Title: Outside the Box
Author: liquid_latex
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. If I did, there would be much more inappropriate slashy content.
A/N: This is set post-Grave Danger, of course, and assumes an established (but estranged) relationship between Nick and Greg.
Finally completed after much haranguing from ('but what does it smell like?') Saras_Girl :)
Thanks, as always to Saras_Girl for keeping me on track, pre-reviews and general awesomeness.
Summary: If only he had been stronger, none of this would have ever happened. Either way, the last thing Nick needs to do is talk. Post Grave Danger.

***

Cool metal is pressing tightly against his heated skin. The muzzle of the gun thrust up under his chin. His finger is trembling against the trigger. The way he sees it now, he has two choices. He can either wait, hoping against all hope that his team will find him in time, all the while gasping for breath and dying slowly. Or, in one quick and fluid moment he can pull that trigger and end it all here and now. It would be fast. He knows just where to shoot that will kill him instantly. No pain. Just oblivion. And it's very tempting.


He uses his free hand to click on the recorder left with him in this box, in his very own personal hell. Choking on the words, the emotions flooding through him, he records a goodbye message to everyone that was important in his life. His parents, siblings, his team....Greg. Drops the recorder at his side and closes his eyes. Takes one last fortifying breath and pulls the trigger.


Pain explodes through Nick as he bolts upright in his bed, drenched in a cold sweat, hearing nothing but the pounding of his own heart as it sends blood rushing through his ears. Wildly, he looks around, remembers where he is and how he got there. He did not pull the trigger. They found him in time. He has been rescued and is now safe at home.


Disentangling himself from the bed sheets twisted around his naked torso, he plants his feet on the floor, brushes his wet hair out of his face and heads for the bathroom. The light is on in the small room beside the bedroom. Nick can't sleep in the dark anymore. He looks at his flushed face in the mirror and grips the edges of the sink as waves of nausea hit him suddenly.


Nick drops to his knees on the floor, and is violently ill, the spasms wrenching his gut as he recalls his horrendous ordeal and the fact that he still hasn't completely gotten over it. He rests his weary head against his forearm for a moment, to be sure that the urge to throw up has completely passed, before shakily getting to his feet again.


Running cold water, Nick smears a bit of toothpaste on his finger and hastily uses it to wash the acrid taste of vomit from his mouth, and then takes a long drink directly from the faucet.

He rests both hands on either side of the sink and slowly raises his head to regard his reflection in the mirror once more. He hasn't shaved in days; the stubble darkening his face is nearly long enough to be considered a beard. His dark eyes appear even darker and have taken on an almost haunted look. They have purplish smudges beneath them from lack of sleep and are faintly pink-tinged from crying.


The mere reminder of his tears disgusts Nick, and in a moment of blind rage, he smashes his fist into the mirror, effectively erasing his image. He thinks he should feel pain, but doesn't. He simply looks at his bloodied hand with a mild degree of fascination. Nick cleans up the broken pieces of glass and attends to his hand.


He then makes his way to the living room, turning on more lights as he goes. He sighs heavily and sits down on the couch, contemplating picking up the phone and calling someone, but he doesn't. He can't. Nick has completely alienated anyone who has ever meant anything to him. Especially Greg. His heart constricts painfully at the thought of Greg and he tries to push all thoughts out of his mind.


Nick grabs at the blanket thrown across the back of his couch, and wraps it around his bare shoulders, lost in thought, spending so much time trying not to think that he is actually replaying the whole scenario of events over and over in his mind. Not that anything ever changes...


He knows Warrick feels guilty over sending him to the trash run and he would love to assure him that it was not at all his fault, but he can't seem to make the words come. If anything, he is just more ashamed of himself.


He knows his mother is fraught with worry and that he really should return her phone calls, but Nick isn't ready to face his father. He can picture him on the other line, disappointment etched across his face. He would remind Nick of how a 'real man' should act when faced with unpleasant circumstances. How often had his father drilled into him the fact that men are not supposed to show weakness, not supposed to let their emotions through.


He sighs heavily and rubs a hand across his whiskered face and lets his eyes drift once more to the phone.


After being treated at the hospital, he was sent home and has since avoided any contact with his co-workers. His answering machine flashes with unheard messages, several times he has heard knocks at his door that he ignored. He just isn't ready to deal with anyone right now.


Nick remembers Greg coming to visit him in the hospital. Of course he would be there. You don't spend nine months of your life with someone to abandon them in their time of need. But mostly, what he remembers is the look of pain in Greg's beautiful eyes when he told him not to come by his apartment for awhile. Greg had nodded mutely, and though Nick could see that he didn't really understand, he was grateful that Greg had abided and given him this space. Nick can still feel the spot on his forehead where Greg had leaned over and kissed him goodbye.


