Title: Sober
Author: Emily
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Summary: As Nick works a case that hits close to home, his relationship with Greg evolves.

***

Nick had a bad feeling. It hooked its claws into him during breakfast, and clung there all day. His sleek black pickup eased to a stop on the wet pavement of a desolate parking lot in front of a sleazy motel in East Las Vegas. "Vacancy" blinked the sign, and police lights pirouetted across Nick's tired face. The lot was littered with uneasy guests, sirens wailing, the whole scene like a junior high school dance gone wrong. But this was Nick's dance, the same steps he'd taken a thousand times across oil-smeared pavement, blood-stained carpet, semen soaked sheets. He gazed up ruefully at the sign, realizing that he'd spent a night or two here. He tried to remember... Cory? Kevin? Something... someone like that. He shook his head, ran a brooding hand through his hair. He rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, gathered himself, and started up the staircase towards the rickety railing, where Brass stood, his index fingers pressed under his chin, looking his usual meditative self.

Nick couldn't help but grin to himself, his square jawline setting slightly. Captain Brass amused him immensely. He struck Nick as the kind of man that is, to all appearances, so straight and narrow that he really must have some kind of bizarre kink. Plus, Brass's interrogations were funny as Hell to watch.

Warrick was leaning in the doorway to room 213, sliding on a pair of gloves. The blue overhead lights gleamed off his cheekbones, made his eyes all but disappear into their sockets. Still, there was a shimmer to them that told Nick he was holding back tears, and Nick's mouth went dry wondering what exactly he was about to see.

"Hey guys," said Nick.

"Hey," said Warrick, in that tone that let Nick know right off the bat that he was in the middle of a bad day and not feeling sociable. Nick took it in stride, held back a little smile. Warrick was like that, and you just had to let him wash over you sometimes. Maybe it was just Cath messing with his head...

Then again, his own life wasn't so neat and tidy was he pretended it was. Nevermind those nights that he occasionally broke down over a carton of Chinese take-out, or that he held his pillow tight to his chest and buried his face in it, or that he put roses in a tall drinking glass on his table for Valentine's Day.

"What've we got tonight?" he asked Brass, peering past Warrick, into a room with walls the colour of faded wine stains.

"Two D.B.s," replied Brass, in that voice that almost made it sound like he was selling something. "The maids found them this afternoon."

As Warrick stepped aside and Nick entered the crime scene, he winced as a shred of bile jumped up his throat. The stench of a cheap motel room mixed with that of death was something he was fairly used to, but these guys were so... so young... and right away, Nick's stomach knotted and he understood what this was all about. So did Warrick, which definitely explained his dour appearances. Brass seemed jovially oblivious.

To Jim Brass, most of these cases were generally the same. Somebody whacked somebody else, usually for a very poor reason. But for Nick, and also for Sara, every case became intensely personal. Nick remembered the warnings during his training as a CSI; never ever let yourself get attached. It only leads to pain, exhaustion, and frustration. But sometimes for Nick, it was the only thing that kept him going on a case, and sometimes it was his only reward.

Nick dropped to his haunches, jeans constricting across his thighs, and began to photograph the first corpse. He bit his lip, closed his eyes. Couldn't be older than 20, thought Nick, zooming in on what was once a very pretty face. He was sprawled naked across the mattress, bruises and gashes blanketing his torso, hands draped over the edge of the bed. Nick lifted a palm, examined it. He collected a nail scraping, slid off a thin silver ring. It was caked in blood, but left a shadow of unadulterated flesh on the boy's ring finger. Nick let the ring fall onto his own gloved finger, stopping at the second knuckle. He examined it. No engravings, no design, no jeweler. Just a simple, silver loop. He sighed, wondered how long the boy had worn it, who gave it to him... made it clear that this wasn't about robbery.

"This's disgusting," muttered Warrick, turning the head of the other man. One of the eyes was gone, the other a piercing, unnerving sapphire. Nick snapped more photos.

"Looks like something metal, probably a crowbar."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. I've got bruises and open wounds." He motioned for paramedics to move the body from the floor.

"Did yours have a ring?"

"Yeah. Class ring." Warrick held it between his thumb and middle fingertip, squinted thoughtfully at it. "Class of 2003."

"That the only one?"

"Yup," answered Warrick, dropping it into an envelope.

Nick felt an itching on the roof of his mouth, coughed a little. Someone had been smoking, he realized. He reached for the ashtray on the night stand... ash residue, but otherwise empty. Still, he bagged it. Suddenly Nick realized that he wanted a cigarette. He hated smoking, hated even being around it, but right now it just sounded perfect and self-destructive and he wished he weren't too proud to ask Warrick for one of his...

"I've got a cigarette," announced Warrick, reaching under the bed with a pair of tweezers. He examined the butt, sucked right down to the filter, pinched in at the middle, probably by someone very very nervous, thought Nick.

"Those things can kill you," Nick said aloud, more to remind himself that he DID NOT SMOKE, and didn't need to start.

Warrick shot him one of those, "Are you dumb or just trying to be funny?" looks, and Nick looked away. He imagined that cigarette between pursed lips, tip glowing, the last breaths of these boys filled with noxious, choking smoke. The moon glinted through blood-spattered window panes, and Nick wondered how something so despicable could take place under such a breathtaking sky.

But that's Vegas for you, he thought. By day a wasted desert, by night a shimmering Atlantis, and so many of the things that seemed beautiful at night aged and seethed with frightening shadows during the daytime.

***

"Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips..."

Nick pressed on the glass door, sliding it silently inward and open, a thin smile climbing up the corners of his mouth. The evidence tucked beneath his arm was urgent, but he had to pause for a moment, had to cock his head to the side, had to watch Greg's gravity-defying hair bobbing up and down in time with the music. Greg was singing in a way that let Nick know he still thought he was alone. Greg acted like he wasn't surrounded by glass on three sides, and it made Nick a little jealous, a little possessive, made him wish just a little that he could have Greg in a glass box, singing off-key, all to himself.

"Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor," sang Greg, drumming on his knees, eyes closed tightly. "Michael you're dancing like a beautiful dance-whore..."

Part of Nick told him to turn around, told him to leave Greg to the music, not bother him with with blood and saliva. Sometimes he wondered how someone doing the kind of work Greg did could remain so blissfully optimistic. How could someone so perfect at his job, someone so good at finding microscopic clues on bits of fabric not notice that he was being watched? Nick glanced down at the case of samples, checked his watch, sighed.

He stole three steps towards Greg, soft as he could manage.

"Michael waiting on a silver platter, nothing matters, nothing matters now." Nick's hand alighted on the back of Greg's chair. He could smell Greg's hair... coconut... Nick closed his eyes, felt Greg's hair tickle, just barely touch his cheek. He wanted to run a hand through it, grab a fistful of it and turn Greg to face him, but... and besides, Greg had a thing about people touching his hair. Nick smiled. It was kind of cute, if ironic. What, like someone might mess it up?

All too quickly, he felt the chair swivel out from beneath his hand, and found himself nose-to-nose with a very startled, beet-red Greg.

"Nick!" he veritably squeaked, waving with one hand to turn the stereo down. Nick straightened, confining his own blush to his ears, boyishly thrusting his evidence in front of Greg.

Greg pawed through the case, nodded to himself, and then looked up at Nick, one of his dark eyebrows raised in accusation. "What were you doing?"

"I was..." Aw shit. "I was just..." Nothing? Nothing, Stokes?

A bemused smirk played across Greg's lips, his blue eyes ran down Nick so fast that Nick wasn't sure he'd seen it. Greg folded his arms, the sleeves of his shirt peeking out from the cuffs of his lab coat. "I suppose I can't blame you," he said, his legs outstretched, rocking his chair slightly with his heels.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Nick, folding his own arms across his chest, feeling very suddenly and unpleasantly naked.

