Title: Secret Heart
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me and I don't make money off of them
Summary: Yet another unlucky coincidence for Nick, but this time around Grissom behaves differently.

She's so cold. Freezing. Marty must have left the bedroom window open. There's a strange smell in the room, unpleasant and somehow scary, and she wants to get up, but she's too tired. She'll close her eyes and rest a bit. She just wishes she wasn't so cold. Maybe Marty will bring her a blanket if she wakes him, but he's asleep on his back next to her. Why isn't he snoring? He should be snoring. He's been working so hard lately, double and triple shifts, she hates the idea of disturbing him. She'll rest a while, then she'll get up and take care of the blanket herself.

--oOo--

Nick pushes out the last two reps grunting loudly, his lower back arching off the bench, his form shot to pieces. He's been going for more weight and fewer reps in order to build some bulk in his arms and chest, but he's finding it hard to concentrate this afternoon. The a/c must be on the fritz, because the room is too hot and his T-shirt and shorts are drenched and unpleasantly sticky. He inhales deeply, trying to drag more oxygen into his lungs, so that he can complete the last set of reps, but without a spotter, he doesn't feel confident enough to lift the barbell off its stand.

He drags himself off the bench and wipes it down with a spare towel, while briefly debating ditching the rest of his workout and heading for the showers. He wishes Marty were around, but he hasn't seen him in the gym for over a week. He tries to remember if Marty had mentioned a trip of some kind, but he's drawing a blank. The truth is that Marty and he don't spend a lot of time talking to each other, and they don't have the kind of relationship where he can just call Marty up. As a matter of fact, he doesn't even have Marty's telephone number. He looks at the clock on the wall and realizes he hasn't even completed half of his planned 90-minute workout. Sighing he moves to the next station.

At work, he snags the last chair in Grissom's office, almost pulling it from underneath Warrick's butt. Warrick swats him on the head, but otherwise doesn't really retaliate, and they exchange friendly insults until Grissom walks into the room to hand out assignments. Something easy, Nick begs silently. Please, something easy for once.

"Nick, Sara, double shooting at The Lakes. Martin and Abigail White," Grissom says, passing the slip to Sara. "Brass is waiting for you there."

Less than an hour later, looking down into Marty's lifeless gray eyes, Nick wonders how he didn't feel the faintest premonition when Grissom gave him the assignment. But then, how could he have? He'd never known Marty's name. And he'd never known that Marty was married. All of a sudden the bile rushes to his throat and he barely makes it outside.

"What's the matter with you?" Brass asks in surprise, when Nick straightens up. As murder scenes go, this one is rather tame; they've all seen much worse, without tossing their cookies.

Nick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Flu, I guess," he mutters, then bends over retching again, but there's nothing left. He remains with his hands braced on his knees, trying to regulate his breathing. He wishes it was daytime, as if somehow the flashing strobes on the police cars and the coroner's van would look less harsh if weren't dark, as if the pale faces of the neighbors standing behind the police tape would somehow be less scared or morbidly curious. He wishes he'd been assigned to the body dump at the landfill north of the city, along with Warrick. More than that, he wishes he'd never come to Las Vegas.

Listlessly he walks back into the house, pulling on a clean pair of gloves. He tries to concentrate on the processing the periphery of the crime scene, and not to look at the bodies lying on the bed, but it's impossible. The smell of blood is almost overwhelming and his stomach protests again and again, as he glances at the bed. From certain angles it doesn't even look like Marty and for a short while he allows himself the ridiculous hope that he's mistaken, fooled by a superficial resemblance, because after all, he's seen Marty from pretty much every angle there is.

"Hey, Nick? If you don't feel well, just get out of here. I'd rather know we haven't gone over a spot, rather than think we have and miss something."

For a split second he bristles at her tone and wants to protest, but he can't muster enough energy to do so. "Yeah," he says, stripping his gloves off and tossing them into his case. "I guess you're right."

"I'll tell Grissom," Sara says, her back to him as she dusts the dresser with fingerprint powder.

"OK. Thanks."