He is a wreck, and Greg had already seen him display more weakness than he ever wanted to display. He couldn't bear for him to witness any more. Above all, Nick blames himself for what had happened.


How could he have been so stupid as to tell the cop that he could step away from the crime scene? Everyone knew that you aren't supposed to process a scene on your own. But they were backlogged, short-staffed, and the uniform had a queasy stomach. Even knowing all this did not assuage Nick's guilt.


Not only that, but how did Walter Gordon ever sneak up behind Nick like that? He is a crime scene investigator for god's sake....part of his job was knowing and observing what was going on around him at all times. Somehow, Nick had let his guard down and was paying the price.

He feels that he should have been stronger, braver, more alert and none of this would have happened. He should have never been kidnapped, and even if he was, he should have found his own way out of the box, not lain prone, whimpering and snivelling and contemplating taking his own life.


More of Nick's guilt lies in knowing that his team, his co-workers, best friends, mentors, his lover have seen the video, have watched him break down and lose control of the emotions he always worked so hard to keep in check. They heard the tape of what he thought would be his death-bed confessional. Nick wonders what they must think of him now. Big, strong, self-assured Nick Stokes who cried like a baby when faced with his own demise.


Absently scratching at the ant bites that are just beginning to heal, Nick suddenly can feel the crawl and sting of so many of the insects that found their way into the box with him. Phantom legs and pinchers up and down his bare arms. He pushes himself off the couch, knowing that he needs to keep busy or he will drive himself crazy with thought.


Nick heads for the kitchen, suddenly certain that cooking will help take his mind off things. He has always enjoyed spending time in the kitchen and thinks of it as some sort of release for himself. Peering into the near empty fridge, he is reminded that he needs to make a grocery run soon. He cracks half a smile as he realizes his fridge is starting to look like Greg's, only minus the myriad of take-out containers.


He settles on taking out ingredients to make a pot of soup, knowing that even if he doesn't eat, the preparation alone should take some time and effort, and he hopes that will keep his mind from drifting towards the one place he doesn't want it to go.


With a large stainless-steel pot now simmering away on the stove, full of stock, Nick watches his fingers absently as they use the knife to slice through a lemon. When the clean, citrus scent is released into the air, he feels a deep yearning to be close to Greg.


"Greg smells like lemons." Nick whispers, holding half the fruit up to his nose and inhaling. His body aches and he wishes briefly that Greg were here, that Nick could allow himself to be comforted, held, stroked.


Throwing the knife in the sink, it lands with a clatter and he squeezes the lemon juice into the pot of stock, wiping absently at the tears that have leaked from the corners of his eyes. Nick blames the tears on the onions he has chopped up previously. He mutters under his breath, nothing coherent, and there is no one around to hear him anyway.


Once the soup is made, Nick leaves the pot on the back burner of his stove and gets dressed. He is not sure exactly what he is doing, running on auto-pilot now, simply allowing himself to be lead by his subconscious.


Keys in his hand, he starts for his truck and finds himself looking around nervously. He still cannot shake the feeling that this could happen again, easily. Only now, he is certain he will not let his guard down, will not allow himself to fall victim once more.


Only after walking around his vehicle twice and determining there was nothing lurking for him in the shadows, does he get in his truck. Keys in the ignition, he glances into the backseat and then locks his doors. He turns the radio off with a snap of his wrist, too impatient to listen to music at the moment.


He drives. Not knowing where he is going, or why, simply another random task to keep his mind occupied. Nick concentrates on driving as if it were his first time behind the wheel. Hands at ten and two. Checking the rear view mirror more often than is necessary. Using his signal light carefully, deliberately, slowly.


After several minutes of aimless driving, Nick realizes he is in Greg's neighbourhood. A frown pulls at his handsome face and he parks the truck out front of Greg's apartment.


"Fuck." he curses softly, then louder, his hands doubled up into fists and pounding at the steering wheel. "What the hell am I doing here?"


And still he does not drive away. Nor does he exit his vehicle though. He simply sits and stares, looking upwards to what he knows are Greg's windows. A quick glance at the dashboard clock tells Nick it is 10:30 p.m. and that means Greg will be leaving for work soon.


Nick's heart pounds rapidly, but it also aches deep within his chest. Dark eyes cast upwards, noticing the soft light glowing from within. His breath hitches as he sees a shadow, and wonders if Greg were to look out the window, would he see Nick? Would he wave, invite him in?


He sits almost on the edge of his seat, as close as the steering wheel will allow. Nick almost hopes that Greg will look out the window and see him. He is sure that once Greg notices him, he will be pulled into the apartment, whether he wants to or not.


And Greg will make him talk. Which is exactly what Nick does not want at the moment. There is no denying the fact that his body is desperate for some release, and he can feel himself starting to get hard as he thinks of Greg, and he knows that Greg would give him that release if he were to ask for it.


