in his company, always uncomfortable, always formal, but it was all the same.

 

He was left to his books and his model-making, and no one talked about the law or science. Nick didn't mind really, didn't especially notice. They didn't talk about The Night, never mentioned Katarina's name and the police were as oblivious as all his friends at school.

 

He had never told. Katarina comforted tears she didn't understand, and his parents had thrown her away as soon as they realised she'd left him with a stranger. 'Don't talk to strangers, Nicky' - but she was in the house, wasn't she? Katarina knew her, she wasn't really a stranger. She didn't seem like a stranger.

 

The new maid didn't make cookies; she didn't have time between her law degree and Operation Track Nicholas. Not that there was much effort in it - Nick always kept to his room, to the walls of his own house. His father had sworn he'd be safe there, and he couldn't accept that another of his loved ones could lie.

 

He'd found a hair on his duvet. It just laid there, a flash of red in the rays of sunset. Nick had picked it up carefully, twirling it between his fingers and watching it catch the light, turning red then black on the whim of the sun. He put it away, carefully pressed it into one of the books his father had given him, resting it over the words of some man long dead. It felt strangely fitting.

 

Nick wondered why it all kept going on. He had expected some kind of ending, the shutters falling on The Night. He wasn't even sure why he was still there, half-convinced he should've faded as the night fled and the dawn approached. It didn't seem right that it all just ambled on, as if nothing had happened.

 

Something had happened - he felt it as he watched the door swing open with a creak, as he touched the poetry book like a talisman and found his place under the bed, knowing its dark recesses as he knew himself. The world should spin differently, he thought, he should be different.

 

But it all went on the same. He wasn't sure he even wanted this time, this extension of warped living.

 

It never mattered what he wanted.

 

~

 

//the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours//

 

Nick had the strange urge to dive under his bed.

 

It was absurd, and he rationally knew it was impossible - he had long outgrown what little height a bed had, and there was far too much clutter under his bed that even Nicky couldn't have squeezed among the detritus.

 

He was also pretty certain there were no cookies in the house; he had taken the last few to work, where Grissom had revealed a hidden weakness for chocolate chip. Besides, this would call for peanut butter cookies, and he had never been able to stand the stuff for...well, years now.

 

Nick shut his eyes, trying to stop his brain automatically filling in the day, month and year, the alignment of figures so burned into his brain that he wondered how he ever let it fade from his mind. He didn't need that right now - present hurt had enough hold without the past adding its shadows.

 

Another almost-ending, and it didn't feel like 'almost' at all. He could see the last rays of sunlight draining over the horizon, and wondered if everything would just stop when night fell. Ridiculous, his rational mind insisted, it won't end here.

 

No, it should've all ended before.

 

Amy Hendler- sick of living in someone else's shadow, wanting to be noticed, appreciated. Yes, Nick could understand that: for years he'd wanted nothing more. He solved his problems through college; she solved hers through murder.

 

And ready to murder again, to protect herself. Another reaction he understood - why else would he keep a gun by his bed, and one by the door? Nick had never killed anyone, but he could, if they were too close, too strong. Guns were the mark of a coward, they said, or a professional: distancing yourself from your victim, no direct contact, nothing personal. An execution.

 

Just one decisive moment where Nick could play judge, jury and executioner and end another. A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he realised his father could finally have what he wanted - his son, the judge.

 

Yes, he could do that, but only at the bitter end. He remembered his best friend explaining the phrase in college - the bitter end was the other end of an anchor. If the bitter end disappeared over the edge, you were gone, all at sea, drifting aimlessly in a vengeful ocean.

 

And maybe, in that case, he should've murdered twice over, because he was drifting now and he had certainly caught a current back when The Night was fresh as the scent of a well-oiled gun.

 

Nick caught himself then, found the drawer open in his hand and the dull metal glinting in the glow of dusk. It would be so easy to end the drifting, to chase the anchor and grab on with one, two shots of a gun. So easy.

 

People had said all day that he was lucky, so fortunate that Grissom had been there, that there were no shots fired. He's beginning to think they're wrong - no one notices the gashes of the mind, the hidden scars only visible through dark brown eyes. A gunshot wound, a brand where her hand settled on his skin - these were signs that there was healing still to do, a warning to tread carefully.

 

Tomorrow, it would be as if nothing had happened. He would do his job and avoid eye contact, and everyone would assume it was just a mood, an off day. And he would let them think that, because bitter ends and gashes of the mind could only get him fired or, worse, on 'compassionate leave'.