He should go to Grissom, tell him that Marty and he had been involved. They like to think that they preserve the victims' dignity, but the truth is that once you die, especially in an act of violence, you're stripped of your dignity and of all your secrets. Having seen the domestic arrangement, Nick doubts Marty keeps anything at home that would point to Nick, but what about at work? Or in his locker at the gym? Or what if somebody at the gym mentions him? "Yeah, Marty, he's friendly with that guy Nick, they spot each other. Often seen ‘em leave together."

This isn't Kristy Hopkins. They're not going to find his DNA, at least not at the murder scene. He should just tell Grissom. And then it occurs to him that in a lot of ways this is worse than Kristy. Kristy was an error in judgment, compounded by an unlucky coincidence. Early evidence is pointing to the fact that Marty is another error in judgment, compounded by another unlucky coincidence. How many times can be involved in a crime, whether he's the victim or a by-stander, and still hope that the Las Vegas Crime Lab will continue to stand behind him? Hell, some of them weren't that supportive the first time around, including Grissom. And he can't even contemplate the repercussions when it gets out that he was involved with another man. LVPD is not that open-minded, nobody is. Hell, not even he himself is, and he's never had much of a choice in the matter (although he's tried, God knows he's tried).

When you're innocent, you keep your mouth shut, he remembers Grissom saying, and really, it's the only course of action open to him. Sara served him with a ready excuse, even Brass can personally attest to the fact that Nick was sick. He'll fake the flu for a couple of days and when he comes back, he'll be assigned to a different case and it will all be over. He feels as if he's deserting Marty, running away and hiding, but he's sure Marty would understand all about hiding. Anger and grief make his eyes burn.

Of all the people Nick could run into first when he returns to work three days later, it has to be Grissom. Why would he have hoped for anything different, he asks himself in resignation.

"Feeling better, Nick?"

Nick waggles his hand. "So-so. Thanks." He smiles tentatively and tries to continue along his way to the locker room.

"Good. I had to pull Sara and the White case is still open. Why don't you work through the evidence she collected. It'll keep you indoors until you're 100% again," Grissom says blandly from behind him.

His back still turned to Grissom, Nick closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck! There's something in Grissom's voice, an expectant quality. No, it's just his guilty conscience; Nick's been this way since he was a little boy, convinced everybody knew when he'd done something wrong, often confessing to the crime before it had been discovered. My life would be a lot easier if more criminals were like you, his dad used to chuckle. Play it cool, he tells himself.

"Alright," he says, trying to sound nonchalant and starts to walk off again.

"In my office. Now." Grissom snaps behind him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He changes direction and walks into Grissom's office, Grissom following closely behind him.

"Sit down, Nick," Grissom says after closing the door. He props himself on the desk in front of Nick, half-sitting on it, one leg on the ground and one swinging.

Nick doesn't want to sit down. He hates the fact that Grissom will be looming over him, which is probably exactly why Grissom chose that position, but he doesn't see that he has much choice. Keep your mouth shut, Nick reminds himself. He sits down and stares at his hands.

"Here, take a look at this," Grissom says and hands him a sealed clear evidence bag, then crosses his arms against his chest.

Nick looks at the bag curiously, then ice water seems to trickle down his back as he recognizes the contents: an old, once dark blue, T-shirt, with the emblem of the Dallas Crime Lab on the chest pocket. He doesn't need to check to know that "STOKES" will be printed in faded letters on the back over the number 16, a relic from an old interdepartmental baseball tournament.

"Who... How...?" he asks stupidly. Grissom rarely processes the less exotic evidence in his own cases any more, let alone in anybody else's. Who else knows, Nick wants to ask. How many?

"With Warrick on leave and you out... sick, I thought I'd help with the outstanding cases," Grissom says. "This was in White's gym bag." He pauses. "Workouts certainly seem to be different these days," he adds in a silky tone that does little to hide the sarcasm.

"Did you process it?" Nick asks.

"I think I can recognize the look and smell of dried semen, Nick."