Normally, Nick would not be shy in asking for things from Greg, especially sex...Greg has always wielded that certain power over him and Nick never really minded being reduced to pleading and begging, but afterwards, laying together, tangled and sweaty, in the quiet afterglow...Greg would inevitably start to talk. He couldn't help it, it was just in his nature, and Nick knows that. But then talking would lead to questions that Nick isn't ready to answer.

If he isn't even able to answer them to himself, how can he ever open up to Greg?

Again, the image of Greg's pain-filled eyes comes to Nick, and he briefly rests his head against the wheel, uttering a small sound of anguish. He pounds the dashboard, cursing at the pain the movement causes in his already injured hand, cranks hard on the ignition and drives away. A little bit faster than he intends, but all he can think of at the moment is getting as far away from everything as he can.


*~*~*~*


Nick wakes up again, in a tangle of sheets, sweating and gasping for breath. Every night since he has been back home from the hospital, he wakes up from the same nightmare. The one where they didn't find him in time and he pulled the trigger and ended his life.


And again, he is forced to the bathroom, vomiting until his stomach is empty. At least he no longer has to look at his haggard reflection, since he broke his mirror. After rinsing out his mouth, he takes the walk to his living room.


"This is getting ridiculous," he mutters to his empty apartment, wrapping himself in the blanket from the couch.


The phone has stopped ringing as often, but he still has several unheard messages. This time, however, when he hears knocking at his door, he answers it. It's Warrick. Nick opens the door and simply walks away, sitting back down on his couch, looking small and vulnerable.


Warrick closes the door softly behind him, then folds his long body into the chair beside the couch, sensing Nick's need for space.


"Don't even ask how I'm doing, man," Nick says in a raspy voice, "I think it's pretty obvious."


"Nick," the other man begins, then stops, not really knowing what to say. He flexes his fingers nervously, staring down at them as he speaks, "We're all worried about you, man. That's all. This has got to be tough, but you have to let us in."


Nick shakes his head and wraps the blanket more tightly around him, wondering if he pulled it over his head, would Warrick go away? But he knows the answer. No. Warrick will not leave now until he has gotten some answers and reassurance that Nick is going to pull himself together and get back to some semblance of normalcy.


"What do you want me to say, man?" Nick says and is instantly ashamed at the cracking in his voice, knowing that all at once he is going to break down in front of his best friend.


Warrick crosses the distance and sits down beside Nick, his hand resting on Nick's knee in a show of support.


"You don't have to say anything, Nick," he says softly. "I just came over to let you know that I'm here for you whenever you do decide you need to say something. We're all here for you, Nicky, you need to know that. The main focus right now is on getting you back."


"I'm fine," Nick says, but both men know this is not the case. "I just need more time, that's all."


Warrick shrugs, knowing how stubborn his friend can be, and realizing that nothing else can or will be said that will change anything. He heads for the door, jingling his car keys as he goes. He casts a final look back at Nick.


"Greg is really worried about you." he says and then is gone.


Nick lowers himself to the couch, wrapped in the blanked and tucks his chin to his chest. He feels the sting of tears behind his eyes, but lets them fall. Building up in intensity until he is sobbing, big gasping cries that sound pathetic even to his own ears. He cries for all that has happened to him, for everyone he has pushed away, but mostly for himself and his lack of courage to change any of that.

*~*~*~*

Nick is dreaming again. Always the same, night after night. Nothing he does ever changes that routine. He is trapped in a box, buried alive. His legs thrash as he tries desperately to free himself. Resignedly, he starts to cry, picks up his gun and pulls the trigger.


He awakens with a curse, and this time manages to tamp down his nausea before it sends him running to the bathroom. Nick lies awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his wildly thumping heart to settle. He takes a look at the clock on the table beside the bed, and decides it's time to get up.


Nick showers, using the time to shave. He has no mirror, so he uses his hands as a guide, telling him where he needs to shave, and only half-hopes that he has done a well-enough job. Shrugging, he decides it doesn't really matter anyway and heads back to the bedroom to get dressed.


Finding something other than track pants and sweatshirts, he dresses in his customary jeans and black t-shirt, then finds himself with his car keys in hand, starting out to his vehicle and praying he doesn't end up staring at Greg's windows once more.


The thought of Greg is comforting though, and despite Nick's initial thoughts, he finds himself heading down the familiar street again. He knows that Greg will be at work now, but just the idea of being close to him makes Nick feel somewhat better.


He is still not quite ready to face Greg yet. Still not prepared to bare his soul again, after already doing so on tape. In a box. For everyone to hear. Nick is still not able to come to terms with his guilt, even though deep down inside, he knows he is being irrational, he is helpless to stop it.


For several quiet minutes, Nick is content to sit in his truck, staring up at Greg's windows. It looks as if Greg has left a lamp on inside; there is a soft yellow glow coming from where Nick knows is the living room.