"I am rather magnetic," shrugged Greg, returning to reading evidence labels. He was relieved that Nick hadn't seemed to notice the once-over, and yet somewhat disappointed. It had been four years since they started working together, and Greg Sanders still hadn't figured out Nick Stokes. He had watched him, teased him, flirted with him, and was nevertheless completely clueless as to how Nick felt about him. And Greg hated feeling clueless, because, well, it was his job to figure things out.

The truth was, he hadn't even been able to figure out how he felt about Nick. On the one hand was the eight-year age difference and the fact that Nick was from Texas, and on the other side of things was the way Nick actually listened when he spoke and the way he was always so focused at work, which Greg found an inexplicably sexy contrast to his own more casual attitude about things. Plus, if you said the word right, "Texas" could sound kind of hot. And Nick drove him absolutely crazy. The way he was always barging in, demanding that his evidence be priority, always criticizing, nit-picking, leaning in over his shoulder, like he thought... what? Like he thought Greg couldn't do his job? Well, it's hard, with somebody's face right next to yours all the time, somebody's hand on your shoulder, somebody's dark eyes watching your every move...

Greg's stomach fluttered, and he reminded his mouth to start circulating saliva again.

Even as he had drifted off into thoughts that choked him, Nick had placed a hand on the nape of his neck. Greg felt his hair starting to rise...

You shouldn't be touching, Nick chastised himself, but his hand refused to move. He knew that if someone just came up and put a hand on his neck, he'd... well, depends who it is. He let his hand slip away from Greg, mustered his most serious, not-at-all-distracted- by-the-way-Greg-absently-touches-his-ears voice and said, "I need you to process this tonight."

He laid the ring and the cigarette butt on Greg's work station. "Especially these two."

"These from the dead faggots?" asked Greg, trying to sound apathetic. He waited, expecting an affirming chuckle from Nick to break his heart, but it was Nick who felt a sharp pain criss-cross the base of his throat.

"I never picked you for the homophobic type," was all he said with a pointed coldness. But Greg could hear the waver in his reply, and he wanted to his himself in the head for getting things so very wrong.

"Nick, I didn't mean..." But he turned just to see the door closing behind Nick.

Oh shit, thought Greg. Oh God I didn't mean it, you idiot!

He practically flew from his chair, caught the door, and fled after Nick down the darkened hallway, his lab coat flapping after him. He could feel eyes on him, heard someone ask "Greg?", but he didn't care. He reached out to touch Nick's shoulder. "Nick, I..."

Nick whirled around, eyebrows furrowed, head lowered in that way that made Greg's heart leap into his mouth. "What?" It sounded more like a threat than a question. Greg's lips wrenched themselves around some words, but the right ones refused to come out.

Nick tapped a foot on the slick black linoleum, tilted his head to one side and leveled his eyes at Greg, told him to either run away or kiss him.

"Listen, Sanders," said Nick in a low, sullen voice, "I've got a lot of work to do tonight. You know, even dead faggots have families that might like to have some closure." Greg felt panic creeping up his sides, between his ribs, into his lungs, felt his own words slitting his throat from the inside. "Nick, I... I didn't mean it like that, I was just... it's just that it's been a really long shift and I was being facetious and I..." He stole a desperate glance at the clock. "It's almost one in the morning, and I haven't had any coffee and I just don't know what I'm saying anymore." He looked at Nick hopefully with those earnest puppy eyes that cracked Nick's shell a little.

"Please let me make it up to you," said Greg plaintively. "Let me buy you a drink after our shift? Please?"

"Um..." Nick squinted at him in the dim lighting, obviously disoriented by the direction the conversation had suddenly twisted. "Okay..."

"Thank you," breathed Greg, relief flooding from his eyes.

"Um, I've still got a lot of evidence to sort out," said Nick, jabbing a thumb in a random direction.

Greg nodded ardently. "Oh, yeah, yeah, okay. I'll uh, I'll get right to your cigarette," he effused, jerking his head in another random direction.

Nick turned and Greg's hand fell from his shoulder. Greg had completely forgotten it was there.

***

For Greg, the night drew out lethargically. Time dragged its heels against his anticipation, and suddenly every DNA test he ran took forever to process, the printer eternally slow, and even his emergency mixed tape couldn't take his mind off how achingly sluggish the evening was passing.

Carefully isolating the saliva from the cigarette, he couldn't decide whether he was really excited, or just tripping along the edge of a panic attack. Maybe Nick hadn't understood him right. Maybe Nick was just a super-sensitive guy with a gay brother or... or... Greg's mind clutched frantically at reasons that this whole thing might turn out to be a nightmare. And furthermore, what was his plan of action? He was pretty sure that cute-but-stoic Nick wasn't going to by as easy to impress as the naive college boys he was used to. This was a new horror in itself; what if Nick laughed in his face? What if Nick already had a nice mature boyfriend and they shared a Labrador and a toothbrush? What if it was just pity that made Nick say yes? Oh God, that was an unbearable thought.

But still, every time he glanced over to Nick's station, saw those broad shoulders hunched over what was undoubtedly some very important casework, Greg couldn't help but smile, couldn't help but stop to stare until Nick shifted positions and he hurriedly turned back to his work station.

With every minute that passed, a flood of nervousness rose higher and higher in Nick's throat. Couldn't he rewind the evening? It was flying by, and he knew he wasn't getting anything substantial accomplished. He could've just let Greg's comment slip. Since when did he take Greg seriously anyways? He could've kept walking, could've made up some lame excuse about having a previous engagement, or a lot of work to catch up on. He rubbed the back of his neck, realized that he had the power to abort what was surely an impending disaster at any moment. Was this a date anyway? He'd guessed that Sanders was probably at least bi, considering the whole Sara thing, but, thought Nick, some guys are just really good at hiding it. He should know. He knew Greg had taken a huge risk by asking him out. It occurred to him that maybe Greg genuinely believed that by asking, he ran the chance of being punched in the face and called a queer. Nick frowned slightly. Was it too late to cop out? But whenever he looked across the hall at Greg, he had to smile as Greg quickly averted his eyes and pretended to be busy at his computer.

"Find something interesting?" asked Grissom, stepping into Nick's field of view. He looked exhausted, noted Nick, moreso than usual, and that beard was getting out of control. "What?" A slightly delirious grin lingered on Nick's lips. He drowned it quickly, and said, "Oh, this? No, nothing interesting. Do we have I.D.s yet?" He could feel Greg watching him again, but locked his gaze on the dark rings under Grissom's eyes.

"Pulled them from the motel registry," answered Grissom, sliding two manila folders across the brightly lit table. "Will Baker and Benjamin Rath, both 20."

"And C.O.D.?"

Grissom cleared his throat, glanced over his shoulder. Greg nearly fell down trying to look occupied, and Nick barely suppressed a laugh. Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong with Sanders?"

"Just the usual, I think," said Nick, quickly looking down at the photos of the boys.

"On Will, blunt-force trauma to the abdomen, causing broken ribs and a punctured lung."

Nick recognized the azure eyes of the boy on the floor.

"And our boy on the bed?" he asked, cringing at his own nonchalance.

"Benjamin had a crushed skull."

"Sounds more personal," managed Nick, putting a hand to his cheek. Benjamin Rath had been very pretty... had thick dark hair and bright lurid eyes. Nick wrinkled his forehead, tried not to look like this got to him, which it did more and more every second those two photos stared up at him.

"Rape kit came back negative," continued Grissom, doing Nick the courtesy of not looking directly at his face. "But the two vics had engaged in consensual sex about half an hour prior to their deaths."

Even Grissom couldn't help but perceive the pain that darkened Nick's features.

"Tomorrow I want you and Warrick to make some house calls."

"Sure thing," nodded Nick robotically.

"Hey Nicky," ventured Grissom, a hint of concern invading his voice.

"Yeah?" asked Nick, still not looking up from the photographs.

"Get some sleep tonight."

"Yeah, sure," said Nick without thinking. As Grissom shuffled from the room, he had to admit that an evening with Greg was starting to sound more desirable all the time.