Nick's fingers clench on the evidence bag. He remembers that afternoon in the motel near the gym, Marty laughingly balling up the T-shirt and tossing it at Nick's head, after wiping Nick's come off his flat stomach. Nick wishes he'd kept the shirt, instead of throwing it back at Marty with the admonition that he should wash it, seeing as it was his fault it had gotten dirty in the first place. If he'd known Marty was married, he'd never have given the shirt back. He likes to think that if he'd know Marty was married, he'd never have been with him in the first place, but sometimes over the last three days he hasn't been very sure about that.

"Grissom..." he says hesitantly.

"Why didn't you tell me, Nick?" Grissom interrupts.

"When you're innocent, you keep you mouth shut," Nick mutters miserably.

"Not with me," Grissom says flatly.

Nick is startled into looking at Grissom for the first time since he walked into him this morning. Grissom is frowning and his mouth is set, but he doesn't look angry. Not really.

"Not with you?"

"No. Now get out of here and let's get some work done."

Nick gets to his feet and he tries to hand the bag back to Grissom, but Grissom makes no move to accept it, keeping his arms folded against his chest.

"Griss? What do you want me to do?" Nick asks uncertainly.

"I want you to go process the catalogued evidence on the White case. Can you do that?"

"Um, yeah. Sure. But..." But this is wrong, this isn't you, Grissom, he wants to say, but he can't utter the words.

"The catalogued evidence, Nick," Grissom repeats deliberately, then pushes himself upright from the desk and turns a little away, bringing the interview to a close.

Nick looks down at the bag in his hands. He nods, takes a deep breath, and turns towards the door. Grissom's voice stops him on his way out.

"Nick. Don't worry about this. Let's just say I owed you one."

Nick nods again and hurries out of the office. It's not until he checks the evidence log, checks it three times to make sure that he didn't somehow miss the T-shirt the first two, that he truly believes that Grissom has covered for him. He doesn't understand why, but Grissom has covered for him. In fact, Grissom has put him right where he can tamper with further evidence, if he needs to. It doesn't make sense and it's not right, and Nick has never been so thankful in his life, even as he prays that he doesn't find any further sign of his own involvement with Marty, because he's no longer only responsible for himself, but for Grissom as well.

"Any progress on the White case?" Grissom asks the room in general during the daily debrief. They're all seated around the meeting table, which is covered by a mess of papers, files and coffee cups.

"Apparently the guy was quite a player," Brass says. "If his wife hadn't also been murdered along with him, she'd be the first person I'd be looking at for this one. As it is, we've got a long list to work through."

"A jealous husband or boyfriend? But why kill Abigail White as well?" Sara asks.

"Or maybe a jealous wife or girlfriend," Brass suggests. "Martin White batted for the other team in his extra-marital affairs. Maybe Abby was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sara shakes her head. "No, a jealous spouse doesn't make sense. If she, or he, were only out to get Martin, why do it at night and in their bedroom, when the odds are high that she'd be there? They must have both been targets. A spurned lover works better: if he can't have Martin, then nobody can."

"Or maybe a three-way gone bad?" Catherine suggests idly.

Nick is staring at his clipboard fixedly, trying not to physically flinch from the speculative conversation around him. He's often contributed to these types of discussions, guessing at motives and circumstances, making assumptions in an effort to fill in an incomplete picture. Funny how cold-blooded and heartless it all now sounds, how completely and absolutely wrong.

"Nick? Perhaps you have something a little more tangible than pure speculation to offer?" Grissom prompts.

Nick looks up. "Nothing. Marty— Martin White was shot twice in the head and according to the PM died instantly. His wife was shot once in the head and once in the back; post-mortem indicates that she must have survived for at least 15 to 20 minutes before bleeding out. She moved around a little, which makes it hard to establish who was shot first, but from blood smears, we believe it was Martin. The assailant was standing at the head of the bed, on her side." Suddenly he becomes aware that he's been delivering his report to Grissom, completely focused on him alone and not even glancing at the others, and he hastily looks down at his notes again and clears his throat. "No fingerprints on the scene other than those belonging to the Whites and to their housekeeper, who has an alibi for that night." He falls silent again. He has more in the file, but he doesn't think it makes any difference to solving the crime, or to anybody but himself really, that the autopsy also revealed that they'd shared their last meal, steak and red wine, and that they'd made love not more than an hour prior to being killed.

