Title: No Strings Attached: Past
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
A/N: Other than a rough draft, I never write a complete series prior to beginning to post. I like to think it’s because I want to keep myself open to the possibilities that the feedback might inspire in me (though others will, not unjustifiably, assert that I’m simply a disorganized and undisciplined writer). So despite the fact that this time around, I am keeping the same title and numbering the fics sequentially, nothing has changed in that most can be read (and, I hope, enjoyed) on their own, and in that I cannot say beforehand how many there will be.
A/N 2: angus_honey wrote No Strings Attached in response to a challenge I issued, and then kindly agreed that I could both use it as a leaping-board for a new series.

To this day Gil can’t say why he became so obsessed with understanding his failed relationship with Nick, why he came to believe that it was the only way he would put it behind him and move on.

He used to lie awake, thinking of it all: how they’d come together, why they’d split up, what had happened in between. Even at the time he knew that comprehension could not change the past or present; it wouldn’t even provide a useful tool for the future. Yet he methodically sifted through his memories, picking moments here and there and examining them minutely, probing them for significance that may not have been obvious at the time, turning them over to determine if they held different meaning when viewed from an other perspective or point of time.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, he became somehow convinced that, if he persisted long enough, cause and effect would become clear, coalesce into something that he could make sense of.

 

“Have you ever had a subordinate hit on you?”

He chokes on his beer and starts coughing. It seems like a long time before he manages to breathe again, and he wipes his streaming eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Is that a yes?”

How can Nick not know? Or is he simply trying to draw a confession, and, if so, why? Gil is vaguely aware of the fact that, if he weren’t so drunk, he’d attribute Nick’s question to simple curiosity, but he’s not sure if that’s because being drunk makes him paranoid, or because it opens the gateway to that part of his brain that would like to imagine Nick having a very personal reason for wanting to get to know him better.

“Why do you ashk? Ask?” No doubt about it; stinking drunk.

Nick shrugs smilingly. “Just curious, I guess,” he says, but his eyes remain watchful, serious.

“Yes.” The word seems to echo fuzzily in his ears a long time after he’s said it.

“And what did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignore it? Laugh it off? Respond?”

“That wouldn’t be right,” Gil answers vaguely. He looks down and unsteadily runs his finger several times around the rim of his beer mug, unsuccessfully trying to prove to himself his ability to overcome the effects of alcohol by sheer force of will.

 “So what did you do?” he hears Nick’s voice, but he doesn’t look up.

“Tried to ignore it,” he mutters finally, wondering why he doesn’t simply change the topic, why he’s answering Nick’s questions in a way that he knows will lead to still more questions.

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” He straightens up in his chair, his resolve stiffening along with his posture. “Can we change the topic?” He tries to meet Nick’s eyes firmly, but at the last moment finds he can’t do it, and instead looks around for the waitress, motioning her over.

“Am I chasing you away?” Nick asks.

“No. No, I’m…”

Nick suddenly leans forward and covers Gil’s hand with his own.

“One more beer,” he coaxes. “Stay for one more.”

He should tell Nick that he’s had enough, more than enough, but the warmth of Nick’s palm is short-circuiting his thought processes. He nods mutely, and lets Nick order another round. He pulls his hand out from under Nick’s and crosses his arms, leaning his elbows on the table, looking down, around, anywhere but at Nick. The silence between them drags on, awkward and uncomfortable, until the waitress comes back with the two beers and sets them down on the table.

He shouldn’t ask. For too many reasons, he shouldn’t. But he wants to know, no, he needs to know.

“What about you?” he says, finally looking at Nick, trying to gauge his reaction to the question.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Me what?” Nick asks, his lips curling upward. “Are we back on the same topic?”

“Same topic, different subject,” Gil confirms, pleased with the smoothness of his comeback. Giving a pal the opportunity to boast about his prowess, whether it’s in fishing, home repairs or the sack, what could be more normal? It’s what guys do over beer, along with discussing work and sports, and they’ve long since exhausted those topics of conversation. Never mind that Nick and he aren’t exactly pals.

“I’ve never had anybody reporting to me.”

“How about somebody you were reporting to?”

“Me hit on him or he on me?”

There was something incongruous about Nick’s question, and Gil has to repeat it twice in his head before he finally figures it out.

“Him?”

“I’ve never reported to a woman. Well, except for the past two weeks.”

“Oh.” He picks up his mug, draining almost a quarter of it, hoping that that the one syllable didn’t sound as disappointed to Nick’s ears as it did to his own.

“Anyway, no. Never.”

“Oh.” This time it sounds better, matter-of-fact.

“Which isn’t to say that I didn’t want to, or would have objected.”

“Oh?” Surprise now, but maybe a bit too overdone. Tone it down. It’s important that Nick doesn’t think he’s being judged. For wanting something more than a professional relationship with a superior. Or for being interested in men.

“But I doubt he’d have been interested.”

“Oh.”

Nick laughs. “You’re real articulate when you’re on the outside of a couple of beers. I never knew that about you.”

He almost says ‘oh’ again, snapping his mouth shut at the last moment. He needs another drink. No, no, that’s exactly what he doesn’t need.

“It’s more like a couple squared. On an empty stomach.”

“Try cubed. And you ate all the pretzels.”

The fact that he has to do the multiplication to figure out how many beers two cubed equals is another sign that he needs to get up and walk out, stagger out, whatever, just put some distance between Nick and himself. That, and the fact that he’s talking to himself, even if it’s only in his head.

“Well, I should be going soon.” He takes out his phone and scrolls through his contact list, trying to find the number to the cab company. The letters are all fuzzy and he first tries squinting and then holding the phone further away from him, but neither helps, nor does the combination of the two moves.

