Title: Secret Ending
By: rispacooper
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Totally improbable. I love it anyway.
AN: For those non-traditionalists who want a happier ending (ok including me a little).
Set after Season Three, so Spoiler Alert, etc…
Rating: Some PG-13 language and thoughts. Summary: This is just a secret possible ending/epilogue bit for What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas (Vegas Holiday) for those that want a bit more. Doesn't have to be officially part of the story in any way.

The pillow was scratchy against his cheek. When Greg came out of the dreams, sleeping, waking or otherwise, when the drugs were wearing off and he could feel again, the first thing he always noticed was the rough fabric of the pillow on his face.

He’d woken often, or thought he had, and though his voice was rough and scratchy as his cheap, hospital pillow, he remembered asking someone to at least bring him his pillow from home. But it didn’t seem like anybody was listening.

It wasn’t fair. If he was stuck lying here because of something that wasn’t his fault, stuck lying here because he’d been doing his job, then he ought to at least be comfortable. But not only was his face itchy and stinging in places, now his skin was starting to chafe against the equally cheap sheets.

After a moment there was a dull throb in his hip, in his whole right side, that said he had been lying still for too long, that he needed to move.

Without thinking he shifted, immediately letting out a dry croak at the rush of feeling at his back, a heavy pressure radiating out like heat. Exploding, pushing forward, and the images of it were red and hot and slow. His head began to throb in time to pounding around his shoulders and he shut his eyes tighter as sickness rose from his stomach to his throat.

His fingers curled around something small and plastic, cool to the touch, and he brought it up slowly, resting it against his face, breathing carefully.

When he held still the urge to throw up went away, but the strange heat at his back didn’t leave, making him shudder and bury his face into the pillow, scratchy or not.

He cracked one eye and stared at the white plastic of the remote in his hand, the writing that said “Nurse’s Station”. Beyond that was a familiar white floor, scuffed black in odd places, marked with lines of orange light. He looked up, focused on the mobile TV stand with the boxes of movies scattered around it, listened for the distant sound of beeping, the whirr of the air conditioning, the echo of people moving down the hall. It smelled like antiseptic and urine, and the stink of burnt chemicals, but somewhere deep down he knew he was probably only imagining the last one, because he was back in the hospital.

Immediately following that thought, Greg frowned, because he hadn’t left his hospital room, he couldn’t leave his hospital room, thank to Catherine, and…

He wasn’t going there.

This time because he knew what to expect, Greg rolled his head around an inch or so, careful of the tightness of the bandages at his neck, and then shifted his body the slightest bit to match it.

The ceiling also had orange stripes, which meant it was evening and the blinds were closed. He looked back over at his TV, a little startled to see snowy static and not the film he had been watching. He was pretty sure they had started lowering his dose; he shouldn’t have been out that long.

A quick look over told him the visitor’s chair was empty and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

It felt like too much work to bring up his hand, not that he needed to. The scratchy pillow was damp on his cheek, with sweat or tears, he wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about it.

The department had sent in a shrink for a preliminary visit, as though Greg hadn’t been stoned out of his mind and trying to look serious when he’d been told the trauma and the drugs were going to leave him feeling vulnerable.

Vulnerable. He’d like to know who wouldn’t feel vulnerable after being blown up in his own lab, leaving him stuck in this crappy, itchy bed, with a sliced up face and a back that had been burnt to a crisp in the heat of a chemical fire.

Meanwhile someone else was at work in his place, doing his job, talking to his friends, who were all not here visiting him, because who wanted to sit around watching the new crispy Greg Sanders daydream. It was more like hallucinations half the time anyway, from the fever and then the painkillers.

He didn’t blame them for leaving him alone.

Greg stared back at the call button, licking his mouth until he realized that even his tongue was dry. The meds, the air conditioning, it all meant he was constantly thirsty, not that he could do much more than hold a cup with a straw. But he didn’t push the button; he’d have to soon enough anyway, when the pain came back.

