Title: Redemption
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: …one about Gil finding Nick's abandoned toy-making tools in a box in the basement.
Suggested by: jalola

“What’s this?”

Nick turns around at my question, his expression instantly guarded when he sees the toolbox in my hands.

“Nothing,” he says, his voice lazy and uncaring, at odds with his eyes. “It can go.”

As far as I can tell, most of the tools seem to be for working wood: a couple of carving knives, a plane, a burner, a few small sheets of sandpaper. Everything looks well-used, even though the toolbox itself is covered with a thick layer of dust.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I can’t remember the last time I used the tools; I’m not even really sure why I brought them with me from Dallas.”

He’s lying, something he’s never done very well. There’s a trace of color burning high along his cheekbones, and there’s a strained quality to his voice. He turns his back on me, bending over an old and misshapen cardboard box, slicing the top open to check out the contents.

I put the toolbox along with the other stuff he’s gathering together for the yard sale.


I lie next to Nick in the dark, listening to his quiet breathing. Unlike Mark Twain, I think that at the end of my life, I’ll regret the things I’ve done more than the things I haven’t. But I’ll never regret what I had with Nick, even though we’re at the end of our run now. Cleaning out the basement a few days ago was the last act in preparation of his leaving. Tomorrow he’s going to pick up the U-Haul van, load up what’s left of his belongings, and drive away.

If asked in the future, we’ll probably describe this as an amicable split. Amicable. It’s a lukewarm word, and a false one, because it implies acceptance and the lack of pain or grief. In fact, I feel like I’ve been beaten, an almost physical ache that I know will only get worse once the other side of the bed is empty, once I actually experience not sharing my life with him, rather than simply imagine it, as I do now.

I want to reach over and pull him into my arms, to bury my face in his shoulder and smell his skin, but we’re way past that, so I lie stiffly and stare up at the ceiling, my eyes burning.


“Well,” he says, smiling awkwardly, his shoulders hunched and his hands balled in fists in his pockets. “I guess this is it.”

“Yes.”

He nods once, then turns around and I watch him walk away from me. He’s one step away from the van when he seems to hesitate for a second, then he reaches for the door handle. He hesitates again, then turns around slowly to look at me. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe he’s expecting me to walk back into the house and not watch him go or maybe it’s the opposite, maybe he wants me to wave goodbye. I have no idea, but either way I don’t think I can move. I’m finding it hard to even breathe.

We stare across the yard at each other, then he resignedly shakes his head and walks back to me.

“I used to make toys,” he says quietly. “I have so many nephews and nieces, and I was always good with woodworking and didn’t have much money, so I figured I’d make the toys, rather than buy them.”

I don’t know why he’s suddenly telling me this.

“After Crane, I couldn’t seem to make anything. I had to force myself. The kids didn’t seem to notice a difference, but I thought the toys looked different, uglier.”

I nod, because he seems to expect it, but I still don’t understand.

“After Gordon, there were more things I stopped enjoying. And after what happened to Warrick, even more. And yet, nobody seems to notice. Just like the kids, nobody realizes I’m just going through the motions. And I can’t keep on pretending. ”

By ‘nobody’ I know he means me.

“I noticed.”

How could I not? How can he believe I didn’t?

“Did you? Why did you never say anything?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to see you like that. So I pretended not to.” I shrug helplessly. “I thought things would get better eventually. Things always do.”

He casts a quick glance back at the van, as if to reassure himself that his escape route is still there.

“Not always,” he says finally, then repeats it. “Not always.”

“Please. Please don’t leave.” The words burst out on their own, even though I know that he won’t change his mind, just like he didn’t all the other times I begged him to stay.

“I have to, Gil. Don’t you see?”

“Then let me come with you.”

“I’ve told you over and over, I can’t ask you to do that.”

I take a deep breath, try to steady my voice so that I sound calm and reasonable, and not half-demented.

“You’re not asking me, I’m offering.”

He shakes his head, his mouth tight, and suddenly I’m furious, even though I’m not sure if it’s with myself, Nick or the whole lousy situation that brought us to this point.

“So why the hell aren’t you on the road already? Why are you still standing here?”

“I need you to understand.”

“Why? You’re leaving and nothing I say makes a difference, so why the fuck does it matter if I understand or not?”

His eyes drop and for the first time since he announced his decision to leave he sounds less than sure.

“Because I need to know that I can come back.”

He looks at me then, his eyes dark, and my heart squeezes in my chest.

“Will you?” I ask, and I don’t recognize my own voice.

“I– I don’t know.” He grimaces in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’m being unfair.”

I wonder what would happen if I told him that if he leaves, he can never come back, and whether he’d even believe me. I wonder how long he expects me to wait, and whether he’ll tell me if he eventually decides that he’s better off on his own in Texas, or if he falls in love with somebody else. I wonder why he feels he can’t heal with me next to him, and whether his need to ensure that there’s an option for his return has to do with loving me, or is simply the last-minute jitters of somebody about to embark on a new life.

And he’s right. He’s being unfair. Terribly unfair.

“Go to hell,” I grit out, and I shut the door in his face. I press my forehead against the hard wood and close my eyes, and I stand there for a long time, until I hear the van start up and then drive away, until all is silent again.


There’s no return address on the small, flat package, but I recognize Nick’s handwriting. Inside I find an intricate wooden block puzzle set in a frame, the pieces all the colors of the rainbow. I run my fingertip along the wood, marveling at its smoothness, thinking of what it might mean that Nick is making toys again.

I slowly tip the frame over so that the pieces fall out onto the table, and a small folded piece of paper falls with them. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a few tries to unfold the note, so that I can read it. I love you. Can I come back? There’s a phone number.

When I hear his voice for the first time in eight months, I start crying, something I haven’t done since I was a boy, and it’s a while before I can tell him that I love him and that I’m never going to let him go again.