"The housekeeper says that Mrs. White had been complaining that her husband was working long hours and was always exhausted when he was at home," Brass picks up from Nick. "His employers, on the other hand, say that for the past year he would often show up late for his shift and would never work a second one, even when directly requested to do so. What he apparently did during the time his wife thought he was at work was cruise gyms. He had memberships in six different gyms and managed to show up frequently enough in each one, that he was remembered by several other members. In three of the clubs we found guys who had gotten to know Martin White in the, ah... biblical sense, but apparently everything was very discreet; nobody knew about anybody else or that Martin White was married, although one guy said he suspected, but couldn't say why. All that sex and exercise, the guy must have had the stamina of an Ironman triathlete."

Warrick leans over to take a look at Brass' notebook. "Son of a bitch! Guess what Nick, he was a member at both my gym and yours. Where's his picture?" Brass hands him a photo and Warrick studies it for a few seconds. "Can't say I recognize him." He pushes the photo across to Nick. "What about you?"

Unable to stop his reaction, Nick shoves the photo away, nearly tipping over a half full coffee cup in the process. He saves it at the last moment. "I've already seen him in the flesh, remember?" he says roughly and a little too loudly. He doesn't have to look around to know that the entire team is staring at him and he keeps his eyes glued to his clipboard, trying to control the heat rising in his neck and cheeks.

Grissom breaks the awkward silence. "So we have nothing forensically and we're speculating jealousy might have been a motive. What about money?" Brass, Sara and Nick all shake their heads.

"They were comfortable, but living on their income rather than any savings," Nick says. After that they have nothing more to add. Grissom tells Sara and Nick to visit the scene again, in case they missed something the first time around, and he moves on to next case. Nick finally leans back in his chair, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.

He should quit. He should find a position someplace else, maybe doing something else, and leave Las Vegas. Who picks to live in Las Vegas, anyway, if you aren't born here? It's a town for spending a couple of nights, maybe even a couple of weeks, not for making a career or a life in.

At least before he only had loneliness to contend with. The job hours and the town itself, full of people with impossible dreams or short attention spans, or often both, make it difficult to establish any kind of permanent connection. And not only for him; he can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people in the Crime Lab graveyard shift who are married or even in long-term relationships. If they can't manage it, what hope does a closeted gay man have?

Sometimes, lying on his bed, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he imagines himself coming out to his parents and siblings, and imagines their accepting responses. Fuck, he might as well imagine a group hug at the end, and then himself hopping onto his private jet to fly back to his private island. Because Nick knows his family: they probably won't cast him out or anything, but they'll never accept that it's OK for him to be gay, and it would probably break his parents' heart. The whole mess with Kristy finally convinced him to stop trying with women, like it was some sort of sign, and he'd remained celibate until Marty came along, three months ago. Other than one guy in college, a secretive, guilt-filled and altogether highly unsatisfactory experience, Marty is the only man Nick ever slept with in his thirty-three years and it was the first time he'd felt that maybe what he wanted and needed wasn't so far out of reach. And then he found out that he was no more than a notch on Marty's belt. Not that he'd wanted anything longer term he tells himself, but maybe... Well, just maybe.

Now his personal life is more of a mess than ever, and he's compromised his professional integrity beyond repair, even if nothing ever gets out, and somehow he's responsible for Grissom doing so as well. No, not somehow. Taking the shirt from Grissom and walking out the office was a conscious acceptance of Grissom's offer. He might argue that Grissom should have never tempted him like that, but somehow he doesn't think Grissom was trying to tempt him. He'd simply decided on his own course of action, and he invited Nick to follow along. And like so many times in the past, Nick did.