It always came back. Sometimes it felt like it was everywhere.

It wasn’t everywhere, he reminded himself, trying to be as reasonable as Grissom. There were a few dead patches, he thought, places where the liquid had gone through his coat and his shirts and all the layers of his skin. Those places weren’t so bad. He had even spent a whole day imagining his back as a bunch of volcano craters like the kind in Hawaii. Which wasn’t really reassuring or pretty, and no way was he surfing any time soon, but at least the image was familiar.

And anyway, it was the areas around the tiny dead patches that pulled and screamed when he tried to move.

The nurses weren’t happy when he tried, no matter how much he smiled when they came in. One look and they could tell he’d tried to move again, because he had to move, didn’t they understand?

He supposed he should feel grateful that they had cut off his coffee supply. But Jello and juice and stool softeners weren’t exactly his idea of a good morning.

At least Catherine had finally gone home for that. He wasn’t sure what was more humiliating, having a beautiful woman feel sorry for him, or having her turn red and flustered upon realizing that it was her fault that a nurse had to come and wipe Greg’s ass because he couldn’t.

So it was probably a good thing that no one else had come to visit him that much either—or at least he was fairly sure no one else had come to visit him. He was in and out after all, and the first few days on the morphine he didn’t remember much of anything. After that it was all dreams, him in New York as a sailor on leave—singing and tap dancing for some reason, or stuck in French Morocco during World War II, gambling while Grissom tended bar, trying not to be upset when Nick had frowned in disapproval at him for not choosing a side. Then one where he had gone from shy to incredibly hot and fell in love with this hot, dark-eyed guy on a cruise, only they couldn’t be together because he was still married and his daughter needed him and…

Oh God, he was so pathetic.

He looked over at the TV and then closed his eyes.

His mother had always said he should have been a writer he had so much imagination. Maybe one day he’d write a book to make her happy. She had really pushed, especially after he’d broken in arm in Scouts and had that one small, tiny, unexpected reaction with his chemistry set.

He was surprised she wasn’t here now, worrying, but he could just barely recall words, to Catherine maybe, to someone holding his hand, to not tell his mother everything, because this would give her a heart attack and he was going to be fine. He was going to be fine, everyone kept saying that, so it had to be true.

He would tell her himself, when the time was right, so when she came out to visit he could show her he was ok. It was just a little burn.

A sound burst out of his throat, rough and low, because it wasn’t a little burn at all.

“G?”

Greg opened his eyes, not sure he wasn’t still dreaming, because Nick Stokes was in the doorway to his room, leaning against the doorjamb and holding a small paper cup in his hand

“You all right?” Nick wondered while Greg tried not to drag his gaze over his body too obviously. Nick was dressed for work, all in black, his vest on. He wasn’t wearing his glasses and for some reason Greg found that reassuring. Nick in glasses meant serious Nick, tired Nick, Nick with too many problems, and Greg didn’t want to be one of those problems.

Greg looked away, because staring too long into those dark eyes when they were concerned for him was the kind of thing that made him feel vulnerable even without gauze taped all over his back and a hospital gown that never quite tied properly.

Nick, thankfully, stayed on the other side of the bed, scooting into the room but not really approaching Greg. Considering his face was scratched and his eyes were red and whoever had shaved him hadn’t really done a good job, Greg really, truly was grateful.

Because Nick of course looked fantastic.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes.

“You here for work?” he asked politely, because he had manners even they all didn’t think so.

“Work?” He imagined Nick’s confused scowl and then opened his eyes because Nick really did sound confused. He really was scowling too. “No, man, I’m here to visit you.”

“Me?” Greg’s voice rose and he blamed the lack of water. He actually took his eyes off Nick to eye the cup he was holding and lick his lips. “Nobody comes by to visit me except…” He wasn’t going to bring up Catherine.

Nick’s scowl only got worse.