Nick takes the phone and hands it back to him after a second. “It’s ringing.”

“Thanks,” Gil mutters, putting the phone to his ear. “Do you want me to drop you off, as well?” he asks, as the mechanical voice drones in his ear, instructing him not to hang up.

“That’d be great.”

 

“I always feel like I should explain that I work nights and that it’s not like I decided to go drinking right after breakfast,” Nick says as they stand outside the bar, waiting for the cab to show up. “Which is stupid, because this is Vegas, and the cabbies couldn’t care less anyway.”

Gil leans back against the wall in a vain attempt to anchor himself and stop the world from gently spinning around him. He wonders how Nick can sound so articulate and energetic.

“So, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

“Okay.”

“Sara. Is that who you were referring to?”

If he refuses to answer, it’s akin to admitting that Nick is right, so he lies.

“No. No, it was a long time ago.”

The cool breeze feels good, and he lifts his face to it, half-closing his eyes, drifting.

“So it wasn’t me either, then.”

The statement snaps him alert, and he gapes at Nick.

“What do you mean?”

“I wondered if you ever thought that I’d been… Well, you know. Anyway, you obviously didn’t, so that’s OK.”

For the first time Nick sounds less than confident.

 “Is it? I mean, yes, of course.” He has no idea what he’s trying to reassure Nick about.

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable with me,” Nick says.

“You don’t. Why would you?”

The first time he saw a firefly, he must have been four or five years old. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted to catch it, but at the last moment he drew his hand back, afraid of burning his fingers the same way he had just three days earlier, when he’d touched a lit light bulb. He feels the same way right now, reaching out to an irresistible temptation, to something he desires but doesn’t quite understand, and is even a little afraid of.

Instead of answering, Nick steps up to Gil, leaning one shoulder against the wall and facing him.  Gil turns his head, resting it against the wall, so that he can look into Nick’s face. He can’t remember their ever standing so close together before, or maybe they have, but never just the two of them, never just concentrating on one another; never not even breathing; never simply waiting, thoughts skittering, shying away from possibilities that simultaneously seem both inevitable and completely preposterous to imagine.

“Why did you cut your hair so short?” Gil asks, forgetting his previous question and trying to latch onto something, anything, which will bring them back to a more normal footing, even though a personal question is hardly likely to achieve that. Still, asking about Nick’s hair is more innocuous than anything else he’s thinking of at the moment.

Christ, he has to get a grip. He’s fond of Nick, but hell, he’s fond of his whole team, even of Greg. But Nick isn’t on his team anymore, a little voice whispers in the back of his head. It’s okay now. It’s okay.

Nick smiles self-consciously and rubs his hand across the top of his head, as if to check what Gil is referring to. He’s so close that Gil can hear the slight rasping sound Nick’s palm makes against his scalp.

“I don’t know. Don’t you like it?”

The haircut makes Nick look tougher, older, different; his eyes though are as lively as always, his face as mobile with feelings and emotions, his smile as sweet.

“I like it,” Gil says slowly, almost soundlessly, and he sees Nick’s eyes drop to his mouth, and he swallows convulsively, his throat suddenly dry.

He doesn’t notice the cab pull up in front of them, until the driver sticks his head out of the window and asks them if they’re the ones who called. Nick straightens quickly, but it takes Gil a little longer, his reflexes dulled by drink, by Nick, by everything that’s happening, and by the time he starts to move, Nick’s already walked around the cab to climb in from the far side.

Gil opens the door and slides into the air-conditioned interior, shivering slightly at the chill. He leans his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes, concentrating on the muted sounds of traffic, on the sharp clicking sound of the flash as the cabbie pulls back into traffic. He inhales deeply, a combination of sickly sweet vanilla air freshener and faintly dusty car interior replacing Nick’s smell in his nostrils.  He suddenly needs this ordinariness, puts it between himself and Nick, wraps himself in it.

He doesn’t think he fell asleep, but it seems only a second later that the cab stops and Nick says, “Well, this is me.”

He rouses himself slightly, and in that curious hyperawareness that sometimes replaces unconsciousness, before you have time to tell yourself that something isn’t as it is, or to convince yourself that there must be a different interpretation for it, he realizes that his arm is resting on Nick’s rather than on the armrest, and that their fingers are laced together. His heart kicks in his chest and he opens his eyes slowly, unsure of what to anticipate.

Nick is turned towards him, his head cocked slightly to the side and they stare at each other silently. Slowly, Nick starts to lean towards him, slowly, so slowly, and Gil doesn’t know if it’s because Nick is fighting himself or because he’s trying to give Gil enough time to break the connection if he wants to, and then the reason doesn’t matter, because Nick’s lips are on his.

 

Had it really all happened that way? Had he actually been so unaware of the growing attraction between them that he was blind-sided by the events of that day? Maybe not. Before that morning, the last time Gil had drunk so much was in his early twenties, so maybe he’d unconsciously intended to start the ball rolling himself, and had needed an excuse, however lame, to fall back on should it have proven necessary.

Had Nick ever held it against him that he’d had to get drunk for them to take the next step? Had he ever believed, if even for a second, Gil’s subsequent teasing that he’d been taken advantage of in a moment of weakness? Would it have made any difference to subsequent events if they’d started out differently?

In retrospect, Gil suspects that the reason he went back to that first day so often wasn’t because he really believed that if something had happened just a little differently, the end of their relationship might not have come about. Maybe what he was really trying to do was to manipulate his memory in a futile attempt to forget that, on that day, the possibilities had seemed limitless, the obstacles insignificant. That, on that day, he’d expected nothing and could dream of everything.

That, on that day and perhaps for the first time in his life, he’d felt blessed.