When Nick finally washed his hands and headed out of the lab, he could see the slim silhouette that belonged to Greg already leaning up against his truck, the streetlight catching in his hair, making his profile glow gold. He had his hands deep in his pockets, rubbed at the pavement with the ball of one foot. Nervous, observed Nick, flattered.

"Hey!" shouted Greg, hopping up and down slightly when he saw Nick approaching. He was tense, shoulders up near his ears, elbows jutting out to the sides. Okay, and maybe a little cold, thought Nick, watching the steam dragons slither out from Greg's lips...

Nick grinned broadly, and for the first time that night he relaxed. And Greg loved the way Nick's face creased around the corners of his mouth and nose, and loved the way his eyes got those little crows' feet, and he loved how white and straight Nick's teeth were, and... "Settle down, G," said Nick, placing a firm hand on Greg's shoulder to still him. He unlocked the truck and asked, "Did you have any place in mind?"

"Naw," said Greg bashfully, sliding into the leather seat, pushing it back as far as it would go. Nick tried not to mind when he put his feet on the dashboard. "I..."

"Do you have a favourite place?" suggested Nick, gunning the ignition and reaching for the radio.

"Yeah," smirked Greg. "It's called my couch, an X-box, and a bottle of tequila."

"That's..." Nick blew a stream of air out the side of his mouth. "That's kind of depressing, Greggo."

The voice of Garth Brooks came cracking through the speakers, and Greg threw Nick a priceless, "Oh Please No".

"Fine, you find something you like," said Nick, pulling the truck onto the freeway. He regretted it as soon as it came out. "What is this?"

"Oh nevermind," pouted Greg, returning the dial to Nick's station. "It's your car anyway."

"Truck," replied Nick without thinking.

Greg laughed, his head against the seat-back, neck arched in a way that made Nick drift into the right-hand lane. He wanted to bite, wanted to kiss, oh God, just to touch. He felt the steering wheel pressing uncomfortably against his crotch and sucked in a sharp breath. Greg's laugh turned into more of a giggle, and he wiggled his feet.

At an eternal stop light, Nick looked over and grinned, noticing that Greg had misbuttoned his shirt. It was plaid and flannel and a little too big, and Nick could tell it was one of those shirts that's so soft you can just fall asleep in it. He wanted to see Greg sleeping in that shirt, or out of it, for that matter.

"Green light," motioned Greg. Nick slammed the gas in surprise, and hoped that his blush was hidden in the darkness of the cabin. Greg laughed again, that very throaty, feathery laugh, and Nick wondered if he was at all ticklish.

They drove in silence for several blocks, Nick trying to focus on the road, Greg gazing up at the lights as they passed overhead, smiling as his own reflection disappeared and then reappeared in the window.

Nick cleared his throat. "You know, it's not incredibly romantic or anything, but there's this liquor store that sells this great blackberry merlot, and I know we could find some place with a nice view and..."

"Who said anything about romantic?" interrupted Greg, shooting one of those mopey, sidelong glances that made Nick want to kill him.

"Dammit, Greg, don't make me regret this..."

"Okay, okay, sorry," laughed Greg, putting a hand on Nick's knee. "It will be totally romantic." He made his best effort at a serious face, before it broke into a wiry smile. Nick turned on the air conditioning.

He swallowed, hard. He was trying, but he couldn't process that he was on a... what was it? A pseudo-date with Greg... annoying, quirky Greg Sanders... that they were driving around in his truck looking for a liquor store and a place to park and what if anyone found out about this?

Nick's breathing became shallow, mortified. What if he slept with Greg? What if Greg expected more from him? What if he expected more from Greg? That fear was enough to make his knuckles go white around the steering wheel. What if they wound up fighting and Greg decided to stick it to him at work? He's looking at you right now. Nick's ears were on fire. Greg's lips parted slightly, his teeth glinting, chest rising and falling rhythmically, evenly, one hand playing with his hair as he eyed Nick with an avarice that could not be mistaken for anything else. Nick's eyes rolled back momentarily at the thought of how that hair would feel pressed against his stomach, tickling between his thighs. Drive, Stokes.

When Nick's truck lurched to a stop in front of Vegas Liquors, he instructed Greg to wait in the car. When Greg insisted on at least paying, Nick shook his head, smiled, and said "You owe me one," and went inside the store.

Greg fidgeted inside the truck, watched the door impatiently. He pressed the heel of his palm against his erection. "Fuck," he muttered to himself. It was beginning to dawn on Greg that Nick was probably not the kind of guy who would just put out on any old date, and although it frustrated him tremendously, Greg had to admit that he'd be disappointed if Nick were anything but a gentleman tonight...

But then of course there was the other side of Greg, the side that simply demanded things without really caring what else happened. That side was manifesting itself rather powerfully, and Greg had to let his belt out a couple notches to readjust himself.

After what seemed like years, Nick emerged from the barred doorway carrying a large black bottle, and suddenly getting drunk seemed like the best course of action to Greg. It might help him clear things up a bit, he decided.

Nick opened the door and handed the bottle to Greg, who examined the label and held it up to the light.

"Looks yummy," he commented, uncorking it and taking a long swig. "Tastes yummy too." He took another drink, felt the bubbles dancing and twisting on his tongue. "Hey," objected Nick. "Leave some for me."

"You?" asked Greg, incredulously, pointing the neck of the bottle at Nick. "You're going to be driving. You shouldn't drink and drive, Nick."

Nick was about to grumble something when he was hypnotized by Greg's throat, muscles flexing, Adam's apple sliding up and down as he drank, eyes closed, dark wine seeping out the corner of his mouth.

"You know," said Greg, stopping to wipe his lips on the back of his hand, "You can touch me if you want to."

By the time Nick eased his truck to a halt in front of Greg's apartment building, he was so hard he thought he might pass out. He had managed to keep his hands entirely to himself as Greg downed the whole bottle of merlot with remarkable efficiency, and giggled and babbled about work at the lab and nothing in particular.

"See," he slurred. "The thing about DNA is... it's microscopic. So you reeeeeeeeally have to squint to see any of it."

Nick unbuckled his seatbelt, folded his arms across the wheel, by now sticky with his sweat, and rested his head against them. He wanted... God, he wanted Greg so badly, but Greg had decided to get drunk, and something in Nick forbid him to touch. He knew he would feel guilty, feel like he was taking advantage of Greg, feel like maybe Greg thought he had to get drunk. Nick bit his lip to hold back a whimper of frustration, the tension in his thighs becoming increasingly unbearable. It was such a nice night out, he thought. It was chilly but not cold and he could be curled up warm and in bed, alone or not, and instead he was sitting in his truck with an incoherent Greg, barely fighting the urge to just pin him to the seat and...

He saw Greg out of the corner of his eye scoot closer to him on the seat, felt hot, soaking wet breath snaking in his ear, "Do you want to come up?" A wave of shivers passed over Nick as Greg's lips grazed his temple. Greg leaned into him, placing a warm hand on Nick's thigh to steady himself. Nick felt his knees part slightly, heard Greg's salacious breath roaring in his brain.

He lifted his head, turned to look at Greg, opened his mouth to say something. "Greg, you..." was all that escaped before Greg grabbed a handful of Nick's shirt and pulled him into a sloppy, violent kiss. Greg's tongue filled his mouth, tasted like blackberries and glass and something that was just Greg. Nick's chest tightened, and he realized he wasn't breathing, couldn't breathe in fact, but didn't really seem to care. He winced as Greg bit his tongue, tried to back away, but Greg had a surprisingly strong grasp on Nick's collar, and Nick could feel Greg's knuckles pushing into his chest.

Finally Greg came up for air, his lower lip swollen and red, steadying himself on the passenger side door with his elbow. He lowered his chin, looked up at Nick with devious and inviting eyes.

"Well?"

"Greg, you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," insisted Greg, his elbow giving way as he fell into Nick's lap. "My tox screen came back, and I deduce that I am most definitely not drunk!"

