Title: What Personal Stuff?
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Nick Stokes
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me and I don't make money off of them
Spoilers: Very light, for Pledging Mr. Johnson and Blood Drops
Summary: Gil realizes he wants a change.

Gil is watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel when it hits him. He's not enjoying himself. He should be. The documentary is on roller coasters, some of which he's ridden, and it's particularly well done. He marked it in his diary over two weeks ago, sat down to watch it with a sense of anticipation less than twenty minutes ago and now he's... bored? No, that's not quite right. Underwhelmed? Disinterested? Restless?

Dissatisfied. That's what. And as he realizes it, he also knows exactly whom to blame for this feeling: Catherine, who in a couple of contemptuous sentences summed up his life for him.

I should be just like you. Alone in my hermetically sealed condo watching Discovery on the big screen, working genius-level crossword puzzles, but no relationships. No chance any will slop over into a case.

She got some of the details wrong, but the essential truths were there. It's been niggling at him for weeks, and he doesn't know if it's the fact that she made him sound like a boring old fart or that she caught him so completely by surprise, because he'd never seen himself as a hermit, that bothers him most.

He's had relationships. None have lasted that long, but hell, he's not alone in that. As far as he's aware, none of Catherine's relationships lasted longer. Sure, she has a marriage under her belt, while he's never even been halfway tempted to make that type of a long term commitment to anyone, but it's not as if he was trying to avoid it. And he's a fool to be sitting here, bothered by something Catherine said in a moment of anger and frustration.

Sitting here, in his townhouse, watching Discovery on his big screen. With a half-filled out Sunday New York Times Crossword puzzle on the couch next to him. Not only no relationships, but evidently also no friends to spend a couple of hours with.

He turns the TV off and sits with his arms crossed, glowering at the blank screen. He rarely refuses an invitation. Breakfast after shift, the occasional weekend outing, he participates in everything. He's aware that there are number of events and parties that he's not invited to, but that's hardly surprising. Nor is it his fault.

He turns the TV on again and tries to concentrate, but he's no more successful than the first time around, and he turns it off again. He picks up the crossword puzzle. Four-letter word for one who rides in a pulka. Nobody rides in a pulka, technically they're behind the pulka, he thinks impatiently and tosses the crossword and pen back onto the coffee table. Damn Catherine!

He flicks a glance at his watch. Time to start thinking about dinner. Nothing in the fridge inspires him and he flicks listlessly through his collection of menus. He thinks of the restaurant at Calville Bay, and he's halfway out of the door, when it occurs to him that, once again, he's going to prove Catherine right. She hadn't exactly been smirking when she'd asked him if he went there alone, but he knows that tone all too well. He closes the door again and wanders back into the living room.

He's lonely. The feeling doesn't creep up on him and his acknowledgement of it isn't a sudden blinding epiphany. Rather it's an almost relieved surrender to something that has been lurking in the background for a long time and that he's tired of fighting against, even though he wasn't aware that he had been. And quickly on the heels of this first surrender, a second follows: that the loneliness abates when Nick is around, even though he's not quite sure why that is. Other than a physical attraction, there's nothing the two of them really share. His thoughts skitter off, not even thoughts really, more images and memories, disconnected and random, and a growing yearning for Nick to be here, right now.

He takes his phone out and looks at it. Call him, he thinks. He starts to scroll through his phone list until he reaches Nick's name, then puts the phone down and wipes his palms on his trousers and takes a deep breath. He picks the phone up again and hits the call button. The moment he hears the ringing tone, he wants to hang up and only the thought that Nick will see the missed call stops him.

"Stokes," Nick answers, and Gil hears the hesitation, the question in Nick's voice.

"It's Gil," he says, even though he knows his name would have been displayed on Nick's phone, that Nick knows full well who's on the line.

"Grissom. What's up? Are we being called in?"

"No." He swallows and the phone is slippery in his hand. He cradles it with his shoulder and wipes his palm again.

"Oh." Gil hears Nick clear his throat. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Gil repeats, his heart thudding. Why the hell is this so difficult?

"OK, then," Nick finally says after a long pause. "Is it larger than a breadbox?"

Gil laughs. "No. But it fits into one. I was thinking of going to this place at Lake Mead for calamari and wondered if you wanted to come." He waits for an answer, and when it doesn't come, adds in a more formal tone, "If you don't have other plans, that is."

"No," Nick says hastily. "I'm just... Are you sure?"