The trouble is, he has no idea where he wants to go and he certainly doesn't know what else he could do, other than be a CSI or a cop. And even if he quits, it's not like the investigation will suddenly stop. At least, here he can still somehow oversee events, maybe even control their outcome. Other than the T-shirt, which he carefully laundered, folded and stuck underneath a pile of other ones in his bottom drawer, he found no further evidence linking him to the case. And by some miracle his name never came up at his gym. Of course the two of them had been discreet, but Nick never realized how expert Marty must have been, until he heard Brass talking about more gyms and more men during the debriefing session.

Marty was certainly determined, making the first move, and the second, and a third and fourth as well, until Nick didn't have to think about what he was doing, only give in. You know it's what you want, Nick, Marty had whispered in Nick's ear, his moist, warm breath making Nick break out in goose bumps, and he'd been right, it was exactly what Nick wanted. But now he also remembers how Marty always steered the conversation away when Nick brought up maybe going out for a beer together, or Marty coming over to his place sometime over the weekend. In hindsight the evasions are blindingly obvious, and almost identical to ones he'd used himself when a woman became too clingy, but at the time Nick didn't see a thing.

Even though he's had a while to put it all together, somehow he can't quite accept that Marty was merely after a good time. Nobody works that hard at simply having a good time, he must have been looking for something that he just couldn't find. There has to have been something more to all this, something in Marty that made his and his wife's deaths a little less pointless, that deserved the risk Grissom was taking on Nick's behalf.

And as many times as he's gone over it, he can't figure out why Grissom did what he did. Let's just say I owed you one. What did that mean? Owed Nick one for what? For distancing himself from the whole Kristy Hopkins investigation, when one of his team needed him? For the times he'd given Nick a tough time about the stupidest things? Even if Nick totals it all up, if he tries to remember every single undeserved reprimand, and even the ones he did deserve, if he imagines that he'd been arrested two years ago, it still doesn't total up to the kind of debt Grissom seems to think needed repaying.

Walking into the lab a few days later, Nick sees Grissom deep in conversation with two men wearing suits and badges. One of them, blond with a receding hairline, looks vaguely familiar, but Nick can't place him. Looking for information, he pokes his head into the break room and finds Catherine.

"What's up with the men in black?" he asks.

"FBI. It's about the White case, but I don't know details."

"Oh," Nick mumbles and retreats to the locker room. His heart is racing. What the hell has he gotten himself into? He sits on the bench with his elbows resting on his thighs and his head clasped between his hands, staring blindly into his locker, trying to think. Why is the FBI interested in Marty's murder? And why now? It's been over a week without a single further development and they're just about ready to suspend the investigation.

"What's so interesting in there?" Warrick asks, leaning over Nick's shoulder to peer into the locker, and causing him to jerk in surprise.

Nick forces a laugh. "That's how I win the football pool, man. I commune with my locker."

"Better switch lockers then, because this one isn't giving you good tips. I take your money so often, I'm almost starting to feel bad about it," Warrick smirks. He holsters his gun and turns to leave, then hesitates at the door. "Nick? Are you OK? The last few days you've been kinda... I don't know, kind of out of it."

Nick smiles brightly. "I'm fine. A little burnt out, but it'll pass. It always does."

Warrick nods. "Yeah, I know what that feels like. Hey, why don't we go out for a couple of beers after work?"

"I don't know. I still feel a little weird drinking at nine in the morning."

Warrick laughs. "Man, sometimes I forget you're just a good ole boy from Texas. Kinda simple an' all." He gracefully avoids a flying shoe. "Anyway, if you change your mind, let me know."

"So what was the FBI visit all about?" Catherine asks Grissom from the back seat as they're driving out to a crime scene. Nick glances at the rear-view mirror and sees that she's looking at him, rather than at Grissom, a sly grin on her face. Good old Catherine: never even considers the fact that a subject might be out of bounds or none of her business.

"Apparently there have been twelve incidents similar to the White case across six states in the past ten years. Husband and wife killed in their bedroom, two shots each, same caliber bullets. This is the first case in Nevada that they know of. They're not releasing full details, but our old friend, Special Agent Culpepper, has been assigned to follow up and determine if our case is connected to the rest."