Nick laughed and pushed Greg back up. "It's been a great night, Greg, but I think it's time for you to go to bed." He walked around to the passenger side door and opened it, catching Greg before he could fall out, and lifted him to his feet.

He propped himself under Greg's armpit and helped him across the parking lot. Greg's toes dragged over the pavement as he insisted that he could walk if he really wanted to, and he was just doing this to make Nick feel useful. Nick grimaced and shifted under Greg's weight. He was heavier than Nick had anticipated, and his face started to turn purple as he pulled Greg up the staircase.

After Greg had tried five times to open his door, Nick snatched the keys away from him and opened it, flicking on a light switch. Nick had to confess he was impressed with how clean Greg kept his apartment, except for the garbage can, which was overflowing with empty Hungry Man Dinner treys. Nick wondered if Greg really was a hungry man, or if maybe he was just a hungry boy, or maybe just a bit peckish.

An expensive-looking aquarium hummed and cast a dim glow across the room, and Greg's answering machine blinked a red number one somewhere in the kitchen.

Greg was already asleep by the time Nick placed him delicately on his side, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. Nick sat at the end of the bed, checked his watch again even though he didn't care what time it was, and unlaced Greg's Converses for him. As his shoes came off, Greg curled his legs up into his chest. His feet smelled, but then, whose didn't?

"Maybe some other night, huh?" said Nick, close to touching Greg's hair, but not wanting to wake him. Greg let out a faint whimper that made Nick laugh quietly to himself. A thin creek of drool was already meandering its way down Greg's chin.

Could've gone worse, admitted Nick, locking himself out of the apartment. As he walked out under the dark desert sky, he breathed through his nose, let the heavy air sting his sinuses. He sighed, suddenly felt as tired as he really was, ran his fingers through black hair. He clasped his hands, and stretched his arms, felt his shoulder blades crack. He turned to look up and over his shoulder at the dark window that he guessed was Greg's. A not insubstantial part of him wanted to run back up the stairs and just fall asleep next to Greg, but that would be rude, kind of creepy, and besides, he'd already locked himself out.

Craning his neck to look at the stars, Nick wondered where he was going to wind up spending the last night of his life, whenever that was. He wondered if he'd ever wake up in a place he knew with a person he loved, or if it would always be late night infomercials and too much NyQuil. He thought about Will Baker and Benjamin Rath, and wondered if they had been happy that night when they checked into that hotel. Wondered if they were afraid at all. He thought about kissing Greg Sanders absolutely everywhere, thought about holding Greg's wrists down to the bed, thought about going home and taking a hot shower.

***

Benjamin Rath's mother appeared at the door in her robe and slippers, like an apparition of the woman she was last weekend, and Nick could tell that she hadn't slept in days. She had light olive skin, and her hair was a tangle of night and silver-grey. Her bleary eyes appraised him hopefully as she invited him without a word into their home.

It was plain that nothing in the house had been moved since they received the news of Benjamin's death; the paper from that day flung against the arm of the couch, the digital clock blinked midnight over and over. It depressed Nick, but at least he knew they hadn't cleaned his room or washed his clothes.

"Mrs. Rath, I'm sorry to bother you..."

"Please take whatever will help you find out what happened to Ben," she interrupted softly.

Nick understood that to Mrs. Rath, nothing seemed important; that all those things she'd been meaning to do would never be done, that all those trivial conversations became just a waste of a ghost's breath.

In the living room, Mr. Rath sat in front of the television, holding his head up, elbows propped on his knees, four days of stubble consuming his face.

"Steven, this is Mr. Stokes," whispered Mrs. Rath. "He's here to look through Benny's things."

Steven Rath blinked up at Nick with an absolute emptiness, breathed heavily, and turned himself back to C-span without so much as a nod. Nick watched the tiny television screens reflected in his eyes, their images contorted with tears that were not going to fall. Mrs. Rath folded her arms and shuffled to the bottom of the staircase. "Ben's room is the first one on the left," she said, lifting a slender, trembling arm.

"Thank you," mumbled Nick. He was just another cop, after all, just another someone who wandered coolly in and out of the darkest part of their lives. He wanted to explain that he really did care, and not just because it was his job.

The hallway smelled like Febreeze and potpourri. Kurt Cobain framed with stolen police tape drew Nick into Benjamin's room.

It was a lively room, thought Nick. Zebra-striped sheets, a pink inflatable couch, a dying strobe light convulsed, forgotten and dangling from its cord in the corner. And yet not atypical. Jeans and boxers slumbering on the floor, waiting for their boy to pick them up and give them form again, half-empty pop cans and bootlegged CDs on the desk. Benjamin was in to David Bowie, Alice In Chains, and some local bands Nick had never heard of.

He started at the bottom of the closet, usually a good place for secrets to congregate. He uncovered some puzzles, boxes full of old colouring books and school projects and crayons. Little scraps of paper everywhere, ideas Benjamin had written down, snippets of poems and songs, "to do" lists, notes to and from friends. Nick had to pause for a moment, remind himself that this wasn't his life, that none of these notes were addressed to him. Look away. Breathe.

The drawers of the desk were the same, packed with doodles and photos that Ben found interesting enough to hang onto. Friends. Lots of nameless friends. Girls with pony tails and heart-shaped glasses, grandparents, boys with brave tans and freckles, and a particular photo that made Nick's heart pounce. Not terribly out of date, he hoped. Benjamin kissing another boy on the cheek, obviously laughing while the other boy looked into the camera and blushed. It was a cute photo, taken during the summer, the sun glaring in the background, trees and grass a verdant green, both boys wearing sleeveless shirts and khaki shorts. Benjamin wore a pair of oversized sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair, the other boy's eyes smiling beneath amber-red bangs. Nick frowned, bagged the photograph.

The afternoon was so bright outside that Nick had to draw the blinds. He turned out the lights, peeled back the bed clothes, and began to meticulously examine the sheets under the UV. Splotches of ejaculate shimmered like stars across the bed. Nick wondered if Benjamin knew how beautiful he was, wondered if he knew that he could have any confused high school guy he wanted. He collected the sheets into a plastic bag. Greg would have fun with this. Greg... Nick had been trying not to be preoccupied with Greg. He could sense that Greg was embarrassed, sensed that Greg was nervous. But this gave him a perfect reason to go see him... made sure Greg had to talk to him.

Nick was worried about him, thought maybe he had a drinking problem, but was also flattered that he got so deep under Greg's skin. Nick reflected on Greg's boasting about his "conquests", wondered if any of it was true or if it was just Greg a rise out of someone... Nick became retroactively jealous.

He had always wanted Greg... ever since their first shift together. Greg stalking down the hallway with a mug of hot coffee, humming to himself, not watching where he was going, spilled scalding liquid all over the front of Nick's brand new pants. It had been adorable to watch Greg stammering apologies as he tried to mop up the floor with his sleeves.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Greg Sanders." He looked up from under that heap of mismanaged hair with those wide eyes. "I'm the new lab tech."

Nick had lost track of how many times that Look had worked its trick on him, made him do and forgive things he hadn't meant. Greg was like a fountain... energy, words, answers, questions, laughter, electricity all flew from him. Made Nick feel so... so lethargic and inadequate. Some nights when he had pulled a double and was up way too late, Nick would stand, yawn, stare at a piece of evidence for hours, when Sanders would walk by, raise an eyebrow, and say, "Whatcha doin'?" in that way that let Nick know he had figured something out. He would love to harness the energy that was Greg, would love to feel that excitement flowing around himself. And it made his day all the more unbearable when Greg so studiously avoided him.

But this- he held out the sheet -this ensured him at least two minutes with Greg. He wondered how Warrick was doing at William Baker's house. Nick had a feeling that this wasn't about Will Baker at all... Will was probably just a nice kid who wandered into the crossfire. He thought about laying down on Benjamin's mattress, putting his hands behind his head, seeing the ceiling the way Ben had seen it as he fell asleep, but Nick already knew how things look from that perspective.