He doesn't want Nick reading anything into this, Gil thinks anxiously. His poker player's instincts kick in. "I wouldn't be calling you if I weren't," he says evenly.

"OK. What time?"

"Uh, I'll pick you up in half an hour?"

"OK. See you then," Nick says and hangs up.

Gil's heartbeat has just about returned to normal, when he realizes that he has no reservations and that the place is bound to be packed on a Saturday evening. The long wait for someone to pick up the phone and the harried voice that finally answers aren't reassuring initially, but the hostess tells him they've had a cancellation, and that means that he won't need to call Nick back with a change of plans. "Thank you, thank you very much" he says, relief making him light-headed, and so effusive that the hostess sounds somewhat taken aback when she tells him that he's very welcome.

-----ooooo-----

When he pulls up in front of Nick's house, Nick is sitting on the porch steps, waiting for him. He's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he stands up, dusting off the seat of his jeans, and trots to the car.

"Hey," he says, while fastening his seatbelt, not really looking at Gil.

"You didn't have to wait outside," Gil says.

Nick looks at him then and shrugs. "No sweat. It seemed easier."

They stare at each other for a couple of seconds and Gil is the first to break eye contact, checking his rear view mirror and driving away from the curb.

"I hope you like calamari," he says. "I should have warned you, but that's pretty much all they serve."

"I like it fine," Nick says.

"How's the hand?"

"What? Oh, it's fine," Nick says.

Gil flicks a glance at Nick's right hand. The knuckles are still red and swollen.

"It doesn't look fine."

"No, it's fine."

"So, everything's fine then," Gil deadpans.

"Just fine," Nick confirms. He's looking out the window, but Gil can hear the amusement in his voice, and he smiles. They drive the rest of the way in what Gil hopes Nick will view as companionable silence, rather than as Gil's inability to think of a topic for conversation that isn't work-related, isn't too personal and might remotely interest Nick all at the same time.

"Wow, I didn't know there were so many different ways to make fried calamari," Nick finally breaks the silence, while perusing the menu.

"Different flavors in the batter," Gil comments, relieved at finally finding something to talk about. "Garlic, lemon, beer. And different sauces, which combined..." He drifts off uncomfortably when he notices Nick grinning into his menu.

"Go on," Nick says encouragingly, looking up and smiling into Gil's eyes.

Gil shakes his head. "I'm boring you," he says, even though he can see in Nick's expression that it's not true.

"No, no. I've always been interested in molluscs, particularly in eating them," Nick says seriously, but his eyes are dancing and for a brief moment Gil forgets everything around them and simply stares at him. Nick's expression starts to change and he opens his mouth to say something, but then the waitress places two beer mugs on the table with a solid thunk.

"Have you decided?"

"I'll have the fried calamari," Nick says solemnly, then proceeds to look completely blank when the waitress asks him which fried calamari, and Gil starts laughing.

When he next looks at his watch, Gil realizes with a start that it's almost midnight. The restaurant is quiet, only two tables besides their own still occupied. Nick is leaning back in his chair, his right hand wrapped around his beer mug. Even in the weak light Gil can see the bruised knuckles, and unthinkingly he reaches over and traces them lightly.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks.

"No, it's fine," Nick says gruffly, and this time Gil doesn't smile.

"Did you play Pop Warner?"

"Yeah. And Little League. I liked baseball more. How about you?"

"Little League." Gil keeps his eyes fixed on Nick's knuckles and on his own fingers still lightly touching them. "And later I swam."

"Competitively?"

Gil shakes his head. "No, swimming was just for me."

"Like roller coasters."

Gil finally looks up into Nick's eyes. "That's different." Suddenly he's nervous and he pulls his hand away. "Roller coasters aren't a sport," he says lightly, trying to break the mood.

Nick looks at him searchingly. "No, I suppose not," he finally agrees quietly.

"Ready to go?" Gil asks, already gesturing to the waitress, and Nick grunts an assent.

-----ooooo-----

They don't talk much on the drive back, though it's still an improvement over the way to the restaurant. When they reach Nick's house, Gil turns into the driveway and turns the engine off. He hears Nick unbuckling his seat belt, but he stays still, his hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead.

"Thanks, Grissom. That was a good idea."

"Why do you do that?" he asks in a sudden spurt of irritation.

Nick doesn't pretend not to understand. "It's what you want, isn't it? Keep everything casual? Nothing too personal?"

