Title: Murphy
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Sequel to Ellis Island.

Goddamn Murphy.

For almost two weeks you could practically set a watch by when I signed out. No double shifts. No OT. I worked last weekend, but that was more in order to keep myself occupied than because I really needed to. And then today, two hours, two hours before I was due to come off duty, the one day I didn’t even want to spend five more minutes at work, I get assigned to a case where it will take me 45 minutes to even get to the site.

I can finish up in half an hour. I know it’s unrealistic, but I can hope, can’t I? Then 45 minutes to drive back, 40 if I put the siren on when I reach midtown, ten minutes to sign in any evidence and I’m off to the airport. It should be OK; in any case, when’s the last time a flight landed on time at McCarran? Never, that’s when. All I need is a half hour’s delay. Hell, even twenty minutes will do.

“I’m here.”

I look at my watch in disbelief. Ten minutes early? Somebody up there is having a good laugh at my expense.

“I’m not. I’m still stuck on a case.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Listen, why don’t you grab a cab and go over to my place? I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can.”

There’s a long pause on the other side. He can’t possibly be angry, can he?

“How do you suggest I get in? Pick the lock? Use a credit card?” He sounds amused.

Fuck. I look around me. Ten more minutes. That’s all I need. Then 35 minutes to get back to work, five to sign in the evidence, twenty to get out to McCarran. An hour total. Maybe I can make it sooner.

“Nick. It’s alright. Why don’t I just go to a hotel this time around?”

It makes the most sense. Unless…

“Don’t you want to go visit the lab? I know Catherine will be happy to see you. I can meet you there.”

Another long pause.

“No. I don’t think so. In any case, Catherine’s probably off by now.”

I can tell by his voice that his mind’s made up.

“Gil? I’m sorry.”

“No problem. It’s not your fault,” he says smoothly. “I’ll call you to let you know where I am.”

He hangs up and for a few seconds I stand staring at the phone. Damn straight it’s not my fault. But he could have expressed some regret, couldn’t he? Wasn’t he looking forward to this as much as I was? No, I’m being ridiculous. He’s just being practical. And, hey, a hotel room won’t be bad. Room service. Fresh sheets and towels whenever we want them.

“No. Nonononono! Fuck! Fuck!”

With the power steering and power breaks gone, I have to wrestle with the wheel and stomp down hard on the brake to get the Denali to roll to a stop at the side of the road. I try starting the engine again, but there’s no response. Completely dead. I pop the hood. The truth is that beyond checking for loose wires, I have absolutely no idea what I’m looking for. I’ve taken a lot of engines apart. I’ve just never had to put them back together again.

“You fucking piece of shit.” I kick the tire hard. Not surprisingly, that doesn’t work either.

Sighing, I climb back into the cabin and radio for help.

“Half an hour? Half an hour?” I realize I’m sounding kind of shrill, but I can’t help it.

“At least. Just sit tight.”

For a moment I consider calling a cab. But I can’t leave the evidence in the truck and there are too many bags to fit into the trunk of a taxi. Besides which, I can just see the driver’s face if I even try it. I call Gil.

“It’s me. You’re not going to believe this…”

As it happens, it takes fifty minutes for the tow truck to show up, and there’s still no sign of the CSI vehicle that’s supposed to come out for the evidence and me. All told, I’m now four hours into my weekend, and it’s still going to be at least an hour before I can see him. Closer to two.

“You’re going to have to wait. You can’t tow the truck until I’ve transferred the evidence out of it.”

“When will that be? I’m already into OT, man.”

“You and me both,” I mutter and radio in again. Dispatch assures me that my ride isn’t more than five minutes away. It’s a sign of how low my expectations have sunk that I actually think my luck is changing when it finally shows up in twenty.

Five and a half hours after I was supposed to meet him at McCarran, I’m finally on my way to his hotel. This sucks. This really, really sucks. And what if it had been my weekend to fly over to New York? I might as well face it. This isn’t going to work. We might be able to battle our way through the big things, but it’s the small mundane details that are finally going to do us in. I was a fool to hope otherwise. I turn on the radio, trying to fight my way out of a deepening funk.

“I’m sorry, sir, he’s not answering his phone.”

Figures. I try him on his mobile, but it goes straight through to voicemail. Where the hell is he? He didn’t just leave, did he?

“But he hasn’t checked out, right?”

“No.”

That’s a relief. A small relief, but a relief nevertheless. I try his phone again, just in case the last time was just a snafu, but I get his voicemail again. Shit. I should have called him to tell him I’m on my way, but the way the day’s been going, I didn’t want to tempt fate by giving another ETA.

“Perhaps Dr. Grissom is in the restaurant?” the receptionist suggests.

That makes sense. It’s past lunchtime, but maybe he tried waiting for me first. I smile gratefully at her before making my way to the restaurant. Only he’s not there, either, and I have no idea what to do. I’m exhausted, and I can’t think straight any more. I try his number a final time. Voicemail.

“Hi, it’s me. It’s two thirty and I’m at the hotel, but you’re not around. Uhh… Listen, I’m going to head on home. Call me.”

I’m trapped in the lab. It’s completely empty, and I can’t figure out where everybody is. I’ve tried every exit, but they’re all locked, and the phones are dead. I’m trying hard not to panic, but I almost lose it when I hear the loud knocking. This isn’t good.

Suddenly I’m in my bed. It was just a dream. I’m clammy with sweat and my mouth is dry. I hear the knocking again, and I realize it’s somebody at the door. Still feeling a bit disoriented, I stagger out of the bedroom and to the entrance, and I open the door.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s had a haircut since I last saw him.