How could Nick not have immediately remembered Culpepper? The agent might not be the brightest bulb, but Nick remembers that the last time around, two or three years ago, Culpepper had been suspicious the lab had been withholding evidence from the FBI. Chances are, that's going to be his first reaction again now.

"So what do we do?" he blurts out.

"We share our findings with the FBI and co-operate fully," Grissom says mildly. "What else?"

The steering wheel is suddenly slippery in Nick's hands and he tightens his grip on it, thinking feverishly. Sara gathered most of the evidence, Grissom catalogued and processed some of it and he did the rest. What if they missed something? What if, concerned with ensuring that there was nothing further to implicate him, Nick missed something significant, maybe not actually incriminating, but that will make them all look incompetent when the FBI finds it? And how can Grissom be so damn calm and complacent about the whole thing?

Suddenly he's angry, and he turns to glare at Grissom, but as he does so he again catches sight of Catherine in the rear-view mirror. He'd almost forgotten about her. He quickly looks ahead again.

"Co-operate fully, huh?" Catherine sounds amused. "Grissom, I'm so proud of you."

"Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber," Grissom says piously.

"Shakespeare?"

"Plato."

"Yeah, when I say it, you ignore me. If some twenty-five-hundred-year-old Greek says it, then you listen," Catherine grumbles.

Despite hours of near-stalking him, Nick hasn't managed to catch Grissom alone and he finally decides to take his chances in the break room, hoping that the others won't find the request out of the ordinary. Because it isn't, he tells himself firmly. "Grissom, we need to talk."

Grissom glances at his watch. "I've got a meeting with Culpepper in three minutes, Nick. Can it wait?"

"No," Nick says bluntly.

"Well, then I guess Culpepper will have to," Grissom says, looking pleased at the prospect. "My office?"

"Yeah, please."

Grissom sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair, as if he has all the time in the world.

"Well?"

"Grissom, the White case. Aren't you concerned about handing the evidence over to the FBI?"

Grissom shakes his head. "No. Why, should I be?"

Nick gapes at him. "What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

Grissom cocks his head, as if waiting for Nick to continue, but Nick can't think of anything further to say. Is he supposed to forget all about the T-shirt and his own involvement, pretend that this whole investigation was above board like Grissom seems to be doing, even when it's just the two of them? He has hundreds of questions, questions he doubts he'll ever have the courage to ask. In any case, now certainly isn't the time or the place.

"I guess you should go. You don't want to antagonize Culpepper," he finally says.

"It wouldn't do to appear too helpful," Grissom says with a sudden quick smile. He gets up and walks around the desk to stand in front of Nick, so close to him that Nick can see that his eyes have flecks of deeper blue in the blue irises. "Nick. I already told you, don't worry about this," he says softly.

"I'm not a child. You can't just tell me not to worry. You never even processed my shirt, you don't know what happened," Nick says hotly, only just remembering to keep his voice low.

"No, I don't. Do you want to tell me?"

"It's just... How can you trust me like this, Grissom? How can you put your job on the line for me?"

Grissom reaches out and for a confused moment Nick thinks that he's about to take his hand, but Grissom opens the door instead. "I have to meet Culpepper," he says and walks out, leaving Nick alone in the office.

Nick sinks down on the chair again, his thoughts swirling. For the first time it occurs to him that maybe Marty's death had nothing to do with his lifestyle. And if Nick had admitted to his connection with Marty up front, it might have changed some things for him personally, but his job would have been safe. Now, if the FBI decides to do some fieldwork, it might still come out that Nick had known Marty personally. At the very least that will raise the question of whether Nick told his supervisor. He can deny having done so, but he's pretty sure that, if asked directly, Grissom won't. And then they'll both be well and truly screwed. All because he didn't have the courage to do the right thing.

Surprisingly, the person that seems most upset about handing the case off to the FBI is Sara. "So they just take over without any explanation? That's it, we're out of it?" she asks for what seems like the hundredth time.

"It's not as if we came up with any answers," Grissom answers patiently. "They've determined it's connected to the other murders, and there are some details they can't release."

