Title: Riff
By: JustPlainChy
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Genres: romance
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: "Opening his eyes, it was as if he was seeing Greg for the first time. " Oneshot.

He watched Greg with a mixture of pleasure and shock. He'd had no idea this was how the younger man spent his nights off. And as he watched those slightly calloused fingers slide over metal strings he suddenly wondered if anyone really knew Greg at all. Sure everyone knew the lab's Greg, that seemingly endless façade of jokes and flirting, offhanded comments about rampant sexual encounters and irreverent attitude towards everything. But, if Nick was honest with himself, that Greg had been missing for some time now. At some point, when none of them were looking, he'd changed from a dismissible college kid into a quiet, introspective man. It was a change, that if he thought about it, tore Nick's heart out. Had it happened as he was blown through a glass wall ? Or was it when he'd watched a man die in Nick's arms? Or was it even more recent still when he'd found himself pulled from his car and was beaten in an alley, left broken and bleeding on the pavement? Or had it been the seconds before that, when he'd taken a man's life?

As Nick watched he thought he could see all of those events play out across Greg's face and down his body. There, in the dip of his chin, a small scar from a ringed fist. Here, in his down-turned eyes, the faded spark from watching life bleed out of a man. And there, in the curve of his neck, the small scar peaking from under his faded t-shirt. He took a sip of the stale beer in front of him and closed his eyes, hearing the near-ghostly tune that floated from the guitar clutched in his friend's hands and thought he heard that pain there too.

Opening his eyes, it was as if he was seeing Greg for the first time. Suddenly, gone was the little brother he'd always known, the kid, the CSI-wannabe who he liked but found annoying at times and wished would get back to the safety of the lab where he belonged. Suddenly, here was a striking man, experienced in the world where they worked, who was able to process evidence until it killed him, that took his job more seriously than all of them - who felt he had to prove himself on every case. And just as startlingly and sudden, Nick realized they were probably responsible for that. How many of them took him seriously? Because, if he was honest, he kept finding himself thinking that he'd give up and go back to the lab any day - but, fuck, it'd been years now. When were they going to accept him completely?

The smoky haze of the tiny club hid Nick from Greg's view, but the younger man wasn't even looking. His head was bowed and he plucked at the strings like they were an old lover, caressing them until they did his bidding. He was not singing, but Nick saw his mouth moving gently, as if talking to the instrument cradled against him. Nick realized that he was intoxicating to watch. Certainly more intoxicating than the cheap booze swimming in his system. And it wasn't because he was good (he was) it was more the absolute, quiet, intense passion he put into playing. It was like watching him be in love. Sitting on that faded and breaking stool, in the soft gold of the stage lights, he seemed to glow. As if his personality were too much to keep on the other side of his skin, as if the beauty and intricacies of his humanity couldn't bear to be hidden away.

Nick was stunned to realize he was looking at Greg - Greg Sanders - and thinking that he'd never seen something, anything so beautiful. There was so much he didn't know, and it all was encompassed in his hands on those strings. He'd always assumed Greg only liked hard rock, screaming voices that made him wince in sympathy for their vocal chords, he'd always assumed that he'd scoff at any other kind of music. But what he was playing now was anything but hard, it had a heaviness to it that escaped him, but it was a slower, lilting melody that crooned instead of screamed, enticed instead of forced and Nick reflected that it was so like Greg.

Hadn't they all assumed that he was still that punk kid who'd stumbled in at 23 and made himself indispensable? Had any of them, Sara perhaps, looked past that to see the soft melody underneath? That unsure tune of understanding and that need for acceptance? He realized his hands were shaking and put them around his drink to steady their trembling. There was a secret here, unspoken and heady that seemed to flood him like a sudden understanding he'd been denying for as long as he could remember. Seeing Greg like this he could not deny that, couldn't push away the rush of emotion. He was suddenly glad that he was hidden from sight, that he was the observer and not the observed. He didn't know how he'd stack up under the scrutiny. He was suddenly afraid he wouldn't make the cut.

Nick watched and waited, waited for something as his eyes traveled over tame hair that curled enticingly around those ears, over a face littered with freckles and dotted with moles, across that lean neck, down the curve of his shoulders and over the dusty grey jacket, stretched tight over his black shirt. Across pants that showed too much and not enough all at the same time and his gaze lingered over those long fingers stroking over well-worn strings, the soft pull of the music drawing him towards their intricate dance. Perhaps he was waiting for the tension to break. For something inside to stem the flow of this well-known and feared emotion, something to remind his psyche why he avoided this. Or perhaps he was waiting to remember what this felt like, the dip and swirl of terror and exhilaration that he hadn't known in years. Perhaps it was to know if this was all real, or some strange fabrication he'd made up while comfortably asleep on his bed.

And then, unexpectedly (though that made no sense), the music had ended and there was a smattering of applause and Greg was getting up, shading his eyes and then suddenly, suddenly, dark brown eyes were matched with honey gold and Nick's mouth was dry and he suddenly wished he'd ordered another stale beer, so he had something to do besides stare.

Greg's too-pink lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile and Nick returned the gesture without knowing it. The younger man leaned over and returned the Fender to its case, giving Nick a reasonable chance to stare. Which he did, unabashedly. Somehow he knew that Greg knew, and somehow he didn't care. The resounding click of the case could be heard like a cannon boom in his ears, and he's sure that's not a good thing, but then Greg's standing and walking over to him, sliding into the wooden chair and propping his arms on the table, framing that once-innocent face with long, sultry hands that Nick can't help but still stare at. Those eyes demand he say something though, so he tried to come up with a witty comment, something to make him laugh, to make him smile instead of looking at Nick like he looks at a case, all inquisitive glances and chewing that bottom lip. When his voice came, it sounded strained even to himself.

"I didn't know you played," a hand motioned absently to the guitar resting at their feet.

"Most people don't," the reply was soft, one shoulder shrugged in answer.

"Do it often?" He's been reduced to platitudes and small talk, and he knew why, but doesn't want to admit it. Because it would make things too complicated and it's dangerous and he just can't.

"When I can," the tension isn't dissipating, it's only growing and Greg raises an eyebrow, wondering where this is going, Nick can almost see the questions swimming in those bright eyes. Eyes he never really knew until tonight. Until he took the time to see. Nick hesitated, drew a breath and Greg looked like he's going to stand up and leave, and suddenly years of mixed signals and missed opportunities crash around Nick's head. He's made enough mistakes to know one when he sees it. Greg stands and that feeling intensifies. "I'll see you then…" he started, reaching down to pick up the object that opened Nick's eyes.

"Greg, wait," he says hurriedly, though he doesn't know why he had to rush, he can't put it off any more. He drew another breath as Greg looked at him, expectantly, "…can I buy you a drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask,"

(Fin!)

- - -

Disclaimer: CSI and respective characters are property of CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer Productions, I make no money off this humble offering.

Beta'd by the always wonderful and ever-stunning Westbrook, and dedicated to the equally adorable and adored Nicky.