Nick scrubs a hand over his face, and then presses his fingers to his temples. He realizes he has a headache, one that is threatening to develop into a migraine if he doesn't take action soon. His eyes are slightly blurry and his hands shake as he reaches for the glove box.


Spare gun, a map, a flashlight and the truck's owner's manual are all that he finds. No pain medication.


"Damn." he mutters quietly, and before he quite realizes what he is doing, he has his keys in hand and is sprinting across the road and taking the steps up to Greg's apartment. He rubs a fingertip over the shiny silver surface of Greg's house key, debating for a moment.


While he knows Greg is at work, and he does have a key, Nick can't help but feel like he is trespassing. Then the headache pounds and throbs within, and he curses softly again, and opens the door.


He closes the door behind him and leans against it, still unsure of whether or not he should be there. Nick feels something slither between his legs, and he bends down to pick up the sleek black cat.


"Hey Piper," he whispers, scratching the feline under her chin, "How are you baby?"


Nick sets the cat down on the back of the couch and makes his way towards the kitchen. Greg has dirty dishes and take-out containers strewn about the countertops, and Nick can't help but grin.


He finds a bottle of generic ibuprofen and a glass of water, and takes three. It is only then that he realizes he is hungry. He checks in Greg's fridge, and as usual, finds nothing edible other than milk and some condiments. He looks longingly at the box on the stove. It is half an apple pie from the bakery down the street. Nick knows from experience what incredible pies they make, but he is quite sure that Greg would notice a missing piece.


Opening cupboards, Nick finally settles for a bowl of Froot Loops and he eats them in the kitchen, with his back against the sink, while talking softly to Piper, who is sitting on the kitchen table, watching him with her narrow green eyes. He thinks the sugary rings are delicious, despite contrary remarks to Greg about eating 'children's cereal'.


He takes a minute to wash his dishes and put them away, even though he is confident Greg would not notice a few more dirty dishes in the sink. Nick is reluctant to go home, and so he walks around the apartment, feeling heartsick and lonely for Greg.


In the bedroom, Nick finds that Greg has made half an attempt to make the bed, but the sheets and blankets are still rumpled, and Nick longs to slide beneath them and sleep in the bed they shared on many occasions. He spies Greg's favourite red t-shirt on top of the laundry hamper and takes it in his hands.


Caressing the worn fabric, he remembers Greg wearing this shirt, and how Nick loved the feel of the soft cotton against Greg's lean body. He holds it up to his nose and breathes in deeply, smelling fabric softener and Greg. Feeling suddenly ashamed of himself, he tosses the shirt back in the basket and leaves the room.


Piper is meowing softly, demanding Nick's attention, and he stretches out on the couch, allowing her to make herself comfortable on his chest as he strokes behind her ears. His eyes are drowsy, and he chalks it up to the painkillers. He lets them drift shut, lulled by the gentle sound of the cat purring next to his ear. Nick sleeps.

*~*~*~


It is only once Nick is back in his own empty apartment, that he realizes he did not dream while asleep on Greg's couch. He half wonders if it was because of the medication, or because he is past exhaustion, or if it was just simply the comfort of being at Greg's.


Optimistically, he begins to think that perhaps the worst is over. Maybe the nightmares have stopped completely. If that is the case, Nick thinks, maybe he can start regaining a modicum of control over his life once again.


He flips on the television for some background noise and decides to play the messages on his phone. A few are from Grissom, wondering if he's ready to return to work and he takes a moment to think about that.


Work would provide a welcome distraction to his feelings, but on the other hand, Nick still can't shake the feeling that he is a failure. Crime scene investigators need to be confident, acutely aware of their surroundings and above all, impartial. Nick is none of these at the moment, and he wallows in the thought that he may never be again.


The next few messages are from his sisters and, of course, his mother. Worried about him and how he is handling the stress. He laughs bitterly and pushes the delete button hard with his index finger.


Then there's a message from Greg. This gives Nick some comfort, knowing that Greg is still thinking about him, has not abandoned him completely, despite the fact that Nick has pushed him away. His heart constricts painfully and he swallows the lump rising in his throat as he listens to Greg's slightly scratchy voice telling Nick he loves him and hopes to see him soon.


Once all of the messages have been played, and Nick is certain he will not break down in tears again, he heads for the kitchen and fixes himself a bowl of the soup he made the other day. He eats in front of the television, tuned to Animal Planet out of habit, though his eyes don't focus and his mind is elsewhere.


He wonders what his co-workers must think of him after witnessing him break down and display such un-Nick-like emotion. He was somewhat surprised at Warrick's visit and the phone calls from Grissom and Greg.


Nick has always been confident in his relationships with those surrounding him, but worries that those connections had been severed, or at least become strained. Though now, he second guesses himself. It appears as if no one thinks any less of him simply because he gave into his emotions and allowed himself those few moments of despondency.