"Did you find anything useful?" asked Mrs. Rath when Nick came downstairs again. Behind her, Mr. Rath sat rigid, listening, but lashed tightly to the television. If he let go of that screen for one second he knew he would have to face his wife, his empty house, have to lose it completely.

"Yes, ma'am, I think I did," said Nick, aware that the Texan was pouring out a little thicker than usual. It was something he did, reflexively, when he was addressing someone's parents. "Can you tell me," he asked, handing Mrs. Rath the photography, "Who's the boy your son is kissing?"

"Oh that's..." she was thinking, unfazed by Nick's loaded question. "His name is Matt... Matt Hart? Matt Heath?"

"Heath," piped Mr. Rath unblinking, monotone.

"Matt Heath," she said more confidently, turning back to Nick.

"Was Matt over here much?"

Mrs. Rath shrugged. "Ben used to bring him over all the time."

"What happened?"

"I don't know exactly." She bit down on her thumb nail, trying to remember without crying. "Ben just told me that Matt had become a different person. Said he wasn't ready to be himself yet. He acted like he didn't care, but it upset him." She sighed, smiled faintly. "He really liked Matt..."

"Did they both go to Silverado?"

"Yes," she replied. Then timidly, "You don't think... you don't think this has anything to do with Benny's being... gay, do you?"

"I honestly don't know," said Nick, the lie stinging his tongue a little. "But I promise I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out." Nick's mouth filled with a dozen promises that he could never see to keep, and all he could cough out was the ever-pathetic "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am."

But she looked up at him with sincere, thankful eyes and said, "I know you are," and Nick realized that she knew all about him and that she forgave him for all of it, and his jaws quivered as he held himself back.

***

"Well," said Greg, fanning himself with a folder. "I have some bad news, and I have some really great news."

"Listen Greg, just get on with it." Warrick tapped his foot expectantly.

"Let him do his little dance routine," whispered Nick. Then to Greg, "Okay, I'll take the bad news first."

"Excellent choice," said Greg with a grin, coloring slightly. Warrick arched a questioning eyebrow at Nick, who shrugged and mouthed, "What?" Warrick rolled his eyes and turned to Greg, "Enlighten us."

"Well, I'll try." Greg paused. He liked to be as dramatic as possible about these things; the lab was not exactly a hotbed of adventure, so he had to make his own. "The bad news: I ran the saliva from the cigarette butt, and it belongs to neither of the vics, and also nobody on CODIS."

"Great," groaned Warrick, letting his hands fall to his sides.

"Ah," said Greg. "Now ask me for the good news."

"What's the good news, Greg?" Warrick asked, a thin blade of anger slicing into his voice.

"The good news is that I'm still single." He threw a garish wink at Nick, and Nick could feel the heat rising in his face. He stared at the floor, and Warrick stared at him, slapped his palm against his forehead and scowled. "Oh man! That was really too much."

Nick looked up, shooting Greg his best, "You're dead" glower, and then resumed smirking idiotically at the tile.

"Seriously, G," he said to his shoes.

"Seriously Nick." Greg was grinning broadly, very pleased with himself for making the most self-possessed man in the entire world of crime scene investigation blush like a little girl. "The good news is that the person who was smoking at the crime scene," he motioned to the sheet suspended on the wall, "is also the person who supplied the semen in Benjamin Rath's bed."

"Thank you," sighed Warrick, exasperated. He turned on his heel and started out of the room.

Seizing their first private moment together for hours, Greg leaned in close to Nick and murmered, "Be sure to read everything in that folder."

Nick strode out of the room, brushed past Warrick who had paused in the hall, eyebrow still raised, waiting for Nick to appear in the doorway.

"Hey," he said in a low confidential tone, "Something up with you and Sanders?"

"Hhmmm?" asked Nick, examining the contents of the case file.

Warrick rested his weight on one leg, pulled the folder from under Nick's nose. "Is there something going on with you that I should know about?"

"Nah," said Nick, reaching for the folder.

"You sure?" He crinkled his forehead.

"Yeah yeah, let me have the folder, huh?" Nick looked up with the most ingenuous expression he could manage.

Warrick rolled his eyes and thrust the file back into Nick's chest, said, "Okay," in that way that told Nick he didn't buy a word of it.

"Tomorrow, we're going to find this Matt Heath," said Nick after a leaden silence. "Yeah," nodded Warrick.

"You got plans for tonight?"

"Yeah," replied Warrick with a hint of anticipation.

"Yeah?"

Warrick looked at Nick with mock-surprise. "You expect me to tell you anything?"

"No, I guess not."

Warrick slid his arms into his bomber jacket, rolled his shoulders, and shot Nick a knowing smile. "Have fun with Greg," he said, throwing a two-fingered wave over his shoulder. "I will," said Nick without thinking.

He shuffled to the locker room, his eyes roving the evidence folder, puzzling over what it was that was supposed to leap out at him. He turned the final page, and a grin stole up his lips. Sticky notes. Greg loved sticky notes. They adorned nearly his entire computer monitor, sometimes scrawled with illegible, important-seeming reminders, sometimes little games of solitary tic-tac-toe, or a doodle he was particularly proud of.

"Remember my apartment number?" inquired the first note in a languishing cursive.

Nick nodded unconsciously, peeled the note away. Folded it into his pocket.

"Remember that I owe you?" teased the second. They were even different colours.

Nick's smile wound even tighter.

"I'll be waiting... very patiently." Nick drew a hard breath.

"Try to hurry."

Nick removed the final note, jammed it in his back pocket with the others, and headed out to his truck.

He couldn't decide whether he should drive fast, as his body urged him to do, or take his time, enjoy this moment of anticipation for all it was worth. He settled for sporadic bursts of speed broken by moments of deceleration and distracted thoughts. The lights of the city all seemed to converge over Greg's apartment, all seemed to be luring him there. He felt safe, all of a sudden, didn't feel nauseous like he usually did when he was driving to meet a guy. He wasn't under that light headache, wasn't sweating, wasn't thinking about maybe turning around, renting a movie, falling asleep alone on his couch.

He could feel himself going hard, blood rushing downward. A shroud of euphoric pinpricks descended over him, his chest welled against the seatbelt.

It figured that he'd hit every stop light on the way there.

The truck was still moving when he opened the door, the radio and lights still blaring when he killed the engine Staring up at the window that he knew was Greg's, he thought he had seen a silhouette, wondered what was waiting for him, what was Greg wearing?

Well, why are you just standing here?

The night smelled like rain, the door smelled like cigarettes and perfume, as Nick rocked back on his heels and punched the call button.

"Who is it?" asked a catty voice.

"Um, Greg?"

"Yes?"

"It's me... Nick."

"Nick?" dripped the voice.

Nick glanced nervously from side to side. "C'mon Greg, just let me in."

"In? Oh, alright. You're no fun, Nick."

A mild buzz sounded, and Nick opened the door. He took the stairs two at a time, slowed down as he passed an elderly women, tried to look casual. He wondered how much Greg's neighbors knew about him, wondered what they thought of him. Did Greg play his stereo too loud? Did he sing in the shower?

Nick knocked "shave and a haircut" out of habit, heard a voice from within answer, "It's open."

The apartment was softly lit, Nick could hear the refrigerator humming, followed the icy flickering of the television set. A Spanish soap opera made doubly corny by the fact that the TV was muted. He saw the back of Greg's head, saw Greg's right foot crossed onto his left knee, twitching restlessly.

"Man that was a long shift," broke Nick, letting his weight crash onto the sofa beside its slim occupant. Greg's eyes danced along with the movement on the screen and he tried to repress a shiver at their proximity. Nick could almost see the gears grinding away inside Greg's head. Greg was fishing for something that might make Nick laugh, but all that he found was a chorus of apologies. Apologies for getting drunk and making an ass of himself, apologies for acting like a a teenager. Which seemed more appropriate? The apology followed by a joke? An apologetic joke? Just a joke?

