Title: Smoke Jumper
Author: Maribou
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG
Summary: A lesson in longing.

***

It was supposed to be Greg's first paragliding lesson. Nick knew he had the same day off and had invited him to go, told him he'd love it. He agreed, but it was really the rapturous look on Nick's face when he talked about flying over the desert that enticed Greg. That and the idea of a day together. He was so excited he put on cologne as he was getting ready, but then he'd remembered it wasn't a date, and he scrubbed it off with a washcloth. He knew he'd have to share him with the class and the instructor, but even so, without Warrick or the rest of the team around, it seemed special somehow.

Nick showed up early, wearing jeans and boots and a big grin. He was in such a good mood he even let Greg pick the radio station, and they talked the whole way there, mostly about the lesson.

"Are you nervous?" Nick asked him.

"No." Greg lied. "I mean, yes."

"You'll love it."

"What do I do?"

"Just leap. The wind will do the rest."



Greg watched Nick kick at the rough surface of the parking lot – parking field, really. They stood maybe a hundred yards from the edge of a promontory overlooking the desert. Wind stirred the dust around then and came in sudden gusts, whipping Nick's jacket tight against him. The teacher, Kevin, apologized.
"Sorry guys," he paused to brush his long hair out of his mouth and behind his ears, only to have the wind tear it loose again. "This shit just came out of nowhere. Next weekend, okay?" He waved and moved on, wrestling a heavy pack along with him. Nick scowled, and Greg looked away and quietly watched the other students climb back into their cars and leave one by one.

"He's right, you can come back next weekend," Greg offered.

"Yeah, but you can't." Nick said. The disappointed look on his face tore at Greg, but he was secretly glad that Nick wanted him there just as much as he wanted to glide, if not more.

"What do you say to lunch?" Greg asked. "It's still a beautiful day, wind or no wind."

"Good idea. I packed the good stuff," Nick managed a smile.

While Nick opened the SUV's tailgate, Greg grabbed their lunch from the cooler wedged in the middle seat. They sat on the tailgate and ate the sandwiches with gusto – real pork barbeque on semolina buns, washed down with cans of cold, cheap beer.

"Is this actual Texas barbeque?" Greg asked through a full mouth messy with sauce. "Because I'm impressed."

"Hell yes," Nick declared. "I made it myself on the grill."

"Mmm, George Foreman style." Greg teased.

"Hey man, if you'd packed lunch we'd be eating ramen right now," came Nick's retort.

"You're probably right, but I can guarantee you the beer would be better."

"Dollar beer is what you drink with barbeque. It's tradition."

"I'm not complaining," Greg said, then let out a tremendous belch. He saw Nick shake his head. "In some cultures, that's a compliment."

"I can't take you anywhere." Nick laughed and gave him a playful squeeze on the shoulder. Greg shivered, and it wasn't from the wind. He looked down at the can in his hand, already empty, and traded it for a new one.

"Lone Star," he looked closely at the can. "The National Beer of Texas. Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

"National beer? It's a state."

"It was once a country, you know." Nick laughed.

"If PBR and Lone Star had a war, who would win?" Greg wondered.

"Like the Bud Bowl?" Nick took another bite of his sandwich.

"Yeah, but with nuclear weapons."

Nick laughed and almost choked, and Greg pounded him on the back.

"Easy there, Mama Cass."

"Greg," Nick wheezed. "You're killing me."

"You're the one who wanted me to jump off a cliff today."

"I thought you liked taking risks," Nick countered and gave a final cough. His face was flushed from coughing and despite the wind he pulled his jacket off and sat only in a t-shirt, which the wind pulled taut against him until Greg could see the outline of Nick's pecs and nipples through the thin cotton. Jumping off a cliff was not a risk; a risk would be running his hands under that t-shirt and touching the warm skin beneath it, leaning in to kiss him and taste barbeque sauce.

"Look," Nick said. Greg turned his gaze to where Nick was pointing, upwards, and saw a large bird flying in circles above them. "It's a hawk."

"How do you know?"

"See how his wing tips bend upwards?"

Greg watched the hawk continue his lazy, free pattern through the wind. Then returned his attention to Nick, who was watching the flight with an expression Greg couldn't name.

"That could have been us today," he said.

"Yeah." Greg nodded. "Could have been."



They drank the last of the beer and sat in pleasant silence. Nick closed his eyes and leaned back against the edge of the doorframe. Already half-hard, Greg willed himself not to do it, but he couldn't help looking at Nick, his arms and legs and the beginnings of a sunburn that stretched across his perfect nose.

"Food coma," Nick muttered. He opened his eyes and smiled at Greg. "Enjoying yourself?" Greg nodded and hoped he hadn't been caught staring. He felt a blush coming on.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Greg asked. "I'm quitting," he added quickly. "I just need one every now and then, you know, if I'm having a nic fit." Nick looked at him and pursed his lips in an odd way, half amused, half devious. He nodded.