 

As if they understood, as if they could truly know the pain he felt, the feeling that it all should've ended already, and why wasn't it fucking over?

 

Nick slammed the drawer shut and stood away, breathing hard. He would be an adult about this; he would handle it like the man his father insisted he's been since the age of six. He backed away to the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge. Holding the chilled bottle against his forehead, he tried to remember how to breathe, how to forget.

 

They were wrong - living was much harder than death.

 

~

 

//While emotion takes to itself the emotionless//

 

He had never before realised how quiet his house could be. How the silence echoed, as if waiting to be filled by screams, tears, endings.

 

Today, the waiting was over.

 

'I just get a little confused about what's yours and what's mine.'

 

Nick sat with his back to the wall, staring at where crumbling plaster met the black. If he kept staring, he could just make out beams in the darkness, imagine someone nesting in there, carving a part of Nick away to make himself.

 

He wasn't sure if he could leave the house - how absurd was that, as if anyone really did that; surely no man could lock himself away, living with a broken ceiling and a crime scene for a home.

 

Nick glanced across at the couch, remembering Brass's slow measured words, asking simple questions and patiently waiting as Nick fought to answer without tears. He couldn't bear tears, not in front of Brass, not before David and Warrick, methodically collecting evidence as if this were just another scene, one more crime for their shift quota. Only their eyes betrayed them: quick glances in his direction, seeing if he'd broken yet.

 

They weren't used to the signs.

 

'So, you know, consider that a gift...Because I know how much you love redheads'

 

Jane Galloway's image flashed into his mind, red hair falling over her dead, cold face. A face smothered in plastic, a ghost's image staring out at him. Greg's face had drained of colour at the sight, and Nick had to fight the urge to guide him away. He remembered all too well Greg freezing up at the blood beside the wrecked bus, and how he'd wanted to protect him from that.

 

Nick harshly forced those feelings away, and leaned back into the corner. Redheads. He almost laughed out loud at the word. Redheads indeed. Yes, Melissa was one, a date to lose himself with. He'd spent a lot of those years getting lost, but never too close. He was always careful of that.

 

College was good for all kinds of education, and his renewed love of redheads. Sean had some Scottish blood, apparently, but Nick was never anxious to meet the folks. That would mean this was a relationship, that it was real, and Nick had never been able to handle 'real'. It had been foolish to think he could skirt the edges of a relationship without ever crossing the line, pure idiocy to believe he had the strength to contest all his father believed about him. Finally, he had earned the respect he had always desired, and now, to throw it away? For what, love?

 

So scared, the young Nicholas Stokes, of his Texan judge father, of disgrace. He dare not place that on them, especially when his mother grew even more tired, and he finally began to notice the lines of white in her hair.

 

After six months of lies, Sean was done being patient, and Nick fell into old habits. No redheads though, only brunettes - tall, leggy, more looks than minds. The men he saw were few and far between, always a red tint to the look or a night too dark to tell. No disgrace if there was no recognition, only the shame that he was living a lie, losing himself in the emotionless dances and motel bedrooms.

 

The police force ended all that, far too much risk there. He'd never done more than look, and still only reserved for the red-tinted hair. He'd taken enough dark-haired women to his bed to deflect suspicion, and deflect it he had. Nick had never had an emotional investment in a relationship since Sean, and had intended for his life to stay that way.

 

Which is why Greg confused him.

 

'You are so self-absorbed.'

 

He thought maybe he could call one of his sisters; they would have some practical advice. Maybe his brother would understand...but no, how could he? He hadn't been there, not at his first fall, nor at the second. It was too late to expect anything now, and besides, what would he say? 'I've had a crazed stalker, and yet all I can think about is a lab technician. By the way, he's male and a dusty blond, and it's the latter that confuses me most.'

 

Nick buried his head in his hands, and refused to cry. No, crying had never got him anywhere, much like running. It wasn't just Greg though, even though that was the image he saw. Greg, in his position, staring at an intruder with those wide brown eyes. Greg, shot, bleeding out on the green T of his carpet, and wasn't it good that Nick had restraint, had kept him away? Imagine if he'd been there, imagine those wide-eyes, and Nick would've guided him away, protected him any way he could.