"Nick, I..." was all he managed before Nick pulled him by his collar into a deep, cathartic kiss. A delighted gasp lodged in the back of Greg's throat as he leaned back into the cushions, placed his hands gently on Nick's chest.

Nick tasted Greg again, tasted licorice and mint. He started to run his fingers through Greg's hair, but recoiled reflexively. Greg's lips buzzed against Nick's as he laughed, grabbed Nick's hands in his own, and placed them firmly on his head. His scalp tingled as Nick's fingertips ran through his hair. It was soft, thought Nick, not spiky or brittle, but light and downy. He gently disengaged from their kiss, rubbed his cheek in Greg's hair, felt like he could fall asleep. He felt Greg's chin jutting into his shoulder, heard Greg let loose a soft moan.

"You know," said Greg, licking his lips wet again, "You're a much better kisser when I'm sober."

Nick's laughter melted away any tension that had still clung to either of them.

"I... I uh, cleaned my bedroom," suggested Greg, unconsciously playing with his belt buckle. He tiger-eyed Nick through jungle-thick lashes.

Greg stood up. He offered a hand to Nick, who obliged him, entertwined their fingers, and followed Greg with hesitant footsteps into the bedroom.

Once the door was closed behind them, Greg lost no time in snaking his arms around Nick's waist and dragging him with unexpected force, onto the mattress. He thrust his tongue into Nick's mouth, felt the other man's weight pressing down as Nick propped himself up on his elbows. Nick's teeth caged a moan as he felt Greg's erection against his thigh, prompting Greg to emit a fountain of giggles.

Nick sat up, Greg still pinned and supine between his thighs, and hurriedly began to unbutton his shirt.

"Um," said Greg, stroking his lower lip with his index finger, "May I?" He slid up against the headboard, undid the top four buttons. He pushed Nick's shirt back far enough to pull himself up by Nick's strong shoulders and sink his teeth into the crook of Nick's neck. Nick's body shook, and Greg felt a low groan rising from Nick's stomach.

When Greg pulled away, he smiled proudly at the purple brand he'd left, knew it would stay for days, if he'd done it right. Nick gave him a look of shocked indignance that failed miserably to conceal his pleasure at being bitten.

Greg deftly undid the remainder of Nick's shirt, and slid off his belt before Nick could even look down.

"We lab techs have very good hands," he explained, lightly running a nail down Nick's flat stomach. He smiled as Nick's tummy tightened, for the first time realized how strong Nick was, how Nick could really break him...

He felt warm, rough hands racing up his sides, felt his old Manson t-shirt slip off his arms, over his head, heard it land somewhere on the floor. He hadn't noticed until then just how hard his breathing had become.

"What?"

Nick was staring down at Greg with an expression of awe, disbelief at how beautifully tan he was, surprised that underneath the dingy flannel and the faded shirts was an absolutely gorgeous physique... that perfect taughtness, visible exactly where muscles merged and layered. He thought about how amazing this would be if he were blind; just to feel Greg's body, inch by inch, but then, the sight of Greg's head lolling back on the pillows wasn't worth missing for anything.

Nick leaned down, threaded his right arm under Greg's back, lifted him to tongue-trace his collar bone. He felt Greg's hand meandering through his hair, down his neck, along his spine. Greg became entranced with the muscles on Nick's flexing shoulder blades.

Nick's heart was raging in his ears.

"I can undo a zipper with my teeth," offered Greg.

"You'll have to show me some time," muttered Nick, undoing his fly. He wrote a mental note to have Greg demonstrate in the very near future, but right now, he just didn't have the patience. Greg smiled at him innocently, his arms folded at his sides, a hand on each breast.

"Funny, somehow I knew you were a boxer-briefs kind of guy."

Nick looked down, blushed, grinned at the sight of Greg's boxers peeking out from his jeans.

"Funny," he said, snapping the elastic. "I always figured you were a commando kind of guy."

"Today's Tuesday," explained Greg. "Not on Tuesdays."

He obligingly arched his hips up long enough for Nick to slide his jeans off and cast them aside, and then they both needed a moment to catch their breath and trade appreciative gazes.

Greg couldn't get over how broad Nick's shoulders were, how gracefully the muscles in his neck dipped into his clavicle, how achingly hard his stomach was... suddenly it didn't bother Greg that Nick was older than he was, and from Texas. He wanted to know everything Nick had ever learned to do, wanted to bring out that side of him that he was so adept at hiding, wanted to make Nick seizure with ecstasy until he forgot everything but Greg.

Nick already had... everything that had bothered him the night before was vaccuumed away by Greg's half-lit expression.

Greg slid himself down on the mattress, and Nick's head jerked back as Greg sprinkled the inside of his thighs with light kisses. Nick was holding on to himself, trying desperately not to simply take a fistful of Greg's hair and shove his cock between tantalizing lips.

"Fff... oh fuck Greg," he whispered. "Please..."

Greg laughed a little maniacally, gently took only Nick's head into his mouth, swirling his tongue twice around it, and then returned to kissing Nick's thighs. He was startled when a powerful hand hooked beneath his shoulder and dragged him forecefully back up to the pillows. Greg lost his breathe at Nick's mock anger, laughed as Nick playfully pinned him to the sheets, a hand over either wrist, asked, "Do you know what I do to teases?"

"No," answered Greg childishly. "What?" In one dizzying motion, Greg found himself lying on his stomach. "Nick..." "Jesus Greg," whispered Nick.

Greg damned himself silently, jumped when he felt Nick's fingers tenderly, sorrowfully drawing across his back. He felt Nick's erection against the side of his hip.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said over his shoulder.

"Does it... does it hurt at all?" Nick's finger ran along one particularly pronounced scar that mapped a trail from Greg's right shoulder blade to the left side of his neck.

"Not really anymore. A lot of the nerve endings are dead."

It made Nick want to cry, knowing that he would never see Greg's smooth, bronzed back the way it had been before the explosion. That Greg would carry these wherever he went. He laid a kiss cautiously on Greg's back, tasted the salt of scars and sweat, felt a shiver shoot through Greg's body.

"I've... I've never let anyone touch them before," he said, almost to himself. "I'd let you touch them all the time Nick, if it meant I'd be close to you."

It hit Nick in the head like a rock, left him unable to breathe like a fall down the stairs. Greg wanted this to last. He wanted this to be more than one night. He wanted this to be more than just sex. And for the first time in his life, Nick wanted the same things. Greg turned onto his back, looked up at Nick with imploring eyes, pulled Nick's hips down...

Nick had always privately fancied that Greg was probably a screamer. Probably kept his neighbors awake with jealousy. But he never guessed Greg could've been like this. Greg's cognitive powers had disappeared as soon as Nick entered him. All the blood rushed to his dick, leaving his mouth with nothing to say except for nonsense interspersed with desperate, airy cries of "Nick!" Nick realized that Greg liked saying his name, and he liked hearing it. Greg was babbling, moaning, even laughing.

"Ohmygod, ohfuckinghell, ohfuckyouNick, ohyespleasepleaseplease..."

Nick clenched his teeth, still tying himself up, still determined not to let a telling sound escape his lips, but his moans seeped out, dripped down onto Greg. Greg held nothing back, arched up into Nick until half his body wasn't even touching the bed, letting out a supplication each time Nick's cock hit that spot that paralyzed him, made needles of red and purple cloud into his vision, made his shoulders wrench in their sockets.

It has never been like this, thought Greg in amazement. It has never felt this good, ever. He swallowed, blinked sweat from his eyes. He saw Nick, gazing right into him, riding the edge of coming.

But Greg couldn't make it last any longer. He felt his cock pressed between his stomach and Nick's, felt that sudden nova of rapture, hot and white and on his chest, gripped the sheets tight as he could, and Greg did what Greg always did when he came...

Oh my God, thought Nick. What have I done?

