Title: Loveology
By: Daniella
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Genres: angst, romance, drama
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: This is a songfic based on Loveology by Regina Spektor.
"This wasn't something you could solve simply by carrying the one."

Oh, an incurable humanist, you are
Oh, an incurable humanist, you are, you are
Oh, an incurable humanist, you are
Oh, an incurable humanist, you are, you are

Nick Stokes. Nicky fucking Stokes. CSI extraordinaire. Saving the world, one laugh line at a time.

Greg didn't need him. Oh no. Didn't need him at all. Why would he want to go back there? Nick was definitely not his type. The guy listened to Tim McGraw for chrissakes. What the fuck was up with that, anyway?

He was always the gentleman, always courteous, all that good ol' fashioned Texan Republican upbringing, or whatever the fuck it was. Definitely not Greg's thing. Oh no.

Why did Greg need that? He didn't. That's right. He didn't.

Nick was walking down the hall now, and Greg couldn't help but curse at whoever the fuck designed this bleeding crime lab, because seriously, glass walls? Not a smart idea. He was engrossed in a conversation with Catherine, but Greg saw the dark eyes flicker in his direction. He saw the Texan's face redden slightly, could practically hear him stumble over his words as they talked about blood spatter or something.

Then Catherine was noticing him too, and Greg feigned a grin and a wave. She shot him back that curt, no-nonsense smile she always sported and he turned back to the DNA results he had been looking over before Nick-fucking-Stokes had decided to steal his attention.

But he could practically see the scene that was passing in front of him. Catherine would be saying something like, Nick, let's stop in here, we have to get our results for that rape case in Henderson.

To which Nick would reply hastily, still wearing that Texas blush, Why don't you do that, Cath? I'll… I'll go stop in with Hodges and see if he figured out what that mystery blue substance was.

And then he would run off in the opposite direction.

Or maybe… maybe it would happen differently. Maybe Nick would look resolutely at Catherine, and then back in at Greg, before his eyes would soften and he would say in a quiet but determined voice, Cath, I'll get our DNA results. Want to meet me in the trace lab in five?

And he would walk in, and he would be thinking about all those nights he and Greg had spent together, too tired from their shifts to fuck but happy to lie there naked in each other's arms and talk about memories or sports or why we're all here or anything at all. Or he would be thinking of the time Greg had first kissed him, when the younger man's Jetta had broken down and he was giving him a lift, being the fucking gentleman he was, and Greg had just leaned in and did it and it was over before it had even begun, Greg shooting Nick's bewildered face a lopsided grin before hopping out of the car. Come inside and I'll pay you back for the ride, he had said, but I don't have the cash for gas money. Nick had freaked out, driven halfway home, before turning around and coming straight back to Greg's apartment, kissing him fiercely the second he opened the door.

Cath, I'll get our DNA results. Want to meet me in the trace lab in five?

Yeah. That's what he would say. And then he would walk in and then…

"Sanders. What do you have for me?"

Greg's head shot up, and Catherine looked at him quizzically.

Fuck. He had been right the first time.

Let's go to the movies, I will hum you a song about nothing at all
Let's go to the movies, I will hum you a song about nothing at all
Let's go to the movies, let's go to the movies
Nothing at all
Nothing at all
Nothing at all

It took him by surprise, when Greg realized that maybe he wasn't completely over Nick. The realization snuck up on him like Grissom would when Greg was wearing headphones in the DNA lab.

He supposed it should have been obvious, though, when he looked back.

Like how every day, five hundred little things would remind him of Nick, would set off some sensor in his brain and he would think to himself, Whoa, I definitely have to remember to tell Nick that when I see him next. And then he would remember with a sad little jolt that no, he couldn't tell Nick that, because Nick wasn't speaking to him. Nicky fucking Stokes. CSI extraordinaire. He was too much of a gentleman, Greg didn't need him. Oh no. But that was a lie, wasn't it? Greg did need him. And it should have been obvious. It should have been extremely obvious.

Like that night. That night Greg had been out drinking and taxied over to Nick's place. Nick had answered the door looking tired, his eyes puffy and his hair mussed, and Greg hadn't hesitated to kiss him, his hands running along the older man's familiar form.

Greg. Nick had said. Don't do this. We shouldn't do this. But his body was telling a different story and Greg had already pulled his hard cock out of his sweatpants, fisting him and kissing his neck, sloppy with tequila.

This doesn't have to mean anything, Greg's reply had been, drunken logic at its best, just one fuck.

