Title: Mask
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Note: first in The Swishverse series
Summary: Nick's been hiding a big secret for a long time, but it's time he dropped the mask.

To you, it’s all pretty damned ridiculous. Of course you’re not about to actually SAY that, not out loud, but sending a bunch of straight boys to do a queer boy’s job is dumb as shit. The worst part isn’t that it’s doomed to failure. The worst part is that it’s so obvious.

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar," your father is fond of saying. You agree, although the image is a little less than perfectly attractive. Here, however, it’s appropriate in a way your dad never predicted. The club is really, really nice, the patrons stunning overall, and that clot of cops over there near the entrance is about as subtle as blood in a glass of milk.

"This is never gonna work," you say sotto-voce.

"Nope," Catherine agrees. "Know what it reminds me of?"

"What?"

"A junior-high boy-girl party. All the girls over there, all the boys over here. Everybody’s afraid to make the first move."

You snort. "These boys aren’t afraid of making moves," you tell her. "They’re just not into wasting time."

"I don’t know. Arrington over there looks kinda hot."

"And straight."

"Well."

You sigh. In addition to the patent stupidity of trying to set up this queer-as-the-day-is-long club owner with an undercover supposedly gay-boy cop, you’re not at all sure why you’re here. There’s no body, no crime committed yet. You can’t be here for backup, since the LVPD can certainly handle that themselves, considering the dozen or so embarrassed-looking men they’ve got scattered around the crowded foyer of the club. No one’s made it past the first hurdle, of course. You can get in the foyer – anyone with a cover charge can – but you’ll stay in this long rectangular holding area the whole night if you aren’t at least somewhat cool, and these guys are so uncool it’s hilarious. And to wait to be hand-picked by Gareth Morrison? Hand-picked to leave and find a more appropriate venue, maybe, because the guy has been around a long time. Won’t fall for such blatant maneuvers.

"They must really be desperate to try this," you say, after taking a sip of your drink. It’s so watered-down it is obviously a holding-cell beverage. Don’t want to make the natives drunk AND restless, doncha know.

"I guess." Catherine glances at her watch and sighs. "Well, at least we can keep counting how many people try to pick up Grissom."

You grin. "Yeah." It’s pretty good, actually. Grissom’s had at least four guys strike up conversations over there by the bar, and his discomfited but game expression is almost worth the immense waste of time. Right now it’s a man in cheap black clothes, hair artistically sprangled into an architectural mess. He’s hanging in there; you saw him make his first move at least fifteen minutes ago, and whatever Grissom’s said to him, it hasn’t made him bail yet.

But your smile fades fast. Whatever, this is BORING, and what’s more, it’s evidently never-ending. Morrison will make another sweep any minute now, and once again he’ll amble right by the disguised boys in blue, because he ain’t stupid. Crooked, yes, ruthless, undoubtedly, but dumb? Not even.

"Be back in a second," you say, setting your watery drink on the table.

"Where are you going? You can’t leave me here."

"Can’t take a leak on the rug, either."

"Oh."

The restroom is surprisingly neat. Early enough to not be trashed yet, maybe, but you appreciate not having to splash through urine on your way to the long bank of mirrors. You don’t have to take a piss, but Catherine didn’t have to know that. Instead you give yourself a critical look. Your straight-boy persona is fully in place: shirt neatly tucked, hair combed down, all that. How’s that for irony? The undercover boys killing themselves to look queer, and your daily ablutions designed to mask your own leanings.

"Darling," you hear Matt drawl inside your head. "You look AWFUL."

You smile in spite of yourself. This would be fun if Matt were here. Matt, with his favorite lemon-yellow coat and long, delicious eyelashes. His commentary on the cops would have been classic.

But you do look awful. That much is right on target. You reach up and scrub your fingers through your neat hair. Too short to do much with, but once it’s standing in spiky clumps it’s at least no longer quite so Highland Park. Much better. The shirt untucked, and opened to show your tee shirt underneath. It ain’t cutting-edge club fashion, but it’s a distinct improvement. The air is cool and your nipples are hard. That works.

Staring at yourself, you smile faintly. You have no idea what you’re doing, and every idea. This is why boredom is a very bad thing. It’s taken over three years to build everyone’s idea of you. You can smash that image to pieces with a few minutes and another bad drink. Worth it?