Greg was crying, silent sobs hitching in his chest, tears trickled down his cheeks, into the corners of the most contented, most divine smile Nick had ever seen. Greg wiped his eyes in time to see Nick's head throw back, his eyes snap shut, lips curl, and Greg dug his fingertips into his back as Nick muffled a groan in Greg's hair. The force of Nick's orgasm shook Greg, hurt him, made him want to start all over again.

Nick could not remember feeling so weary, so heavy as he did at that moment that he lifted himself just enough to rest his head on Greg's chest. Greg twirled exhausted fingers through Nick's damp hair. Nick listened to Greg's pulse slowing from its frantic pace. Soon it was all he heard. Soon all he felt was Greg's breath and fingers on his scalp, Greg's other arm draped over him.

"Fall asleep with me," whispered Greg, pressing a kiss into Nick's hair. But he could tell by Nick's even breathing, by a very faint snoring, that he hadn't needed to ask.

***

Greg could do a lot more with his mouth than open a zipper, but Nick wasn't thinking about that. As he rang the doorbell and folded his hands, he really wasn't thinking about the shower he and Greg had taken that morning, and he definitely wasn't thinking about those flexible surfer legs wrapped around his waist.

It was morning, and birds were waking up. The sun shone brightly in a cozy Las Vegas suburb, but Nick could still see his breath, wished he'd worn a heavier shirt. Warrick popped his neck, warm within his jacket.

The door opened slowly, and Matt Heath rubbed sleep from his eyes. He was wearing a pair of jean cut-offs and a pair of dog tags tapped against his pale chest. Nick started, barely recognized him. The fiery red hair was gone, and Matt groggily ran a hand across his shaved head.

"I'm Warrick Brown, Las Vegas Crime Lab." He flashed a badge, which seemed to wake Matt right up. "And this is Nick Stokes."

Nick felt uneasy, falling victim to a very obvious leer. Matt's emerald eyes took a very slow run up Nick, and an eerie smile contorted the left corner of his mouth.

Nick heard Brass whistling, standing a couple feet behind himself and Warrick. He held down a grin. He wondered what it was like in Brass's head.

Before Matt could say anything, a shrill female voice resounded from inside the house. "Matt, who's at the door?"

"Cops," answered Matt, not taking his eyes off of Nick. Warrick shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"We're not cops," interjected Nick.

"That would be me," said Brass with a wave.

A small woman, Mrs. Heath nudged her son out of the doorway, clutched her baby-blue bathrobe around her throat. "How may I help you gentlemen?" she said, not without a certain amount of hostility.

"We're investigating the deaths of William Baker and Benjamin Rath," said Warrick, folding his arms. "We have reason to believe your son might have some information that would help us."

Behind her, they saw Matt's shadow begin to pace in the dining room.

"My Matt wouldn't be able to help you," she said quickly. She began to close the door, when Nick stopped it with his arm.

"Well, we need to speak to him about that."

She shook her head vehemently, a curler coming dislodged.

"Ma'am," said Warrick, "Your son is eighteen, and we don't need your permission to speak with him."

"But you do need my permission to enter my house," she retorted. "And you are not welcome here."

"Ma'am we found... evidence of your son in Benjamin Rath's bedroom, and..."

She sneered faintly and declared in a loud voice, "Benjamin was a depraved boy and he wasn't welcome in my house either."

With this, the door slammed in Nick's face. Warrick rolled his eyes. "I could've guessed," he said.

"Yeah," agreed Nick, opened the door to his truck. Warrick glided into the passenger side.

"Man, did you see the way that kid looked at you?"

"It was a little hard not to," confessed Nick.

"I knew a couple guys like that in high school," said Warrick, rolling down the window and hanging an arm outside. "Really maladjusted guys whose parents were in denial."

"Yeah?" asked Nick. To himself, I knew a guy like that.

"Seriously," continued Warrick, his head turning to follow a couple of girls. "They couldn't be themselves even at home, so when they went out on weekends, they got all they could put their hands on."

"Do you still talk to any of them?" inquired Nick.

"Nah." Warrick rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully. "They all went separate ways. One wound up in a psychiatric ward during college, another one joined the Marines, and I think Randy works in a casino in town still."

"Well, that was a waste of time," admitted Nick, hitting the steering wheel lightly. "Wish I had just stayed in bed this morning. What are we supposed to do now?"

"I think Matt would talk to us, or at least you, if we got him without his mother around," schemed Warrick.

"School?" asked Nick.

"Exactly. How about we go get some burgers or something fast and then head over to Silverado?"

"I'm starving," realized Nick. "That sounds great."

Nick felt... weird. It was the only word he could find to describe sitting in a McDonalds with Warrick, listening to his friend talking about online poker and his current girlfriend, feeling so... so normal. Despite the obstacles in the investigation, Nick was having a perfect day so far. Maybe they should've invited Brass. They had phoned him though, and he knew to meet them at the school in half an hour.

"Nick?"

"Huh?" Warrick was looking at him expectantly.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry, I was just... I was just spaced out for a minute."

"So I noticed. I just asked if you and Greg are... y'know, an Item now."

Nick looked deep into his sandwich and blushed. "Uh... I don't know. I have to figure some stuff out now."

"Took you long enough," smirked Warrick, dipping his fries in ketchup.

"How so?"

Warrick rocked back in his chair. "I can't believe you Nick. That kid's been after you for years."

"Really?"

Warrick nodded, licked his fingers. "God yes. Are you telling me you never noticed how he always does your evidence first, or how he's always trying to make you jealous?"

"I didn't know he was trying."

Warrick laughed, his curls dancing on his head. "You're a perfect match," he said, rising and emptying the tray into the garbage. "He's obnoxious and you're oblivious."

On the way out the door, Nick caught his arm. "Listen, just don't tell Grissom..."

Warrick scoffed, slightly offended. "Yeah, 'cause you know I really love discussing your sex life with the boss."

***

Nick hated being in high school. In any high school, any time. Passing through the metal detectors at Silverado High, he held his breath, remembered how it felt to live seven hours a day in a place like this. The smell was the ubiquitous high school smell, part cafeteria, part wood shavings, industrial cleaner, and a certain staleness that just was.

Warrick strolled in front of him with a gait that told Nick he had owned this place.

"Excuse me," said Warrick, stopping to address a pair of girls, "Can you ladies tell me the way to the principal's office?"

The girls, both blonde and clutching notebooks looked at each other knowingly, then back at Warrick.

"It's right down this hall," said the taller of the two. "Then take a left and it's right there."

She gestured vaguely.

"Thanks," said Warrick with a polite nod. Nick hurried to catch up with him, the giggles of the girls echoing behind him.

Everything seemed so much smaller now. The lockers, the drinking fountain, the hall itself, looked miniature to him. He peeked into the classrooms they passed... kids studying, kids laughing, kids sleeping, throwing clay pots and raising their hands, and he wondered which ones cried themselves to sleep at night.

Brass was waiting for them in the office, his hands clasped together, feet apart in a fashion that he did when he was feeling uncomfortable. He gave his watch a glance, asked, "How was your lunch?"

"It was fine," said Nick, reading the motivational posters over Jim's head.

Warrick leaned over the counter and cleared his throat obtrusively.

"May I help you?" asked the secretary, giving Warrick the suspicious treatment. She was a round woman wearing a red-and-yellow paisley blouse and a gaudy fake pearl necklace.

Here comes the shield, though Nick with a smirk.

Sure enough, Warrick presented his ID with a flourish and said matter-of-factly, "My name is Warrick Brown, and this is Nick Stokes. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab." The secretary shot a questioning look at Brass over the rim of her coffee mug.

"Captain Jim Brass," he said, approaching the counter to lean next to Warrick. "Listen, we're investigating the deaths of two of your former students, William Baker and Benjamin Rath."

Nick was grateful that Brass usually took care of the hard parts.

The secretary set her coffee down deliberately, her eyes watering. "I'm... I'm very sorry to hear that," she stammered. "They were both such sweet boys." She took a deep breath, collected herself, and repeated, "How may I help you gentlemen?"