Slightly heartened, though the heat of embarrassment still burns, Nick hums softly to himself as he cleans and puts away his dishes and then heads to bed. He leaves the hall light on and hopes he doesn't dream.

*~*~*~*


Silence. The only sounds are of his own heartbeat and ragged breaths. The hot moisture of tears on his face. An unseen, heavy object in his right hand. Pulling back the hammer, ready to fire.


"Fuck!" Nick cries in a panic as he awakens from the same nightmare that has been plaguing him for days on end.


He makes a mad dash for the bathroom and drops to his knees, cradling his stomach as it heaves and roils. Nick does not vomit this time, but the sensation is still there and he allows himself to stretch out on the cold tile floor and wait for his tummy to quiet.


After several minutes, he pushes himself up and makes his way back to the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed and holds his head in his shaking hands. He feels an overwhelming urge to go be with Greg, but a sideways glance at the glowing clock beside him tells him Greg will be at work.


Nick purses his lips and without another thought, slips his arms into his jacket, grabs his keys and heads out the door. If he can't physically be with Greg at this moment, he will at least be able to surround himself with things that look and smell like him.


He lets himself into Greg's apartment and spends a moment stroking Piper's soft, black fur and murmuring to her softly. He looks around the place as he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it on the couch.


"This place is disgusting." he says softly and starts cleaning up. Nick figures that if he can't control anything else, at least he can gain somewhat of an upper hand with his surroundings. The fact that they are Greg's surroundings is lost on him at the moment.


He begins in the kitchen, throwing out all the old take-out containers and filling the sink with soap and hot water for the dishes. Piper takes her spot on the table, watching him. He places glasses, plates and cutlery in the sink and turns to the cat.


"I know, you're wondering what's going on," he says with a slight grin. "This is called cleaning. Maybe you can teach Greg sometime."


Lost in his task, Nick fails to hear the soft sound of a key in the lock, or the gentle footsteps behind him.


"Nicky?" Greg asks softly, and Nick whirls around to face him, wet dishcloth dripping on the floor. "What are you doing here?"


Face flushed with embarrassment, Nick can only shrug and reply, "I couldn't sleep."


"So you thought you would come to my apartment and what? Clean up?" Greg smiles.


The smile is so bright and dazzling that it nearly knocks Nick off balance, and before he quite realizes what he is doing, he has closed the distance between the two of them and is grabbing the back of Greg's neck and pulling him closer for a kiss.


Nick drops the dishcloth on the floor, and gathers the collar of Greg's leather jacket in his fists. Greg is a contradiction of smells; like fresh air and cigarette smoke, but for once Nick does not reprimand him for it.

The kiss is almost violent in nature; Nick is forceful and pressing against Greg tightly, urging his mouth open and sliding his tongue inside. Tasting mint and something so uniquely Greg that it makes Nick cry out softly.


Greg's hands tangle in Nick's hair, and Nick is acutely aware that he needs a hair cut. Then all thought is pushed from his mind as he angles his hips and feels the hardness of Greg's arousal pressing against his own. They move over to the couch, not once breaking contact of their mouths, and Nick is pulling, tugging, grabbing everything he can, desperate to have Greg naked.


Greg responds with the same fervour and soon they have discarded their clothes. Gasping for breath, Greg pulls away slightly and looks at Nick with incredibly dark eyes. His lips are swollen from the hard kisses, and his chest is heaving. Greg takes a hand and gently caresses Nick's jaw line, emitting a soft chuckle.


"Did you shave in the dark?" he asks and then his mouth is being invaded again by Nick's.


Greg's long fingers twitch and he reaches for Nick's straining cock, pressed between the two of them. He uses his thumb to spread a drop of the leaking moisture around the sensitive head and smiles against Nick's mouth as he hears him moan.


"Don't." Nick says haggardly and pushes Greg's bare chest. He leans forward and gently bites Greg's shoulder, then turns him around and bends him over the arm of the couch.

Greg must sense Nick's need for control, and allows him to take charge of the moment.

Nick fumbles in the table drawer and produces a bottle of lubricant, which he promptly coats his fingers with.


Biting his lower lip, Nick thrusts a finger into Greg's ass and hears him gasp, as he quickly adds another. Stretching, reaching, scissoring, he finally finds that sweet spot and Greg bucks back against Nick's hand.


"Oh god, Nick." he groans, face now buried in the cushions. "Please. Now."


Nick tears open the condom packet with his teeth and sheaths himself quickly. Without a word, he transfers some of the lubricant onto his aching cock, closing his eyes as he gives it a long, slow pull.
Greg is looking back at him over his shoulder, as Nick holds firmly on to Greg's slender hips and thrusts himself inwards. Enveloped in a hot tightness, Nick throws his head back and pulls Greg towards himself.