Greg already had his pack and lighter out before it dawned on him, what he'd said without really saying. A nic fit. It was perfect. It was terrible. He flicked his thumb over the lighter again and again, but the spark wouldn't take.

"Come in here," Nick was busily clearing the back of the Tahoe, pushing aside stacks of old Sports Illustrated issues, a rumpled sleeping bag, his pack and kit. He scooted back and patted the space next to him. "Get out of the wind."

Greg complied, even though the fit was close, and the roof of the vehicle so low that they both had to recline in order to rest comfortably. Nick watched Greg fumble with the lighter.

"Fuck," Greg cursed with his lips tight around the cigarette.

"Are you sure you're a smoker?" Nick ignored the death glare. "Give me that." He snatched the lighter and cigarette. Greg laughed when Nick failed, too. Nick swatted at him and peered closely at the useless lighter.

"I think I found your problem, G."

"The shakes?" Nick gave him a grin, but his eyes looked sad for a second. He held up the lighter, its' translucent yellow casing glowing like gold in the last of the sun. "Oh, it's empty," Greg realized.

"I've got some matches in the glove box," Nick said as he passed Greg the unlit cigarette and stretched back until he could reach the passenger's seat. Greg tried not to stare as Nick's t-shirt rode up and revealed a glimpse of a well-toned stomach, and then gave up completely when Nick shifted to his knees, providing Greg a handsome view of denim-clad rear end. God, he needed that cigarette.

"Aha," Nick called, then gave a sexy grunt as he settled himself in the cushion of his sail bag and tossed a matchbook at Greg.

"My hero," Greg sang. "I bet you were a boy scout." He was surprised by his own sudden boldness. Flirting in the safety of the lab was one thing. It was almost like everyone expected it from him there, good old goofy Greg. Out here though, where it was just the two of them, Greg could almost delude himself into thinking this was a date. And that was not good, not good at all. Nick just laughed and ducked his head.

"Be prepared," Nick quoted. They fell silent. Nick studied his empty beer can before setting it in a cup holder, and Greg tore a match from the book. The match grazed across the strip and hissed to life, the flame hot between his fingers. He inhaled and savored that first drag, the crème brulee taste of it, the faintly sweet burn in his throat. He felt soothed and excited at the same time. He exhaled, the matchbook still in his left hand. Nick plucked the cigarette from his grasp and took a drag, just watching him through the smoke until Greg had to look away.

"Close cover to strike," Greg read. "I never really got that sentence, you know? I mean, I know what it means, but it just sounds funny, like you're supposed to strike the cover and not the match." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. "I think they just put that there so you're forced to look at the logo as much as possible. It's an advertising conspiracy." He trailed off, squinting at the matchbook in the waning light. It was familiar: the black background with raised gold lettering, the tiny glyph of a pair of face cards.

"Queenie's," he read to himself. "Nick? How do you have a matchbook from Queenie's in your car?" Nick coughed, but Greg could swear he was smiling. He watched as Nick dragged a thumbnail across his eyebrow, the cigarette leaving a wispy concentration line in the air.

"Well," he began. "Probably the same way you know what Queenie's is."

"Ah ha," was all Greg could say. He set the matchbook down. Hope and smoke and the three beers had made him dizzy, and he forced himself to meet Nick's eyes.

"I thought you didn't smoke," Greg said, one side of his mouth raised in a teasing grin.

"I don't," he said. Greg raised an eyebrow. "Only when I'm nervous," Nick admitted. He held out the last of the cigarette. Greg took it, sitting up and inhaling with a practiced grace. He tossed the filter out of the back and watched the wind carry it to the ground, where it settled in the sandy gravel.

"Me too," Greg said. For a long moment he looked out at the darkening sky. A few bright stars were visible, and the light had flattened the surrounding terrain into broad strokes of earthy gray and pale brown, except towards the west, where the sinking sun colored the earth a burning orange. He emptied his lungs and felt the wind all around him, rushing through his thin sweatshirt down to his skin. It seemed like a moment he ought to remember: this is when it might have happened.

"What are you thinking?" came Nick's voice, low and calm. Greg turned and felt his gut twist at the sight of him, lying back on his elbows with his legs stretched out lazily, his head pillowed on the pile of bags behind him. Greg had never seen Nick so relaxed, looking warm and solid in the pale pink light of the sunset. He made his heart ache.

"That you look..." Greg paused. "You don't look nervous."

"You do," Nick whispered.

The wind filled Greg's ears. He sat perched on the edge of the tailgate, facing Nick with his knees tucked under him. He thought of the hawk, of the steep drop now hidden in the growing dusk, of Nick flying, telling him to leap.

***