Oh, what the fuck. If nothing else it’ll be fun to see the look on Grissom’s face.

Outside the holding pattern has remained pretty stable. The undercover boys look tired and bored, futility inscribed on their faces. At the bar Grissom’s latest paramour has finally disappeared, and he looks as resigned as the cops.

"Wow," Catherine says, blinking at you. "They got a salon in the men’s room?"

"Of course." You survey the room, feeling a lot less like her colleague and a lot more like himself, on a Saturday night.

"You are not doing what I think you’re doing."

You shrug. "Amateur night is getting old, honey," you tell her, with a theatrical sigh.

"Nicky."

Looking at her, you feel a surge of warmth. She’s been the only one to know the truth – the whole truth, nothing but the unvarnished truth – around here for a long time, and there have been plenty of times when you’d have gone insane if it weren’t for her. "It’s the perfect opportunity," you say just loudly enough to carry over the music. "They’ll never believe the truth anyway."

Her eyes are sad and knowing. After a moment she nods. "Maybe you’re right."

You flash her a brilliant grin and put your hands on your hips. "Honey, about this kind of thing I’m ALWAYS right."

She smiles and shakes her head.

Word has Morrison’s his last boyfriend – RIP – was very pretty, and useless, a trophy to hang on Morrison’s arm, at most. Well, you’ve got too much brain power to be a real trophy – you can actually think when you feel so inclined. But you’re pretty, god knows you work hard enough at it, can’t remember the last time you had something to eat that didn’t have added fiber and a decimal point for a fat allowance. And you can act useless. You’ve been acting your way through life for fifteen years now, this will be a piece of cake.

Grissom’s left his eagle’s-nest perch at the bar, wandering over to do something, you’re not sure what, but that’s fine. The bartender looks bored, giving you a flat look. When you smile his remote expression gets a little warmer.

"What would you like?" he asks loudly, lifting his chin.

You shrug. "Something green."

"Green?"

"Surprise me."

The bartender grins and shakes his head, and you see him reach for the Midori, which is just fine. About two feet down the bar there’s an older guy, looking out of place and uncomfortable. For a second you’re wary: it won’t do to get hit on by some loser just when Morrison strolls by. But the guy doesn’t look like he’s trying to pick anybody up. He looks like he doesn’t feel too good. Face diaphoretic and waxy-pale, mouth twisted in a moue of discomfort. He looks sick to you.

"You okay?" you ask, edging closer.

The man licks his lips and puts his right hand on his left shoulder. Oh, great, this is perfect, you think, but as always you feel a lurch of real concern. "Chest pain?" you continue, and he nods while you close the distance between you. Under your hand his wrist is cool, and the radial pulse is way too fast and bumping along in a grossly unnatural rhythm.

"Arm hurts," the man slurs, giving you a foggy look.

"Honey, you need to sit down." You slide your arm around him, ignoring his rather fusty smell, and glance at the bartender, who’s just put a bright green confection of a drink on the bar. "Better call 911," you say, all seriousness, and he takes in the guy’s pasty face before giving a crisp nod.

"Now you just lean on me," you tell the guy, and half-carry him the three feet to the nearest chair. "What’s your name, sweetie?"

"C-Carl."

"You have any medicine, Carl? Anything you carry around just in case?"

The man nods once. "Nitro."

"Well, stick that under your tongue, okay? You’re gonna be just fine."

As luck would have it, the paramedics show up about the same time Morrison does. Carl is feeling better after a sublingual nitro and some pep talking, but you’re relieved to turn him over to the capable hands of Neal and his new partner.

"Nicky?" You look up and see the bartender hurrying over. How he’s learned your name is a mystery, but that’s okay. "How’s he doing?"

You make a face, turning back to watch Neal strapping Carl into a gurney. "He’ll be okay, I think. They’re gonna take good care of you, Carl," he tells the guy, patting his shoulder and stepping back. "You just relax and take it easy."

"Thanks, Nick," Carl says with a shaky smile. "You’re a good boy."

You lift an eyebrow and make a considering look. "There’s good and then there’s GOOD, honey," you quip, and wink at him. It makes him laugh.

Grissom’s walked over, wearing a thunderous expression, but you ignore him. The bartender grabs your elbow. "Mr. Morrison wants to thank you," he says.

"Ooh. THE Mr. Morrison?"