Out of the corner of his eye Gil can see that Nick has turned slightly sideways to face him, but he keeps his own eyes glued to the garage door at the end of the driveway.

"What do you want?"

"I asked first."

"It's not that simple," Gil says slowly.

"Isn't it?"

Is it? He doesn't think so. "No. Not for me."

"Gil. Look at me."

Reluctantly Gil turns his head. Nick leans forward slowly and kisses him.

"That's simple," he whispers, his breath warm against Gil's lips, before leaning back. Gil almost tries to follow, only remembering himself when he feels the increased pressure of the seatbelt against his collar bone.

"You know it's not," he says.

"No, Gil. That is simple. It's the other stuff that's complicated."

"What do you want?" Gil asks again, trying to understand.

"I want you to make up your mind."

"What do you mean?"

"About us."

"Nick, I told you—"

"Not about us tomorrow or next month," Nick interrupts deliberately. "And not about us at work, or in relation to our pasts, or whatever other crap you sit there thinking about. About us, right now, tonight, in this car."

"It's not that simple," Gil repeats.

Nick opens the door and gets out and closes the door behind him. He leans down so that he can look through the window. "It's exactly that simple, if you let it be," he says, his voice gentle. "Thanks for inviting me to dinner, Gil. I enjoyed it." Then he straightens up, slaps the hood of the car lightly as if signalling to Gil that he can go, and walks into the house.

Gil doesn't start the engine for a while. He's confused, feeling as if he only watched one act of a play, where everything is explained in the preceding or following acts. It's not that simple, he repeats to himself stubbornly. They're grown men, carrying the sum of their experiences, their expectations, their lives. You don't just let go of all that. You can't. You're nothing without it.

He backs out of the driveway and starts to drive home, but three blocks from Nick's house he stops again. He doesn't want to go home. Everything he owns and is interested in is at home, but he doesn't want to go there. He sits in a strange neighbourhood, the engine idling and every cell in his body wants to turn the car around and drive back to Nick's house. Finally he takes a deep breath and drives ahead, turning right, then right again and again, then left, signalling each time, even though there's nobody behind him, because the clicking of the flash somehow makes everything seem normal, commonplace.

He almost changes his mind at the door, and stands indecisively for a while, when it opens. Nick smiles fleetingly. "Are you coming in?" he asks, even as he backs away to give Gil room to do so. Gil nods and steps through the door and to the side and watches Nick close the door.

"I have no idea what the hell you were talking about," he says baldly.

"You're here for an explanation?"

Gil steps forward and slides his hands up Nick's arms, across his shoulders, until he's finally cupping Nick's head. "No," he murmurs and he kisses Nick. Nick kisses him back, winding his arms around Gil, holding him tightly.

-----ooooo-----

"True love conquers all?" Gil ventures a guess later.

"What?" Nick chokes out. "Who said anything about love?"

"Isn't that what you were talking about?"

"Jesus, Gil! If that's what you really thought, I'm surprised you're not still driving on your way to Canada."

Gil laughs, even though he's not so sure Nick is wrong about the driving to Canada. "So what did you mean?"

Nick sighs. "Just... I like this. I like talking to you. I like spending time with you. I like sex with you. We know where we stand with each other at work and that this won't affect that. What we do with our personal lives is nobody else's business and we're not hurting anyone. Why can't we just enjoy it, while it lasts?"

"You're rationalizing," Gil says. "You're wilfully ignoring legitimate reasons that would stop you from doing what you want to do." Nick doesn't answer and a pang of guilt at unfairly trying to shift this all onto Nick's shoulders causes Gil to add: "What we want to do."

"So why are you here, then?"

'Because I'm rationalizing too' is the easy answer, but it's dishonest. 'Because when I want to be with you, it's all I want, and I don't give a shit about the consequences' is an unthinkable admission, and also partly dishonest in its implication that Nick is the only one that would make Gil feel that way, and Gil doesn't know that.

"I don't know," he says finally, and that's as honest as he's able to be.

In the darkness, he feels the mattress shift and then Nick is on top of him, propping himself up on his elbows, and bending his head down to kiss him. Gil puts his hands on Nick's hips, gripping him lightly, and opens his mouth under Nick's.

"Not just for the sex, though, right?" Nick challenges, raising his head.

"No. I enjoy discussing seafood recipes with you, as well," Gil says. "And stop wringing confessions from me, when you know I want you to just kiss me."

"Gil, I'm not just going to kiss you," Nick promises, lowering his head again.