“How high are you? Everyone’s been by when they aren’t at work. Rebuilding the Lab is tricky, and getting work done around the construction is even trickier. And with Catherine out we’re short-handed, but…” Nick sucked in a breath and made a face that Greg was too tired to even try to figure out. “But we’ve all been by. Sara just left.”

“Sara?” Greg perked up, lifting his head a little to peer at the door as though Sara might reappear. When he plopped his head back down, Nick was still frowning.

“I’ve been here for an hour,” he admitted, turning his face to the window, and it was probably the sunset outside that made his cheeks look red.

“Oh.” Greg let out a sigh, leaning back into the pillow only to open his eyes wide a second later. “Oh.” Whatever he may have done, he could just say it was the drugs. If there was a God, surely he wouldn’t have been so cruel as to make Greg say—or moan—embarrassing things in front of Nick Stokes. Burns and semi-public bowel movements were less humiliating.

“Your movie ended while you were sleeping,” Nick remarked, still to the window, and Greg turned his horrified look to the TV screen and all the boxes scattered around it. “I thought the only tapes you owned were porn.”

Nick focused back on him and between that and the lightly amused, teasing tone, Greg would have combusted from the sheer hotness if he hadn’t already been seriously overcooked. He tried for airy, moving to wave his hand and wincing at the renewed throb of pain.

“Porn comes on DVD now. Not everyone still masturbates in the Dark Ages, Nick.” Hearing himself made him want to bury his face in his scratchy pillow and die quickly. At least it would shut him up. Now he was just picturing Nick masturbating, and even on drugs and in pain and surrounded by real life-hardworking and therefore not fantasy-inspiring nurses, the thought still made him breathless and oddly hungry.

“Oh ha ha.” Nick moved, barely even paying attention to Greg’s porn comment, or so Greg thought. Nick picked up one of the VHS cases and flipped it over. The original Ocean’s 11, Greg hadn’t watched that one yet. “Not all of us have such a complicated fantasy life, Greggo,” he arched one eyebrow and glanced a little too knowingly over at him.

Greg swallowed and tried desperately to look innocent. His face was always flushed now due to the opiates, and his eyes were probably already bright from them as well. There was absolutely no reason for Nick to give him such a speculative look. None at all.

God his mouth was dry.

“My mother always said I should write a book,” he tried, sounding as old as his Papa Olaf.

“So where did the tapes come from?” Moving on like he didn’t notice Greg’s panic, Nick picked up another box. Anchor’s Aweigh. A musical. Both of Nick’s eyebrows went up. This could not get any worse.

“Uh…Lily…Catherine’s mom. Catherine uh…Catherine doesn’t own any tapes that aren’t Lindsey’s old ones, and the hospital only has a tape player, and I didn’t feel like watching Lizzie McGuire.”

Nick snorted, so Greg decided not to add that, in fact, the only tapes he owned were actually porn. Nick might keep on prying, always strangely interested in Greg’s smut collection, and explaining Handjobs Across America and Cock and Awe to Nick Stokes was beyond his current capabilities. He might come in his hospital gown, and as he had discovered, sponge baths actually weren’t at all sexy.

And of course, Nick would look at him with disgust and never talk to him again. There was always that.

“Catherine…feels pretty terrible…” Nick started and Greg jerked right out of his pathetic love-struck thoughts and shook his head.

“I love Catherine,” he said instantly, shaking slightly, “but if I hadn’t turned around…” He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t even want to think about it. Screw therapy.

Nick shot him another look, his mouth firming. But he nodded after a second and didn’t add anything about Catherine.

Nick put down the Rat Pack and ran a finger over the VCR, hitting eject and Greg’s mouth fell open when Roman Holiday popped out. Nick stared at it for a moment before finding the case and sliding it in. He looked over the case too, at Audrey Hepburn’s smiling face, her arms wrapped around Gregory Peck. Then he looked up.

Greg opened his eyes wide and stared back. Nick could not know just from looking what Greg had been dreaming. He could not tell with one look that Greg had watched that particular movie about three times in the past two days. Not even Grissom was that good of an investigator.