 

No, that wasn't it at all. It was the niggling doubt in his mind that perhaps, just perhaps, Nigel might've done better with his life than he had. Really, what had he done that was so special? A screwed-up kid with a fear of relationships, lying to his family for almost fifteen years, recovering from near-death by staring at the hole in his ceiling and still avoiding the one person who could make it all go away...maybe. Just maybe, and surely that was a chance he should take? Anything to escape the hurt that had been building all these years, anything at all...

 

The shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence, and Nick closed his eyes, torn between pulling himself out or dissolving into the darkness.

 

'How do you want this to end, Nigel?'

 

Nick slid slowly up the wall, gasping as his ribs protested. He walked slowly, warily to the phone before finally, lifting it up.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Hey Nick! It's me."

 

He couldn't help the smile that came to his face nor the feeling of calm that settled through him. It was...reassuring.

 

"Hey Greg. You alright?"

 

A light chuckle, and Nick could feel the warmth fill his soul.

 

"Me, Nick? I think I should be the one asking. Anyway, I thought you might be...I mean...you might...want me to come over?"

 

"Yes."

 

The reply was so instant it shocked even Nick, and Greg's serious tone told Nick that he was going to be under serious scrutiny when the lab tech arrived.

 

"Well then...uh...I'm kinda outside the door, so you mind...opening it?"

 

Nick laughed then, but gasped as his ribs once more protested. He staggered to the door and pulled it open, ignoring the snapped locks. Greg stood, grinning at him, still holding the phone to his ear, before staring at it and slipping it into his pocket. He held up the beer in his hand, a little apologetic.

 

"I'm not sure you can mix it with your meds, but uh, I thought I'd bring it anyway."

 

Beer, yes. The adult way to handle trauma, and damn painkillers got in the way. He winced again as his side ached, and Greg was suddenly on his doorstep, one hand on his shoulder.

 

"Nick? You okay? Man, you look pale. C'mon, sit down."

 

Gently, he was guided into the house and Greg's hands steadied him even as they burned into his skin. That careful touch sat him back on the sofa, but even then, Greg left his hands in place, smiling with a shadow of concern, but still smiling. It was like watching the sun appear after a storm, and Nick hadn't felt this safe...hadn't *felt* at all for far too long.

 

Nick leaned his head back on the sofa, and Greg watched him, easy silence falling into place, as if it had never been disturbed. Yes, maybe, this was his favourite way to forget.

 

'It's, it's done.  All right?'

 

~

 

//'Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable//

 

Nick was grateful just to watch him breathe, and had been quite content to do so for the past hour.

 

He traced the half-covered face with his eyes, noting the small furrow of pain between the closed eyes and the slight set of the jaw - he'd have to increase the medication in the morning. He resisted the urge to touch the hunched-over form, lying on his side, slight figure bulked by bandages and pale from too much pain and too little sleep. Nick longed for nothing more than to reach out and take away the pain, but he held back. No, not now. Not ever.

 

Stretching, he stood, and walked out into the hallway, making his way slowly to the kitchen. His muscles protested this midnight stroll and he couldn't quite stifle the yawn that belied his exhaustion. Vigils will do that to a guy, he guessed. Not that he regretted a second of it. Just reassured to know Greg was breathing, alive, as comfortable as he could be. Yes, any pain was worth that.

 

Nick reached for the coffee, automatically going through the motions without really paying attention to what he was doing. A mug full of strong black, and he started back towards his room but stopped short, instead turning to the sitting room. He slid down the wall that had become his brooding place, and set down the mug, hugging his knees to his chest.

 

Strange, he thought, how everything plays out the same. The world fades to black, and he finds himself in the same places - under a bed, back against a wall. Except this time, this time it wasn't his tragedy, his shadow on the path. This time it was far worse.

 

He had only arrived at CSI when it was all over, smoke trailing and sirens keening. He felt there should've been a rainstorm, a clouded sky, something to recognise the significance, the weight of the event. All he remembered now was searching through the crowd, picking out a shaking Sara and no one else.

 

"Sara? What's going on?"

 

He'd met her unfocused eyes and the slightly dazed smile, as she solemnly told him, "You have to find Greg. One minute, he was there, then...then..."

 

Grissom had arrived then, and Nick only remembered the soft drone of a voice, as he was talked out of whatever strange trance he'd fallen into. He'd insisted on seeing Greg, but had been reminded of his duty, his case. He wasn't sure his responses had been polite, wasn't even sure if he'd been coherent, but he had worked the case, and finally, finally, seen Greg.