Their lovemaking is fast and furious, Nick is pounding into Greg with such speed and strength that it is all Greg can do to hold onto the couch and stay upright. When Nick's fingers find their way to Greg's cock, he whimpers and thrusts into the closed fist.


Within minutes, Greg is crying out loudly, spilling himself in burning ribbons across Nick's hand and his own fluttering belly. Nick curses softly and pounds into Greg twice more, before he shudders and goes still, fingers of one hand turning white as he grips Greg's sweaty body.


Greg collapses on the couch, one arm thrown across his eyes and breathing heavily. Nick flops down on the other side of him and absently curls Greg's hair around his fingers. They sit quietly for a few minutes, before the ringing of Greg's cell phone shatters the silence.

"Sanders," he says brusquely, trying to control his ragged breathing. "Yeah, sorry. I couldn't find it, but I've got it now and I'll be back in ten minutes."


He drops the phone on the table and entwines his fingers with Nick's. "I have to go back to work. I really miss you, Nicky."


Nick looks down at Greg, who is still stretched on the couch, long legs dangling over the edge.


"I know," he says softly, hearing the catch in his voice, "I miss you too."


Greg gets up and starts dressing quietly. Nick takes his spot on the couch and watches him.


"I'll be back after shift. We can talk then," Greg says, and Nick's heart jumps. He's still not sure he's ready to talk. But he only nods when Greg leans down and they kiss again.

This time the kiss is much more gentle, soft, and it causes something to ache deep inside of Nick.


The moment Greg is out the door, Nick is back on his feet, getting dressed, preparing to leave. He can't face the conversation he knows is coming. Not yet. He feels vulnerable and helpless and hates it. He doesn't want Greg to even suspect he feels that way. He is supposed to be a big, strong, Texan man. Like your father, Nick's inner voice says, and he cringes.


He doesn't pay any attention when a single tear escapes and slides down his cheek as he is headed out the door. But he dashes back inside the apartment and takes Greg's red t-shirt with him as he goes.


*~*~*~*

Nick's place is already spotless, as he has been on a cleaning rampage at his own apartment already. So, with lack of anything else to do, and feeling a bone-deep weariness that not even sleep can overcome, he decides to head to bed anyway.


He carries Greg's t-shirt with him, and wraps it around his arms as a child would hug a teddy. Within minutes, he is asleep.


Nick's heart beats erratically and his hands quiver. He stares blankly into the muzzle of the gun, his last thoughts are of his family and of Greg. Whispering one final goodbye, he pulls the trigger.


Instead of waking at this point, as he usually does, Nick continues to be lost in the dream. Familiar faces surround him, although he is still inside the box. From what he can surmise, he is dead and everyone has gathered at a funeral of some sorts.


Nick wonders why he is not in a proper coffin, until he spots his father, standing stoically, arms folded across his chest, looking stern and upset.

"Why waste money on a coffin, when he's got a perfectly good one there?" Nick hears a voice ask, one that he can't immediately place.


He sees his father nod, his lips curling in distaste as he looks at the clear plastic box encasing his son's remains. Nick can hear him murmur something softly, almost under his breath. He thinks it sounds an awful lot like 'should've known he wasn't strong enough.'

Hearing his father talk about him like that rips Nick apart and now he does wake.

Thrashing and crying out in the darkness, only this time he feels arms wrapped around him tightly and a soft whispering in his ear.

Greg.


Startled, Nick's hands come up and touch Greg. His chest, his shoulders, his face. Is he really here? Am I still dreaming? But Greg touches back, smoothing away hair from Nick's sweat dampened forehead and still whispering softly.


"What are you doing here, Greg?" Nick asks, surprise rapidly dissolving into anger, feeling very exposed and defenceless.


Greg chews nervously on his lower lip, and folds his hands in his lap. "I knew you wouldn't stay at my place. I asked Grissom for the rest of the night off. We really do need to talk, Nick."


Nick pushes him away and stumbles out of the bed. "We don't need to talk. In fact, the last thing we need to do right now is talk."


Greg's eyes take on a look of sadness that cuts Nick to the bone, and he wishes he could take back his words, his tone. But he can't. His only defence right now is anger, and he sticks to it.


"I'll let you know when I'm ready to talk, Greg." he spits out and folds his arms across his chest like a petulant child. The only thing he needs to do now, he thinks, is stomp his feet and the image will be complete.


Greg throws back the bedcovers and stands up in front of Nick, holding him gently by the shoulders. He is not backing down, and it somewhat surprises Nick.


"You know what Papa Olaf always told me?" he asks, looking deep into the dark eyes that are glaring back at him. Nick narrows his eyes but remains stubbornly silent. "Ikke gjør det være redd for din følelsene de utleie som du vet du er i live." Greg says, reverting to his Norwegian language.


