Title: Singing in the Shower
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: Loving someone doesn’t mean loving everything about them.

His brother once called him a pie-eyed romantic, but Nick’s always considered himself the ultimate realist. Optimistic, maybe, but a realist. So there were many things he’d prepared himself to put up with when he decided to accept Gil’s invitation to move in with him.

Boring movies, for example. No, make that depressing boring movies. Many in black and white. Mostly with subtitles. Call him shallow, but every once in a while he likes the latest blockbuster that isn’t supposed to make him think deep thoughts. Still, what’s a couple of hours here and there? At least he can catch up on his sleep.

Or weird things in the fridge. When Gil pointed out that not all were experiments, he wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or run for the hills. And if that whatever-it-is in the red bowl is supposed to be a healthy snack, why isn’t Gil eating that instead of Nick’s left-over fried chicken? At first Nick tried hiding his own snacks, but there are only so many hiding places in a kitchen. Especially when the guy you’re living with just happens to be a CSI.

And the mess. With seven offspring, Nick’s mother had ruthlessly drilled into them from early childhood that there was a place for everything, and everything had to be in its place. Anything that was left lying around was given away, no exceptions, and Nick still rues the day he forgot his favorite Hot Wheels car under the living room coffee table. It’s obvious Gil never learned that hard lesson in life, and it’s only the dread of playing Felix to Gil’s Oscar that keeps Nick from obsessively tidying up every time Gil leaves a room.

At some point he had a misguided thought that he might shame Gil into being tidier. “What if somebody like us ends up having to investigate here?”

Gil was searching through a stack of journals, occasionally pulling one out and looking at it in a perplexed fashion as if he’d never seen it before, but he stopped to consider Nick’s question.

“OK, I’ll play along. Am I dead?”

Nick saw where Gil was going with that question. If he were dead, he wouldn’t be worrying about what people thought of him.

“No, you’re the perp,” he said with some relish. “Alive, and in custody.”

“So my collections would help obscure the trail of evidence? That would be good, right?”

“The falsely accused perp.” Collections. Yeah, right.

“But you’d help prove my innocence, wouldn’t you, Nick?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Nick muttered darkly, but he couldn’t resist breaking into a smile at Gil’s laughter.

But this is all minor stuff. Other things are more serious, because they seem to point to deeper, maybe even irreconcilable, differences in their characters.

Like Gil’s almost fierce determination to remain emotionally detached from everything. Maybe it’s a good strategy on the job, but in their personal lives it frustrates Nick beyond belief.

“Don’t you ever get angry?” he asked Gil once.

“Of course I do.”

“So why don’t you ever show it?”

“What do you mean? I show it.”

“No. You show annoyance. At most, irritation.”

Gil shook his head. “What do you expect me to do? Rant and rave?”

“Well, yeah. If you feel like it.”

“I don’t. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”

“That’s the point. It’s not supposed to serve a purpose.”

“Well, then,” Gil said with finality, as if he’d just proven his own point.

And then, there are the times when Gil withdraws into a shell, a place where nothing or no one can reach him. Not even Nick. Growing up with six siblings, Nick knows all about the need to develop one’s own personal space, even in a crowd, but he’s also used to talking things out. You have to. He hates not knowing what Gil is thinking, and it’s hard to keep various insecurities from creeping in, to wonder if he’s done something to upset or offend Gil. He doesn’t expect Gil to share everything with him, but this total freezing out makes him uncomfortable and resentful, even if it only lasts a few hours.

“What’s the matter?” he used to ask at first, but he finally gave up, because the answer was always the same: a puzzled “Nothing.” Nick finally figured out that Gil wasn’t lying or prevaricating, that his withdrawal means nothing more than his preoccupation with something that is generally either work or insect related, and that as soon as he solves whatever it is, he can start concentrating on other things again. It still bothers him though.

The final and biggest problem didn’t come up until approximately a year after they’d been living together. The first few times, Nick was amused. Then it started happening more and more often, until it’s become an almost daily phenomenon. Actually, it’s more like an inescapable force of nature than a mere phenomenon. He has to broach the subject. Either that, or move away. Several states away. But how do you order someone not to sing? Especially when it’s first thing in the day, and there’s somebody still trying to sleep in the next room?

Whoever it was that said that everybody sounds good singing in the shower has obviously never heard Gil. Apparently Gil doesn’t hear himself either. The only blessing, if you can call it that, is that despite a wide and surprisingly varied repertoire, ranging from rock to opera, with even some country thrown in, Gil doesn’t know all the words and he hums through parts. If Nick squeezes the pillow over his head tightly enough, at least he doesn’t have to listen to the humming.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Nick groans in protest and buries his head deeper under the pillow. He feels Gil’s fingertips trail down his bare back in a brief caress.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Up and at ‘em.”

Nick pushes the pillow off his head and turns on his back, glaring blearily up at Gil.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Gil raises his eyebrows in smiling disbelief. “No? You could have fooled me.”

Tell him. Tell him now.

“What’s with the singing?”

“Huh?”

“Singing. In the shower. What’s up with that?”

Gil sits on the side of the bed, hitching his towel more firmly around his waist. There are still small drops of water gleaming on his shoulders.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Do you think you could, ah, keep it down?”

“It bothers you?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“OK. I’ll stop.”

Although Gil doesn’t seem particularly troubled, Nick feels guilty. He’s not really sure he wants Gil to stop. “I mean, you never used to sing,” he tries to reason, more with himself than with Gil. “It’s not like it’s something you do.”

“I guess not,” Gil agrees. Suddenly he leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of Nick’s body, so that he’s looking down at him. “I guess I’m just happy.”

Nick knows Gil loves him. He’s always known. But this is the closest Gil has ever come to actually saying it. “Yeah?” he chokes out.

“Yeah.”

Nick runs his hands along Gil’s arms, feeling the warm, still damp skin against his palms. “Maybe if you just stop the country songs? It’s worse when I actually know what it’s supposed to sound like.”

Gil laughs. “I’m not really that bad, am I?”

“Gil, you have no idea.”

Maybe he can get up as well, and go jogging when Gil gets up for his shower. He wonders how the thought never occurred to him before now. Or maybe he should just join Gil in the shower, keep him otherwise occupied. Yeah, that sounds even better. Compromise. It’s what living together is all about.