 

He'd never realised Greg could be so still. At first, for one horrified moment, he thought he'd died and left him, but a slight shudder and the slow blink to a medicated stare allayed that fear. There had been that silence again, the companionable one that had taken to falling between them in the most unlikely situations, in the most strained of times. Nick had lost count of the times he'd wound up at Greg's place, or Greg at his, just talking, and it had all become so...natural.

 

"You're gonna need someone...when you get out of here."

 

The comment was so bare, so raw from his soul that Nick wasn't even sure it made sense. Greg had just smiled faintly.

 

"What are you saying?"

 

"You could stay with me, if you want."

 

He fought the urge to stutter, retract the offer, just sat and waited until Greg wrestled with whatever shadows fell behind his eyes, shadows Nick recognised all too well.

 

"Yeah, that...would be nice."

 

And that's what had led him here, to fighting demons that weren't really his and straining to catch the breath of a man a room away. He wasn't even sure if he was doing this for Greg - it was his own fears that had made him want Greg close, his own selfish reasons for placing the man in his room and...watching. Nick wondered what the lab psychologist would have to say about that.

 

Catherine had made noises about therapy yesterday when she'd bought cookies, and Nick had listened patiently before telling her politely 'no way in hell'. Greg was equally fervent in his dismissal, and Nick understood that, knew the feeling as well as he knew his own heartbeat quickening in the darkness.

 

He had almost lost Greg. The thought hit him solidly, knocking the breath from his lungs and he struggled to breathe for a moment. Greg could be gone, blown away from the earth while Nick was elsewhere, not thinking of how much he could lose. Now he knew exactly how much, but that didn't make it any easier to admit. What could he do - tell Greg? Draw the young man into the fragile web of Nick's psyche, and hope they both made it through? That wasn't fair on any level, and Nick wouldn't wish his fears on anyone else. Anyone at all, but especially not Greg.

 

"Nick?"

 

Startled out of his reverie, he looked up at Greg. He wavered in the doorway, and Nick was instantly on his feet, reaching out to steady him with shaking hands. Greg glanced at his fingers, and picked up a hand in his.

 

"Greg? Are you alright? I have your meds if you..."

 

"You're shaking."

 

Nick looked at his hand, and realised it was true, even as he felt Greg's own tremor. He realised then that they could be dancing - his hand on Greg's waist, fingers interlaced. The thought brought a smile to his face, and Greg's lips curved upwards, drawing the sense of complete equilibrium back to his world.

 

"C'mon, you should get back to bed."

 

"I'm not tired."

 

Still, Nick guided Greg back to the room, listening to mutterings about overprotective mother hens and trying not to laugh. Greg sat gingerly on the bed, and Nick sat beside him, realising they probably wouldn't be sleeping again that night. There were several moments of silence before Greg finally spoke.

 

"I didn't realise it would feel this way."

 

Nick stayed silent and waited for him to continue, his heart aching at the soft, broken words.

 

"I mean, I was lucky, right? Could've been a lot worse, I could've..."

 

He stopped, as Nick covered his hand with his, and still waited. Greg swallowed, then continued, his voice barely a whisper.

 

"I should be...happy. Hey, I'm alive!" He smiled then, but it quickly faded. "But...it all feels wrong somehow, as if I...shouldn't be alive at all."

 

"I felt like that once."

 

Greg turned to him sharply, and Nick realised he'd spoken aloud. He struggled to continue, head bowed.

 

"I've had...bad things happen, guns pointed..." Greg's grip tightened on his hand. "And it's always the same, as if it should end there..."

 

He stopped then, looked up at Greg and smiled, squeezing his hand.

 

"'There is no end, but addition'. Some poet wrote that, Eliot I think, I have a book somewhere. I always took it to mean that you can feel the world is ending, but...it isn't. More just keeps being added, and I know...I've felt displaced, like it doesn't work at all, but it does. You just...have to keep living."

 

"I...think I can do that." Greg smiled, before biting on his lip. "Just promise...that you'll stay."

 

Nick was ready to promise the world in that moment, but he stopped himself, pulled himself away and released Greg's hand. He couldn't take the offering, not when Greg was vulnerable, didn't know what he was saying. Nick wouldn't drag Greg into the mess of his life, his lies, his failures. His family couldn't accept him as he stood, what hope did he have from Greg?