Nick laughs a short, sharp, derisive laugh. "Very enlightening, Greggo. I'll keep that in mind."


Greg cocks his head to one side, eyes still saddened as he strokes Nick's cheekbone with his thumb. "Don't be afraid of your feelings, Nick" he translates. "They let you know you're alive."


He places a small, soft kiss on Nick's lips and turns to walk away. Nick catches his wrist, encircling it with his fingers and pulls Greg back.


"Don't go." Nick says quietly, the lump rising back in his throat, but this time he does nothing to try and stop it. He lets himself break down, lets the hot tears flow as he is quickly wrapped in Greg's arms.


Nick cries like he has never cried before, and somehow does not feel ashamed letting Greg witness his grief. He can feel Greg's hands tracing a warm path up and down his back, and he can hear Greg's quiet whispers and these things comfort him.


He pushes Greg away gently, once his sobs have all but subsided and takes a Kleenex from the box beside the bed. He wipes his face and blows his nose, then takes Greg's hand and leads him to the living room.


While Greg sits on the couch, arms resting on his knees and looking expectantly at Nick, who is in the kitchen now, rummaging through cupboards until he finds what he is looking for.


A bottle of expensive Scotch, given to him on his last birthday by Catherine, who suggested saving it for a special occasion. Nick now thinks that such things should not be saved, but used whenever deemed necessary. Life is too short to wait for special occasions, he thinks.


He grabs two glasses by their rims and brings them and the bottle out and sits beside Greg. Silently, he pours a generous amount in each glass, sets one in front of Greg and downs the other in one gulp.


Nick gives a little shudder and grimace, then refills his glass and starts to speak. The first thing he does, is to tell Greg about the time when he was eight and his older sister, Julia, pushed him out of their tree house.


He had broken his arm, though didn't know it at the time. While he ran crying to tell his parents, Julia had watched from above, laughing.

Instead of the comfort he was looking for from his parents, however, Nick was met with stern consternation from his father.


Nick was reprimanded for allowing his sister, a girl to have gotten the upper hand on him and especially for the tears that were still flowing from his eyes.

When it was clear that Nick was in some real pain, he was taken to the hospital and a cast put on his arm.


The drive home from the hospital was just as dreadful, Nick recounts. How his father was unrelenting in his obvious displeasure for the way his son had handled things.


Greg listens to Nick speak, his eyes glossy with unshed tears, his drink untouched before him. Nick is almost relieved that Greg doesn't cry; he couldn't stand pity about now.


The next story is one that Greg is more familiar with. It is about the day Nick finally told his dad the truth; that he was gay. His father had simply shook his head and walked out of the room.


After that, while his father outwardly appeared supportive and understanding, he never asked about any of Nick's relationships. As if by ignoring it, he didn't have to deal with the fact.


Greg reaches over and takes one of Nick's hands, preventing him from swallowing down the second drink. He forces Nick to look at him as he speaks quietly in the darkened room.


"Surely, Nick," he begins, "Surely to God even your father could have some sort of understanding of what you went through. If not understanding of the situation, I would think that he could realize that what you went through was horrendous. No one, and I mean no one could expect to come through all that unscathed."


Nick presses his lips together and shakes his head, willing the tears back once again.


Greg lifts Nick's chin with a forefinger and peers deep into his eyes, "You need to talk to him, Nicky. If you're ever going to live again, you need to talk to him."


A weary sigh escapes Nick and he nods his agreement, feeling trepidation snake its cold fingers around his heart and give a rough squeeze. He knew all along that he would have to confront his father, but hearing Greg say it finally made it seem real.


He moves closer to Greg on the couch, resting his head on Greg's shoulder, his hands absently tracing the design on the patterned shirt.


"Tomorrow." he says softly. And he feels Greg's head bob in approval.


*~*~*~*


Standing in the kitchen the next morning, Nick realizes he feels lighter than he has in a long time. Even though he is desperately dreading making the call to his father, he knows now that everything will soon be coming to a head.


And so what if his father reprimands him for crying, for contemplating taking his own life, for getting himself into a situation like that in the first place? Really, when Nick thinks hard about everything, he realizes that none of it was his fault.


"Exactly." says Greg from somewhere behind him, and Nick startles, unaware that he had been speaking out loud.


Greg smiles and takes the proffered plate of sausage and eggs, folding his long, lean body into one of Nick's kitchen chairs and eating with a gusto that never fails to make Nick grin.


They eat in a kind of quiet, enjoyable silence, stealing smiles and affectionate brushes of hand against hand once in awhile. Nick doesn't complain when Greg eats sausages with his fingers, and for once, Greg doesn't criticize when Nick 'pollutes' his coffee with cream and sugar.


When breakfast is over, and Nick has rinsed all the dishes, Greg ushers him out of the kitchen.


"I'll do the dishes," he says, earning a surprised look from Nick. "You go make the call."