“What time is it?” I mumble stupidly.

He checks his watch. “Five thirty. Can I come in?”

“What? Oh. Sure. Sure.”

I back away from the door. It’s only when he’s inside that I notice he’s carrying an overnight bag. He drops it on the floor and looks at me. He seems a bit uncertain.

“I checked out of the hotel. I hope that’s OK?”

I nod slowly. He’s finally right here, standing in front of me, and I don’t feel at all like I thought I would. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything.

“I tried reaching you. Your phone was switched off.”

“I know. I didn’t realize the battery had run out. I was hanging out at the blackjack tables when you called.”

I close my eyes. Goddamn Murphy, I think tiredly.

“Did you win anything?”

“Not enough to retire on,” he says. He takes a step closer to me. I guess he’s waiting for me to close the distance between us, but I can’t seem to work up the energy to do so.

“Nick?”

I hear the concern in his voice, and it finally spurs me to action. I move closer and hug him. His arms come around me, holding me tightly, but he lets go immediately when I step back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I’m looking down at the floor between us, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“Nothing,” he repeats flatly.

“It’s just…” I make a vague gesture.

“Just what?”

“Come on, Gil. All we have is less than two days together. And eight hours are already wasted, just like that.”

“So? Things happen. We’ve still got the best part of the weekend ahead of us.”

“Right. Things happen. What’s to say they won’t happen again? And again?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, I guess. So what do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I don’t know.”

He crosses his arms against his chest and studies me carefully.

“Do you want out?”

Trust him to cut right to the chase. I shrug uncertainly.

“Two weeks ago, you wanted commitment. Forever.”

The way he says it makes me almost squirm. I wish he sounded angrier, or judgmental, but he just sounds puzzled and it makes me feel guilty and ashamed. He’s right. Why am I letting a small setback affect me so much? After all, I’m the one who told him not to return to Vegas permanently. At least, not yet. He thinks I did it for him, but mostly I did it for me. When I saw him in New York, I realized he’d never be happy back here, and if I made him return, he’d end up resenting me for it. As for me going to New York… well, it’s a nice place for a weekend or a vacation, but I can’t really see myself ever fitting in there. It’s not like I’m some kind of hick, but New York isn’t a place where you can set down roots. Every other weekend. That was the compromise. Only, in my mind I saw it all as working out smoothly: convenient flight times, no delays, no weekends where one of us might have to work or even have the flu. And it all got fucked up on our very first try.

“I know I did.” My acknowledgement doesn’t satisfy him, but it’s about all I can say.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” I say vehemently, reacting before I even have time to think about it. “No,” I repeat more quietly.

“Good. Because I wasn’t planning to,” he responds.

That annoys me. I know I’m being unreasonable, but it annoys the hell out of me. I glare at him. If he notices at all, it doesn’t seem to faze him.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

It’s no use trying to stay angry at someone who won’t respond. In fact, it’s fucking pathetic. “Sure. What would you like?” I ask resignedly.

I’m lying against him, my head on his left shoulder, and his hand is trailing back and forth on my back in an absent-minded caress. It tickles a bit and occasionally makes me break out in goose bumps, but overall I’m too comfortable to move.

I try to stay in the present, not ruin it with thinking about the past or the future. If I don’t fall asleep, I can drag these hours out, make them feel longer. The rest will have to take care of itself somehow.

Gil stirs, turning his head slightly to kiss the top of my head.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.

“Nothing much. Just enjoying the moment,” I say.

He kisses me again, and I close my eyes, enjoying his touch. Despite my resolve not to fall asleep, I can feel myself drifting off.

“Columbia,” he says suddenly. I have no idea what he’s referring to.

“What about it?” I ask sleepily.

“We should go there, check it out.”

“Where is it?”

“Missouri.”

“Why?”

“I guess they thought that was a good place for it.”

“Ha ha. No, why do you want to go there?”

“We might like it.”

“Gil…” I say warningly.

“University of Missouri has a good Forensic Entomology Department. And Columbia has a PD.”

“And?” I ask, even though I know where he’s going with this.

He shrugs. “We might like it,” he repeats.

I raise my head and look down at him. “Are you asking me to elope with you?”

He laughs. “What do you say?”

“What if we don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll find someplace else.”

“You’re sure?”

He hesitates for a second. “About finding somewhere? Yes. Absolutely.”

I want to say yes, but this is suddenly moving way too fast for me. Five weeks ago I thought I’d never see him again. Heck, five hours ago I was ready to throw in the towel, give up on us.

“Are you going to chicken out again?” he asks.

“What? That’s rich, coming from you.”

His jaw clenches. “Listen. I’ve had enough. I’m not going to spend over 70% of my life away from you, wondering if you’re having second thoughts about us. If we’re going to be together, let’s do it.”

When I was younger, before I’d quite admitted to my sexual orientation, I’d imagined myself proposing to some woman the same way my dad proposed to my mom: a nice dinner, flowers, music, me down on one knee. So I guess you could say Murphy is having one last go at me, because it’s not a marriage proposal (although it’s as good as), I’m not the one doing the proposing, and the look in Gil’s eyes is hardly loving, despite the words coming out of his mouth. Well, fuck Murphy. He’s had enough fun with me, not just this weekend, but over the last few years.

“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile starting to spread on his face.

“Yeah.” I laugh. “Yes. Absolutely. And fuck Murphy.”

“I’d rather fuck you,” he responds, not missing a beat.

And then we realize I’m out of lube. But that’s just a minor detail.