That night, Nick hadn't needed much convincing. It was as if the hint of alcohol he could taste on Greg's lips was enough to loosen his morals as well, for soon he was muttering through their kisses, through the quick, hard thrusts, Nothing. This means nothing at all.

Nothing at all. It had become their mantra, on that night and the two that followed.

So maybe, yeah. Maybe Greg wasn't entirely over Nick. Maybe he wasn't ready to let go. Maybe every time he got drunk he did what he was too afraid to attempt sober: reconnect with the older man. If he was thinking clearly, he would have noticed that Nick was acting the same way, he certainly wasn't turning him away when Greg would appear on his doorstep, drunk and sad and as horny as fuck.

But Greg wasn't thinking clearly. Greg never thought clearly anymore. His brain was a frustrating mix of nostalgia, of longing and regret and guilt and yeah, maybe there was some love in there too.

If Greg had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that when it came to Nick, things were never meaningless.

Sit down class, open up your textbooks to page 42:
Porcupine-ology, antler-ology
Car-ology, bus-ology, train-ology, plane-ology
Mama-ology, papa-ology
You-ology, me-ology
Love-ology, kiss-ology, stay-ology, please-ology
Let's study class. Let's study class, sit down.

And Greg was a rationalist, he really was. He had been ever since he fell in love with science as a kid. Everything could be explained if you looked hard enough for the answer. Everything had a reason; everything would make sense if you gave the time to understand it. Everything, from DNA to computers to blood spatter to rock music to surfing to sex to emotions to regret to need, right? Everything could be explained.

There was probably an easy answer to the meaning of life; humanity was just too lazy to figure it out so far. Love could be explained if he took the time to see the solution. Nick could be explained, too. What he felt when he was around Nick could be mapped out with equations and little symbols and indexes and footnotes.

Why he fucked up with Nick could be drawn out on a graph. All the little things that made Nick leave him could be organized alphabetically, chronologically, or in increasing degrees of severity.

Everything had an explanation. Greg's drunken reasoning had an explanation, surely, even if he couldn't figure it out.

The one thing he could explain was the main reason Nick left. That was as clear as day, as easy as 1+1=2. Painfully fucking easy.

Greg could probably explain why he chose to sleep with that guy from the club, if he really wanted to see the answer. It wouldn't be as straightforward as 1+1, but he could do it, because everything had an answer. He would just need to use a calculator or something.

Whether or not he wanted to see the answer, that was a different story entirely. But that could be explained too, he didn't want to know why he fucked some nameless blond that night because he didn't want to see what a huge mistake he made. He didn't want to realize that he deserved to be alone. He had explained his rationalism to Nick once, as they lay in the Texan's bed, naked and sweaty, a tangle of limbs and bed sheets.

Everything has a reason, he had said. Everything can be explained if you take the time to think about it.

Nick had smiled warmly, the skin around his eyes crinkling as it always did when he was happy. Well, that makes life pretty boring, doesn't it? He questioned him, drawing small idle circles on Greg's hip with the pad of his thumb.

No, came Greg's quiet reply, whispering the words into the skin of his lover's neck, it makes it bearable.

Nick hadn't said anything. He just smiled and kissed him again.

Love-ology, love-ology, I'm-sorry-ology, forgive-me-ology
Love-ology, love-ology, I'm-sorry-ology, forgive-me-ology
Love-ology, love-ology
Let's study class, sit down.
Love-ology, love-ology, I'm-sorry-ology, forgive-me-ology
Love-ology, love-ology, I'm-sorry-ology, forgive-me-ology
Love-ology
Love-ology
Love-ology

All it really took was a bit of addition. Basic math. Stuff Greg could have done backwards with his eyes closed back in school, but for some reason he was having problems with now.

Awkward glances at work plus imagined scenarios of reconciliation plus stints of desperate, drunken sex equalled the fact that Greg was clearly not over Nick.

His thoughts never being on something that didn't involve the Texan plus his irritated behaviour plus sleepless nights equalled the fact that Greg felt really fucking guilty for what he did with that blond at the club.

Countless random conversations plus great sex plus the way his stomach seemed to jolt each time Nick touched him or said his name equalled the fact that Greg had never really felt this way for anyone before.

Then take the sums to all your equations and add them together.

Greg wasn't over Nick.

Greg felt really fucking guilty for what he did with that blond at the club.

Greg had never really felt this way for anyone before.

The answer was easy, wasn't it? Greg was in love. Plain and simple. There wasn't any other way to explain it.