“Old movies are growing on me,” he admitted at last in a tiny voice and Nick’s head jerked up, his face rushing with color as though he had thinking about something else entirely. He put the movie down and stepped closer to the bed.

“I almost forgot.” He held out the paper cup, then shook his head at himself and reached into it, moving toward Greg a second later.

Greg held his breath, disbelieving when Nick ran the chip of ice along his lips then gently slid it between them.

It was so good he made a noise in his throat and darted out his tongue when the small piece melted instantly, gathering what drops of water he could. It was the sweetest, best water he had ever tasted in his life. Something stung behind his eyes and he shut them to swallow, opening them once more and looking up gratefully at Nick.

Nick’s eyes were steady on him, his hand shaking a little when he reached out and brought another piece of ice to Greg’s mouth.

“You, uh…” Nick started, stopped when Greg parted his lips and Nick’s fingers brushed his mouth. Greg shivered, hot and cool at the same time the way he always was around Nick. But he pulled the ice onto his tongue and sucked hard until the piece melted. Then he opened his mouth again, waiting for more.

“Here.” Nick said at last, his voice rough like he was the one who needed a drink, and balanced the cup on the mattress before he moved away.

Greg looked up at him carefully, trying not to frown as he downed another few pieces of ice and his lips didn’t feel like the Mojave anymore.

“How did you know I was thirsty?” Greg wondered while Nick fiddled with his vest, pulling out a small flashlight, putting it back into another pocket. Nick’s head came up, his eyes intense, questioning, before he cleared his throat.

“You talk in your sleep, G,” he spoke quietly.

If he hadn’t been Nick Stokes in front of him, Greg would have said the “Oh shit” he was thinking. But if it hadn’t been Nick Stokes in front of him, this wouldn’t even have been a problem, and he was one step away from obvious when he wasn’t stoned and now that he was…

They should have upped his dose so he never woke up.

It wasn’t funny to say his face was burning. Not funny at all.

“Oh,” he said, again, feeling anything but a genius. “Nothing too weird I hope?” And Nick’s blush gave him the answer to that.

Nick hit the off button on the TV, then moved to stack the piles of VHS into neater, straighter piles. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Greg, not for a while.

“Could we blame the drugs?” he offered at last, the effect somewhat ruined by his inability to shrug, thinking how nice it would be to just shut his eyes and go back to sleep. Of course, even his subconscious didn’t think he had a chance with Nick; he should have known then.

But Nick froze, giving one small twitch after a second and then turning to peer curiously at Greg.

“You mean it wasn’t?” he wondered incredulously, leaving Greg to frown and try to figure out what the hell Nick was talking about, until suddenly he completely and totally lost the ability to breathe.

At least he wasn’t hooked up to a monitor anymore, because the nurses would have freaked.

He gasped, loud, embarrassing, sucking in air with an opened mouth, no doubt looking like a red-faced gaping idiot.

Nick’s lips just quirked up and at that Greg couldn’t seem to make himself mind very much.

After a pause, Nick stepped back over to him, pausing another moment before resting his hand carefully on the good part of Greg’s shoulder.

And yeah the drugs were wearing off because he felt it, hot all the way through him, leaving his body shivering and happy and safe in a way that defied scratchy, cheap bedding and irritating therapists.

“I kind of like old movies too, sometimes,” Nick admitted, using his other hand to rub at his neck, which was the same shade of red as the rest of him, and perversely sexy. Greg stared at him speechlessly for a moment and then sucked on another piece of ice to give himself something to do.

“You could watch some with me,” he invited, looking up through his lashes, blinking when something flared to life in Nick’s dark eyes. “I’ve got nothing else to do in here.”

Nick nodded his head seriously, his fierce expression at odds with the gentle tone of his voice. “Whatever you want, G,” he agreed, and for the first time in a week, Greg smiled.

For whatever reason, it made Nick smile too.