"Yeah. Hang on."

"Nick, what in the hell are you doing?" Grissom hisses sotto-voce.

Too many people around. You give him a bright, warning smile. "All in a day’s work, sugar," you say, waving your hand.

Grissom’s mouth shuts tight, eyes dark and wide. Fortunately he takes a step back, and then two, before the unmistakable form of Gareth Morrison appears.

You’ve never met Morrison before this, but of course you recognize him. Satyricon is the third club he’s opened in recent memory, and you’ve gone to the other two more than once. Morrison’s a notable figure in Vegas gay society, as much for his personal style as his business acumen. To be associated with him in any way, even as an employee, is to gain a few chic points. It doesn’t hurt that he’s probably connected in many variously nefarious ways to a great deal of drug trade, either. At least it doesn’t hurt socially. Notoriety carries its own brand of panache.

Tonight Morrison’s lean tall form is clad in a meticulously tailored black suit, his concession to flamboyance the electric-blue shirt underneath. His eyes are even bluer, and focused on you. The inquisitive regard feels odd, and distinctly hot.

"I think I owe you a debt of thanks, Mr. –" Morrison’s cultured Brit voice trails upward.

"Nick," you say, smiling sweetly. "I was just helping out. No problem."

His handshake is firm and cool. You can smell a faint, fresh cologne. "Nonsense," he says crisply. "Bad for business if someone were to drop dead upstairs. Roger?"

You see the bartender snap to attention. "Yes, Mr. Morrison?"

"Our new friend Nick here has his drinks on the house. In perpetuity."

"You bet, sir."

"Thanks," you say, ducking your head a little. "Really it’s okay, he was fine. Just needed somebody to hold his hand."

Morrison’s amazingly blue eyes narrow, examining your features. He doesn’t appear to mind what he sees, either. "Then he was lucky you happened to be here, wasn’t he?"

"I guess."

"Have you been here before?"

You shake your head. "First time," you reply honestly. "Nice place."

"The rest of it’s much nicer that this. Care for a tour?"

Meeting his eyes, you feel your heart bump into a faster rhythm. He’s hands-down the most attractive man you’ve met in dog’s years, even if he is reputedly vicious, and possibly a murderer, depending on who you ask. "Free drinks and a guided tour," you say with a teasing smile. "You do know how to turn a boy’s head."

Morrison smiles slowly. "Of course I do."

You catch Grissom’s thunderous expression right before Morrison’s hand touches the small of your back, guiding you to the stairs. At that moment it occurs to you just what you may have set into motion. You aren’t sure whether to be elated or sorrowing.

Ah well. It was time for a change. You meet Morrison’s acute black-Irish gaze and grin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That was a hell of a job you did in there."

You glance at Kittimer and go back to putting on your jacket. "Piece of cake," you say airily.

Kittimer shrugs. "Totally pulled the wool over that Brit asshole’s eyes. Thought he was gonna propose by the time you left."

You laugh.

It was pretty slick. What you saw in Morrison’s inner sanctum is more than enough to link him with not one but three prominent mob-connected figures. There’s enough for a series of warrants, and it’s highly likely that indictments will follow. And the best part is that no one will link your little shenanigans to the legal fallout. You’re safe – safe as houses, as Gareth would no doubt say.

And in more than one way. Because it was all a setup, all a joke in a way, and instead of figuring out you’ve been a fruit in disguise all this time, they all think it was great acting.

The thought makes you feel far more tired than all the excitement of this weird evening.

In the hallway outside the locker room, Catherine looks around before telling you in a low voice, "Don’t you do that to me again. Got it?"

"I knew what I was doing."

"This time." She regards you with anxious eyes. "It’s a dangerous game, Nicky." You aren’t sure if she means Morrison or you. And you’re equally unsure that it matters.

The sun’s well up when you clock out. It feels odd to be incognito once more. You’re normal again, right? No more queer-boy flirting, no untucked shirts. What would they have said if they saw you in one of your real club outfits? With your real friends, as your real self?

What would they say if they knew the acting really only started now?

You’re tired, driving home, but nothing new in that. It’s not just events. Every year it gets a little harder to see the point in it. Why it’s so important to be perceived certain ways, when the reality is so skewed left of center. What is the worst thing that could happen if you climbed back out of this small, stuffy closet, and stayed out?