But that wasn't the end of the equation. You'd have to factor in the fact that Nick still wasn't speaking to him, that Greg had been unfaithful, that he really didn't deserve the older man at all...

But there were difficulties in math all the time, right? They didn't call them problems for nothing. It would just take some fancy calculations, the application of a new variable, or…

No. Greg was getting too caught up in his own metaphor. This wasn't something you could solve simply by carrying the one. He needed to talk to Nick. Without the help of vodka.

And fate seemed to have a funny way of working things. Because right then Nick was strolling into the break room, his head turned around as he waved goodbye to Sara. The simple little truth of the situation hit Greg right then like a sledgehammer. The only real reason Nick was actually entering the same room as him was because he didn't know the younger man was there. Yet.

And then, there it was. He turned around, and their eyes connected, for the hundredth time that day. And Nick was blushing again, and he averted his gaze, continuing on his course to the fridge.

"Hey, G."

"Nick."

The words were stiff, awkward, feeble attempts at normalcy. Nick leaned against the counter, munching on an apple, still refusing to look at Greg. As the lab tech sat dejectedly on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee, he could practically see the cogs turn in the older man's head. He's thinking, How soon can I leave without being too rude?

Nick Stokes. Always the fucking gentleman.

"How's the DNA for that rape ca-"

"Can we-"

They both started talking at the same time. Well, Nick started talking first, but Greg quickly moved to interrupt him, before stopping himself and lapsing into silence again. He paled, contrasting harshly with Nick's heavy blush, and looked back down into his mug of coffee.

"Can we…?" Nick repeated. If Greg had had the balls to look up at that moment, he would have noted that Nick's eyes were fixed on him now, and they were shining with something indecipherable.

"Uh. Talk after the shift? Over breakfast maybe?"

"Oh. Uh. Well…." Nick stammered, looking down at his apple again.

"If you don't want to, that's cool."

"Greg-"

"Cause I mean, that would be fine."

"I'm… I'm working a double. High profile."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't know when I'll be done."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Nick looked resigned, and Greg couldn't help but notice as the older man snuck another glance at him.

"Well… whatever then. You've got too much on your plate already."

"Greg-"

"Forget I brought it up."

"Greg-"

"High profile. Pretty fucking big stuff."

"Can I call you later?"

Greg's head snapped up. "Oh. Sure."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sounds good."

"See you, G." Tossing his apple core in the nearest wastebasket, Nick flashed him an awkward smile and he made his exit. And Greg sighed, leaning back onto the couch. Basic math, my ass.

Oh, an incurable humanist, you are
Oh, an incurable humanist, you are, you are
Oh forgive me, oh forgive me
Forgive me; forgive me, forgive-me-ology
Forgive me; forgive me, forgive-me-ology
Forgive me; forgive me, forgive-me-ology

Nick Stokes. Nicky fucking Stokes, CSI extraordinaire. Saving the world, one laugh line at a time.

He arrived at Greg's door, all nervous and beet red and fucking absolutely perfect. It was frustratingly beautiful, seeing him standing there, small anxious wrinkles popping up here and there across his face. It was annoyingly sexy, how he tried to keep things casual (hey, G, what's up?) but kept on wiping his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans. Greg could hardly stand it.

Greg tried to explain it to him. Everything. The math, the rationalism, you can't just carry the one. But it must have come off funny, because Nick was smiling at him now, which just frustrated Greg even more. He was trying so hard, trying to vocalize the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind for countless nights now. And Nick simply found it amusing. The fucker.

But then, maybe Greg did get the right idea across, because Nick grabbed his hand, pressing it between both of his. The touch made Greg lose a bit of himself for a second, and his mind went reeling. He thought of how he felt the first time they had had sex. He thought of that day when they had passed old high school memories back and forth, nostalgic and embarrassed and totally comfortable with each other's old secrets. He thought of Nick's lips against his, his hands sliding along Greg's back, the sound of his voice each time he came. He thought of their words. Everything can be explained if you take the time to think about it, he had said. And Nick had replied, that familiar smile on his face, Well, that makes life pretty boring, doesn't it? Greg had said that it made things bearable. But, as he and Nick stared at each other, their fingers still entwined, he couldn't help but wonder if he had been wrong.

"I'm sorry."

As he whispered the words, as Nick's lips connected with his again, as he felt that familiar yet so wonderful jolt of electricity, he couldn't help but think that he would never really understand things between him and Nick Stokes.

And as they fell asleep, sweaty and spent and happy for the first time in ages, Greg realized that he really didn't care.