 

Nick stood and walked away. "I'll find that book for you."

 

"Nick..."

 

He ignored the pain in the voice, shutting his eyes tightly. Temporary hurt, but it was better this way. Better. He pulled out the slim book, and flicked to find the right page. And stopped.

 

Resting across the words was a red hair.

 

Suddenly, Nick was all of eight years old, hiding underneath a bed in the darkness. The scent of cheap perfume hung heavy, and he saw a flash of red. He tried to close the book, to tear his eyes away, but his hands were frozen, his mind caught in another place and another time.

 

A hand slid over his arm and down to his hand, while trembling fingers touched at his waist, and warmth pressed into his back. "Nick, what's wrong?"

 

The hand moved from his waist and picked up the hair with careful fingers, inspecting it with an expert's eye, before casting it aside and letting it fall to the floor. Nick twisted to face him, grasping Greg's arms when he looked to fall, but quickly released him. He couldn't let him in, couldn't do this. It only ended in hurt - he saw his parents' eyes, Sean's look of betrayal, and knew the same look would only fall into Greg's brown orbs.

 

"I'm going to make coffee."

 

Stumbling into the kitchen, he saw the pot taunting him with his lies. There was no need for coffee, no need at all. He flicked on the radio - anything to drown out his sense of betrayal, cowardice, hurt. The gentle cadence of country filtered through the system, and the words burned themselves into his mind.

 

'A thousand tears fall in the darkness
A thousand times I've wondered why
How it hurts now to remember
I'd forgotten how to cry'

 

One splash on the countertop, and Nick realised that he was crying. Nick Stokes doesn't cry - it never gets him anywhere. He brushed angrily at the tears, but they wouldn't stop, as everything flooded into his mind at once. The Night, Amy Hendler, Nigel Crane, almost losing Greg...

 

"You don't have to do this, Nick."

 

"Greg, please..."

 

"No, Nick. I lo...I really care about you, and I don't...it doesn't have to be like this."

 

Nick turned then, and walked up to Greg, resisting the urge to touch. He was impressed with his willpower.

 

"Greg, you don't need..."

 

Greg kissed him. Sudden and soft, warm and sweet, and Nick's willpower melted like snowflakes in the sun. Because this wasn't calming or reassuring; this was controlled chaos in his head and he had never felt more settled.

 

Eventually, they pulled apart through necessity of oxygen, and the silence was crowded with rough gasps and drying tears. Nick started to protest, to apologise but Greg shushed him.

 

"Stop feeling guilty. I don't need your pity."

 

Another kiss, and Nick fell into the moment before pulling back once more.

 

"You're too strong to ever be pitied. Remember that."

 

Greg's grin blinded him, and Nick was almost disappointed when it disappeared into another kiss. It was almost perfect, until Greg cried out as Nick's fingers brushed a burn, and everything stopped.

 

"Okay, bed." Greg raised an eyebrow, and Nick fixed him with a look. "To sleep. You need to rest."

 

They settled down onto the bed, Greg buried into Nick's chest, covers resting at their waists. Nick gave into his urge to touch, and gently ran his fingers through Greg's hair, careful not to wake him.

 

As the first fingers of dawn crept through the curtains, Nick reached for the phone and dialled a number he could barely recall. It rang for a while before a gruff male voice answered, annoyance evident with the "This had better be important."

 

Nick swallowed, took a deep breath, and then spoke softly into the phone.

 

"Hey Dad, it's me. I'm sorry to..."

 

"Nick? I...it's good to hear from you! Jenny, wake up, it's Nick."

 

He bit his lip - he didn't want to wake his mother, but there were tears building again as he realised his importance to his parents. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He'd longed for his sense of home, of security for so long, that he'd forgotten where he'd lost it. Perhaps this could be his chance to regain that feeling, to draw Greg into his sense of home and build on the affection of his family. Maybe.

 

They always knew he'd kept secrets from them - The Night, Sean - and Nick had found himself drifting, without an anchor. Now, with Greg's hair between his fingers, soft breaths nearby to match his own, he couldn't do it anymore. He needed that love, that acceptance. He needed them to know Greg. Perhaps soon they could.

 

"Nick, honey? Is everything all right?"

 

He drew Greg's head closer to his chest, and smiled.

 

"Yeah, Mom, everything's fine."

 

~THE END~

 

'There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable'

 

'The Dry Salvages'

-- TS Eliot

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