You signal for your turn and feel your teeth clenching. You know the answer to that. You’ve lived it, as a police officer waiting for backup that never arrived. As a son looking for a father’s love, and seeing shock and repudiation instead. You survived both, but not without scars, and not without awareness. The first could have killed you. But the second made you wish to be dead.

Instead of dying, you split yourself in two. Neatly: queer Nick and straight Nick. And ne’er shall the twain meet.

There’s a familiar truck parked in front of your condo. Grissom stands outside it, leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed. You actually think about just driving on, going past and away: your sense of surprise and dread is that strong. But it won’t do anything but put off the inevitable, so you pull into your parking space and shut off the engine. Deep breath, two, before you take out the keys and climb out.

"Hi," you say in Grissom’s direction, as blithely as you can manage. "What brings you around here?"

"We need to talk," Grissom says thinly.

"Well, sure. Come on inside."

The condo is as much a façade as other parts of you. Matt says it’s totally butch, and he’s the one with the taste to know it. All you know is that it isn’t particularly you, but neutral enough for mixed company. You draw the line this morning at beer, though. There’s most of a bottle of Riesling in the fridge. Grissom nods when you ask him if he’d like a glass, and pour two.

"What’s on your mind?" you ask when the two of you are seated in your neat, butch living room.

"I want an explanation, Nick." Grissom is watching you closely, far more closely than he has in ages. It’s not particularly comfortable. Those blue eyes see so goddamn much when he wants. "That was a stupid stunt you pulled last night. You could have been hurt, or killed, and there was no need. Why’d you do it?"

"With all those cops around? I was safe. I mean, no big deal." You smile and cross your legs, sipping the cold, fragrant wine. "Besides, it worked, didn’t it?"

Grissom’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. His expression is odd: angry, but also confused, and frustrated. It’s actually a hell of a look for him. One a part of you has waited more than three years to see. This isn’t the way Grissom expects you to act. You should be chastised, hangdog. You’re not, though, and the feeling is salutary, but ultimately tiring.

"Go ahead and ask," you say softly. "I already know what you’re gonna say."

This, too, isn’t what Grissom’s expected, and his eyes narrow. "How much of that was real?" he asks in a slightly hoarse voice.

You uncross your legs and lean back with a deep sigh. "You really want to know?" you ask softly, gazing at the ceiling.

"Yes."

"All of it."

"Nick."

"What, surprised?" You lift your head, gazing at him. His handsome face is slack with astonishment. "I’m the lab’s best-kept secret, honey," you continue with a bitchy little twist to your words. "Believe me."

Grissom doesn’t nod, doesn’t have to. "It’s – hard to believe," he replies after a long uncomfortable moment.

"What, that I dig guys? Or that I kind of swish when I do it?" You feel a hard grin on your face. "But no, you mean hard to believe that I could be all that and you never, ever saw it, don’t you? Kind of a big thing to miss, isn’t it? All things considered?"

Grissom looks miserably fascinated. The expression on his face is pretty much the one he wears when he sees one of the more extravagantly mutilated bodies you encounter at work. "But why?" he asks weakly. "Why the pretense?"

"That’s WAY too boring to tell you now." You finish your wine and sit up, putting the glass on the coffee table. "MUCH more interesting if you tell me why you give a damn."

"I assumed I knew you." Grissom visibly gathers himself, a thin façade of calm dropping over his features. "I suppose it goes to show that we don’t ever know each other. Not really."

"So true. You want some more wine? I do."

Grissom silently hands you his glass.

Coming back with more wine, you say, "What else do you want to know? I know you’re curious. Ask."

"Are you -- Is there anyone you’re –"

You laugh a little while you sit. "Seeing? Not right now. What, you want to ask me out?"

It’s meant as a dig, but the minute your eyes meet Grissom’s you feel like gasping, because that IS what he means. It’s there in the odd hesitant flicker of that blue gaze, his slightly pale coloring.

"Oh," you say a little breathlessly. "Well, that’s interesting."

After a second Grissom’s lips twist in a little smirk of his own. "Looks like I’m not the only surprised person for the day."

It takes everything you have to not just giggle stupidly. "Well, I am irresistible, you know," you manage, not nearly as blithely as you’d hoped.

"Yes," Grissom agrees steadily. "You are."