Nick rolls his eyes to the ceiling and whips Greg gently with the tea towel. Greg's nimble fingers catch the loose end and pull, but Nick does not let go, and he is pulled along with it.


Chest to chest, they embrace, foreheads touching, taking a moment to appreciate each other. Nick looks up slightly and captures Greg's mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. Lips pliant and allowing as Nick's tongue snakes in and melds with Greg's.


He feels, rather than hears Greg's moan, somewhere between pleasure and anguish, and then feels strong hands against his chest, pushing him backwards.


"Go," says Greg, pulling the checkered towel completely out of Nick's grasp. "Plenty of time for that later."


Nick looks nervous as he wipes his hands along his thighs and lets out a small laugh, "I'll hold you to that, G."


Greg turns his back and heads to the sink where he begins running water and adding a squeeze of apple-scented dish soap. As he slides in plates, cups and cutlery, he takes a final glance over his shoulder and motions with his head for Nick to get going.


Picking up the cordless phone from the table beside the couch, Nick dials the number from memory and paces the floor in front of the patio windows. He considers taking the call outside, but then wonders if the conversation might have him jumping the six stories off the balcony.


He reaches his mother first, who of course, has been fraught with worry. After several minutes of repeating himself, and assuring her that he is, in fact, alive and well, he asks to speak to his father.


Nick is quite sure that Greg is eavesdropping; he is being unusually quiet in the kitchen, though Nick can hear the soft sounds of dishes and water.


"Nicholas." his father says gruffly, and Nick jumps slightly. He has always had this absurd notion that he should stand up straight and salute his father, and he frowns as he catches himself placing his feet together and straightening his back.


He runs a tired hand through his hair, wondering absently if it is beginning to look like Greg's used to, all spikes and angles standing up every which way. Somehow, he doesn't think he can pull it off the way Greg did.


"Hi Dad," he says and waits for him to reply. When he does, Nick is surprised.


"Son," comes the gravely voice from the other line, far away in Texas, "We've been so worried about you. What you must have went through. I'm sorry we can't be there with you, but with work the way it is right now, well, never mind, I'm sure you understand."


Nick can feel his jaw drop as he flops down hard on the couch. He expected anger, embarrassment, displeasure, never concern. He is moved to speechlessness.


"Anyway," his father continues, "It sure is good to hear your voice, Nick. We're thinking of flying out, your mother and I. Spend a few days with you....and Greg, too."


And Greg, too? Even though the words were added somewhat reluctantly, they were still spoken, and Nick knows his dad expects some sort of response, but he is still sitting on the couch, open-mouthed.


"Nick? Are you still there, son?" he hears and this time he manages to mumble a reply.


"Yeah, yeah Dad, I'm here," he says and finds alarmingly like he wants to cry again. And despite the kind words voiced by his father, he is still unsure what the reaction would be if he heard him crying.


"Good, good." Judge Stokes says softly, and for a dazed moment, Nick wonders if it is his father who is crying. Un-fucking-believable.


"What did you say?" his dad asks, and Nick has to stifle a chuckle. Thinking out loud again.


"It would be good to see you and Mom," Nick says, forming a more appropriate response. "We'll talk again soon."


He says goodbye to his father and then, once again, reassures his mother that he is fine.
Even more than fine, he wants to crow, but doesn't. When he hangs up the phone, he is grinning like an idiot, and he is helpless to stop it.


Greg emerges from the kitchen, drying his hands on the towel, which he then tosses casually over his shoulder and tilts his head as he regards Nick.


"Well?" he asks.


Nick shrugs, the grin still in place, crinkling his eyes and showing the deep grooves around his mouth.


"I don't get it," he says dazedly. "I just don't. It was like a totally different person. My dad."


"I guess you underestimated him this time." Greg says softly and watches as Nick nods in agreement.


"Apparently." He turns his back on Greg once more and punches more numbers into the phone.


"What now?" comes Greg's query from behind him, coming up and wrapping long arms around Nick's waist.


"Hey Grissom," Nick says, smiling into the phone, "Just wanted to let you know I'm about ready to come back to work. Monday okay?"


"It'll be good to have you back." comes Grissom's muted response through the line.


Nick grins wholeheartedly at Greg from over his shoulder, "It's good to be back."

*~*~*~*

Nick convinces Greg to spend the night at his place once again. They frequently spend the night together, alternating apartments.

Nick is already under the covers, hands laced beneath his head, gazing up at the ceiling while Greg brushes his teeth in the bathroom.

Upon exiting, Greg leaves the light on, making his way to the bedroom.

"Hey Greg," Nick says softly, angling his head to look at the blond, wearing only a pair of faded flannel boxer shorts, "Thanks. For everything."

Greg smiles and prepares to climb in the bed, but Nick snakes out a hand to stop him.

"Could you turn out the light?"

~fin~

***