"So we know nothing?"

Grissom opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, as if reconsidering. Nick sees it and pounces. "What? Did they tell you something?" he asks, trying not to sound too anxious.

Grissom thinks a couple of seconds before responding. "As far as they can tell, the unsub first picks the wives. They all fit a certain body type, look and age and they were all married, with no children. That's where the obvious similarities end: some didn't work and those that did had jobs ranging from train conductor to university professor. Eight of them had had their hair cut within two weeks of their being killed. Five of them belonged to health clubs. Two of them belonged to a reading club."

"What about the husbands?" Nick asks.

"Nothing in common between them. Three different races, eleven different professions. A wider range of ages than those of the women. White wasn't the only one with extra-marital affairs, but as far as the FBI knows, none of the rest had any homosexual encounters."

"So how do they know the cases are related? Maybe the wives resembling each other is just a coincidence. Thirteen murders in twelve years? It's not that unlikely," Sara says.

"The method of shooting. Always from the wife's side of the bed. Two shots each, the husband first."

"It doesn't seem like much to go on."

"Maybe if there were more to go on, there wouldn't be thirteen cases," Grissom says. "And as I said, there are some details they're not releasing." He shrugs on his jacket, then slams his locker shut "Anyway, it's been a long shift. I'll see you guys tonight."

Sara and Nick stare at each other, both still feeling as if the carpet has been yanked out from under their feet, although for different reasons.

"Breakfast?" Sara asks finally, and Nick nods.

It takes almost three weeks for Nick to decide to talk to Grissom. Actually he'd screwed up the courage to do so once or twice before, but other things intervened. Nick needed to testify in court and missed his shift, then Grissom was away on a business trip for a couple of days. Arranging a time and place for the discussion takes more planning and Nick can't come up with anything satisfactory. He finally he gets his chance when, after shift one day, he sees Grissom's car with the hood up. He walks over and sees Grissom in the driver's seat, trying to start the engine. There's a clicking sound, but the engine doesn't turn over. Nick bends down and knocks on the passenger-side window. Instead of rolling it down, Grissom leans over and opens the door.

"It's completely dead; the power windows don't work," he explains.

"Do you want a ride home?"

Grissom hesitates. "I probably just need a jumpstart," he says. Nick nods and they try it, but the engine still refuses to turn over. The sun is starting to climb and it's getting hotter.

"Grissom, why don't you just arrange to have it towed and then I'll take you home?" Nick says impatiently. Grissom agrees reluctantly and after calling his mechanic and arranging for him to pick up the car key from the lab receptionist, he climbs into Nick's truck.

After all that, Nick wastes most of the drive searching for the right opening to what he wants to say. He's already turned onto Grissom's street before he even starts talking.

"Griss, I never thanked you for... well, you know for what."

Grissom doesn't respond. He's looking out the window and seems lost in his own thoughts.

"And anyway," Nick continues doggedly, "I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know, taking that kind of a risk for me." He rolls to a stop in front of Grissom's house. "You shouldn't have done it. It was too much. I acted stupidly and you shouldn't have covered for me."

Grissom remains quiet, but he makes no move to climb out of the truck. Nick turns off the engine, but leaves the key in the ignition so that the a/c keeps on running. He absent-mindedly adjusts one of the vents, so that the cold air can cool his flushed face.

"Why did you do it, Grissom? What did you mean, you owed me one?"

Nick turns sideways in his seat so that he can look at Grissom. At first he thinks that Grissom is relaxed, but then he notices the knuckles of both hands gleaming whitely and a muscle ticking irregularly in Grissom's jaw, visible even under the beard.

"For things in the past," Grissom says vaguely.

"What things?" Nick reaches over hesitantly and puts his hand on Grissom's, where it grips the armrest. "Griss, nothing you ever did to me deserves your risking your career for me."

Grissom jerks his head dismissively, as if he doesn't want to talk about it any further, but he still stays put. "So what happened? Between White and you? I take it that it was between him and you, and not his wife and you?"