Now you’re blushing, which is truly pathetic. Grissom’s not the first man you’ve ever had a lech for, and probably won’t be the last. It’s a quirk, his interest in you, and it won’t last, because you’re the project of the day, the weird experiment, and when he figures you out he’ll get bored. Besides, he’s not queer. You know it, everyone knows it.

Well, just like he thought YOU were straight, right? You feel your smile shaking a little, and cover by shrugging. "You’ll get over it," you say in a hard voice. "Believe me."

"What if I don’t want to get over it?" He looks less and less uncomfortable by the second. There’s even a smile on his face.

It pisses you off, but it also makes you feel sad and depressed and desperately lonely. Grissom’s interest is surreal and transitory, but it feels so goddamn good right now. "You will," you say softly, regretfully.

Grissom sighs, and his smile fades, leaving him looking tired. "Why don’t you just admit it, Nick? You don’t know me any better than I know you."

You nod slowly. "Maybe not. But I’m not stupid."

"Neither am I. You did this tonight for a reason. What reason?"

You regard him silently, and he snorts. "Okay, then I’ll take my best stab at it. You did it so we’d know. Because you’re tired of hiding who you are. How’s that?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

You roll your eyes. "Be still my beating heart. Look, Grissom, I don’t have time to tell you what does interest me, but I can tell you one thing that doesn’t, and that’s being the flavor of the day. I didn’t do this so you could know me better, or anyone else. Want to know why I did it? Are you ready for this? Because I was BORED. That’s all. It was something to do. There’s no deeper agenda here."

"And now?" There’s a frank challenge in Grissom’s too-blue eyes. "Now what will you do?"

Crawl back into the closet, you think wearily. What else? Aloud you say, "Who knows. I think I’ll get drunk. You?"

You’re still sober as a goddamn judge, but where there’s a will there’s a way, and so you bustle around getting out another bottle of wine, unworried for once that someone will see you’re not quite the frat-boy beer drinker you seem. Actually you like beer, too, but as an old friend had been fond of saying, it’s all in the details, so it’s wine today. And you don’t have to work tonight, so you can safely sleep it off, too.

Looking for the corkscrew, you turn, and Grissom’s standing there. Holding his empty glass, leaning against the counter like he has every right to be there.

You could fuck him. Clearly he wants you. And it’s been a long time since you broke up with Matt. A long time since anyone has been in your house, in your kitchen, a little tipsy and a lot horny.

A lurch of sadness makes you angry. You draw a breath and Grissom nods slowly. "I know," he says quietly. "I know, Nick."

You draw back, nostrils flared. "Know what?" you snap. "Me? I don’t think so, sugar."

Grissom’s expression flirts with annoyance for a second, but then it’s gone. "You don’t have to do that. Not with me."

"Do what?"

"Fling it at me. I’m not the one who put you where you are, Nick. It won’t work with me."

You grin brightly. "Okay, tell me what will, so I can get drunk in peace." You try to brush past him, gotta let that bottle of wine breathe for at least ten seconds before you pour it, and Grissom’s hand attaches to your elbow, not roughly. Just stopping you.

"Hush," Grissom says, and tilts his head to kiss your lips.

Your head snaps back, and you stare at him. His mouth is softer than you’d thought, his kiss was far sweeter than you wish. Grissom isn’t young and glamorous and chic like Matt. He’s better, the kind of person you never thought you’d rate, deep down, but instead of taking a step forward and gluing yourself to his mouth you take a step back.

"You don’t know," you whisper shakily. "You don’t."

"Does it matter?" he returns just as softly. His fingers on your cheek are marvelously gentle. "I know enough."

You know he’s going to kiss you again, you know you ought not to let him. But you want to taste his sweet mouth one more time. Just once. And it is sweet, he is alarmingly kind and competent and more, devastatingly good at this. His body against yours is warm and sturdy, someone you can lean against if you want to.

He’s who you’ve been looking for. And that fills your eyes with tears, because you don’t trust it, or him. You’ve been wrong before. This breaks all the rules. All of them.

"Don’t cry," he says in a warm, wistful voice you’ve never heard. He rubs your cheek with his thumb. "Please."

It’ll all end in tears, honey, you think, but you don’t say it. Instead when his head tilts a little you let your eyes close, and open your lips for his kiss, and let it all go for once.

What the hell. At least it isn’t boring.

 

END