Nick let's go of Grissom's hand. "What do you think happened?" he asks sharply. He should be angrier at the question, but there's something in Grissom's voice, a thread of uncertainty that he's never heard before, and it has a calming effect on him.

"Were you in love with him?"

"No. It was just sex," Nick responds, knowing as he says it that that's all it was.

Grissom turns to look at him, his eyes sparkling brightly in the shadowed cabin, then looks away again. There's tension radiating from every pore of his body. More confidently this time, Nick lays his hand on Grissom's again.

"Grissom. Talk to me," he says quietly.

"We're even now. Anyway you look at it, we're even," Grissom says. "You've handed me more power over your career than you ever should have or than I deserve. And now you have power over mine. Or if you want to look at it differently, you've always been loyal to me, and I returned that loyalty."

"I would never have been loyal to you if you'd behaved as stupidly as me," Nick says, picking the only part of Grissom's small speech that he understands.

Grissom grins. "I've never behaved particularly intelligently, not where you're concerned," he says dryly.

"What do you mean?"

Grissom just shakes his head and looks away.

"Grissom. What do you mean?" Nick asks again, tightening his hold on Grissom's hand. Grissom still doesn't respond and ordinarily Nick would give up and back down, but every instinct he possesses tells him that Grissom's answer is important and that he has to hear it, so he waits.

"I love you." Grissom says finally, so quietly that Nick reads his lips more than hears him. Unconsciously he leans forward, trying to look into Grissom's eyes, to confirm that he just heard what he thinks he did. Grissom doesn't avoid his look this time, but his expression is shuttered, giving nothing away, and Nick can't tell what he's thinking or feeling.

"You're not to blame," Grissom says in an even tone, "but I've been treating you as if you are."

This time it's Nick who looks away as he tries to put his racing thoughts in some order. He's always been aware of a strange tension in his relationship with Grissom. At first he'd attributed it to Grissom's lack of faith in his professional competence, so he worked hard to prove himself over and over, but just when he'd feel like he was making some headway, Grissom would slap him down again. Finally he just decided that he rubbed Grissom the wrong way; he regretted it, he sometimes envied the level of communication that the rest of the team achieved with Grissom, but there was nothing much he could do about it. He appreciated the moments they were in harmony, when being with Grissom felt as natural and comfortable as being with his best friend, and tried not to take the rest of it too personally. After all, Grissom was not exactly known for his people skills.

And now this. It's surprising and crazy, it explains nothing and everything, and even though he's half-convinced that he's completely misunderstood what Grissom is saying, it feels right in a way he can't even begin to explain.

"I'm not to blame?" he asks finally, and, despite the tangible awkwardness, he can't help smiling. "Grissom, only you would think in those terms about something like this." He laughs, and he doesn't let go of Grissom's hand, even when Grissom tries to pull it away.

"Yes. OK. Anyway, now you know and we can forget all about it," Grissom says tersely.

"So what happens tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Do you go back to treating me like before?"

Grissom suddenly smiles, and Nick senses that he's just lost whatever control he had over this discussion. He loosens his grip on Grissom's hand, but instead of pulling away now that he can, Grissom flips his hand so that their palms are touching, Grissom's warm and slightly rough against his own, and unaccountably Nick's groin tightens and his mouth goes dry.

"Probably. But at least now you'll know why," Grissom says.

"And what if I love you back?" Nick asks huskily, the question coming out of nowhere.

Grissom looks at Nick, his eyes unreadable. "Do you?"

Nick hesitates. "No. But I might, in the future." And sitting in the truck with Grissom, their palms touching, his loving Grissom seems entirely possible. In fact, it suddenly seems a complete certainty, an unalterable future, and Nick's heart kicks in his chest.

"Well, if you do, let me know." Grissom says. He climbs out of the truck and then looks back at Nick. "You asked me how I could put my job on the line for you, Nick? When I found that shirt, despite the fact that you hadn't come to me, or maybe because of it, it was the easiest thing." He shakes his head and shrugs, as if he still doesn't understand it himself. "The easiest thing in the world."