"We need to speak with one of your students who we think might have witnessed the..." Brass's lips snared on "murder". She looked like she might faint as it was. "Their deaths," he revised. "We need you to excuse him from the rest of his classes so we can ask him some questions."

"What's his name?" she asked, busily drawing up menus on her monitor. "I can have his schedule brought right up."

"Last name Heath," said Warrick.

"Matt Heath?" she asked.

"That's him."

The woman furrowed her eyebrows. "I'm afraid Matt Heath was called in sick today."

"Oh." Warrick heard Nick's frustrated sigh. Nick rubbed his neck, and bit his lip.

"Tell me," continued Brass. "What do you know about Matt Heath?"

"Well, I don't know most of the students that come in here, but I do get a good feel for the kinds of people they are."

"And what kind of person is Matt?"

She shook her head sadly, and said, "Matt was a very nice kid. A little awkward, a little insecure sometimes, but who isn't in high school?"

Nick looked at his feet.

"Was?" pressed Brass.

"Was before he started hanging out with his little Hitler Youth friends."

The three men glanced at one another. Nick's head snapped up from the pamphlet he'd been reading, and he asked, "Can you give us the names of these friends?"

She looked at him with surprise, turned to her computer and said, "I can even get one down here for you to talk to, if you'd like."

"That would be excellent," said Brass.

The secretary scribbled something on a pink slip of paper and handed it to a drowsy office aid. "Take this and don't come back without him."

She rotated her chair and opened a long file cabinet, produced a thick manila folder. She turned to face Brass, who leaned on the counter with one elbow, expectantly watching the door. "His name is Hunter West," she said, sliding the folder to him.

"Is there some place more... more private we can talk with him?" asked Nick.

"That office over there," she said, pointing to a tiny room with big windows.

"It's not my usual space," muttered Brass meditatively. "But it'll have to do. We need to contact his parents. He has every right not to speak to us without his parents or a lawyer present."

She chuckled cynically. "Trust me, you won't be able to find his parents, and Hunter has plenty of experience dealing with police. He knows his rights."

Nick turned at the sound of footsteps.

Hunter was a platinum blonde, blue eyes that struck Nick cold, veiled whatever sentiments the boy had, shaded his thoughts from view. He wore a black polo shirt, a tattooed swastika barely peeking above the collar.

"Hunter West?" confirmed Brass.

"Yes," replied the boy coolly, tilting his head back to look down at Brass.

"Jim Brass, LVPD, and these are two of my associates: Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes. We need to speak to you privately."

"Lead the way Mon Capitan," mocked Hunter, bowing towards to office room.

"After you," commanded Brass. Warrick followed, Nick closed the door behind them. The secretary tried to look inconspicuous as she strained to see inside the room. "Have a seat," said Warrick.

"I don't take orders from you," said Hunter flatly.

Nick scrutinized Warrick's face for insult, but Warrick stood remarkably detached. Nick felt a sour taste rising to the back of his throat. "Fine," he said. "Then stand. We really don't care."

"So," said Hunter, taking a seat, splaying his legs apart, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Brass ran a finger across the pages of Hunter West's student file. "Says here you've been arrested a couple of times."

"Vandalism," answered Hunter with a dismissive wave.

"Not just any vandalism," said Nick over Brass's shoulder. " 'Death to Jews'... 'God hates faggots'... cemetery desecration..." He eyed Hunter, trying to look more amused than angry. How did Warrick contain himself? "You know, it sounds like you need a hobby." A wry grin twisted on Hunter's thin lips, he cocked his head at Nick, licked his lips and said, "You should see what I do on weekends."

Brass leaned down, palms on the table. "We need to talk to you about Benjamin Rath and William Baker."

"What about them?" shrugged Hunter. "They graduated two years ago. I never knew them." He cast his eyes down, said, "Why don't you talk to Matt Heath about that?"

"Because Matt is conveniently sick today, and we heard from a reliable source that you two were good buddies."

Hunter pointed a thumb at the secretary's desk. "From that old bag?" He ran a thumbnail along the edge of the table. "But yes, she happens to be right on this one. Matt started running with us a few months ago."

"Us?"

"Myself and some other guys whose names are none of your business. You know something?" he added.

"Not a thing," replied Brass. "Tell me."

"I've always wanted to be on the inside," confessed Hunter with a grim smile. His sky-blue eyes twinkled menacingly at Nick. "Can't be any worse than it is out here. I've got a lot of brothers in there, you know."

"You assume they'd be your brothers?"

"I know they would. They'd have to be."

"Did you consider Matt one of your 'brothers'?" asked Nick, frowning.

"Of course," answered Hunter. "Matt's hard-core."

He looked from Nick to Brass, passed over Warrick and back to Nick and said, "It sure is a shame to waste taxpayer money over a couple of dead faggots." Pause. "You guys mind if I chew some gum?"

Warrick slid Nick a look that asked, "You gonna be okay?" Nick nodded almost imperceptibly, and hoped it was true.

"Not at all," said Brass with a saccharine-fake smile. "What made Matt so hard-core?"

"See," said Hunter, the grin turning nostalgic. "The thing about Matt is, he's always trying to outdo himself. Always got to be better than anyone else. We'd been talking about hitting the town with some spray paint and some baseball bats, and he's been sitting there, kind of quiet all night, and out of nowhere he says he knows where there's gonna be two faggots on a Friday night, and didn't we think it'd be fun to go kick the shit out of them." Nick must've looked incredulous (and he was), because Hunter laid his hands plaintively, palms-up on the table and said, "What, you don't think the kid had it in him?" His voice dropped lower. "We all do."

"Then what happened?"

"He drives us to this cheapy motel right, we sneak on upstairs to this room, knock. One of the fucking perverts answers the door in his underwear, in his fucking underwear, and we push on in." Hunter's chest was swelling now, his eyes shimmering as he told the story, hands gesturing in front of his face.

"So we're just there to beat the crap out of these guys, understand? I've got a bat, right? Well no, not Matt. He pulls out this crowbar. He's got this guy pinned to the bed, and the fuck is screaming his brains out, but he keeps yelling, 'Please Matt, please' over and over. I guess he knew Matt from somewhere. Anyway, the more times he says it, the more pissed Matt gets, and soon he's not just beating this guy up, he's pounding his goddamned face in, doesn't stop till I pull him off, tell him the guy's dead."

Nick went pale, stomach churning, needed to leave, wanted to run to the bathroom and vomit. He imagined Benjamin, surprised, horrified, that beautiful face distorted with death. Imagined Will's ribs cracking, hearing Benjamin screaming, unable to move to help him, just seeing him die in his peripheral vision. He thought about Greg, thought about Greg's scars, thought about Greg's vivacious eyes filling with blood...

He squared his jaw and nailed his eyes to Hunter, who was saying, "So we've got this dead body, and the other queer's crying on the floor, and well, we can't just leave him there, so Matt tells me to finish him off, and he runs out into the rain. The kid's crazy." "That's all very graphic," said Brass icily, "But I'm a little baffled as to why you're turning yourself and your 'brother' in to us."

Hunter sighed, looked almost sad and said earnestly, "There's nothing out here for us. Nothing but a world that can't see its own truth. Inside, there's community. There's connections. There's hope."

***

Nick was feeling jumpy anyway, so it didn't help when Greg snuck up on him and nibbled on his ear.

"Jesus Greg," hushed Nick, "We're at work."

"There's no one around," said Greg slyly, walking two fingers up Nick's neck. Nick trembled as Greg's lips moved in his hair. "I just couldn't resist."

"Cut it out."

"You need to relax," smiled Greg. He began to work the knots in Nick's shoulders. "I wasn't exactly planning to bend myself over your work station, you know?"

Nick had to admit it was a lovely thought, but he was too worked up about this case to say so. Every time he looked at Greg's face, saw that kind of dorky smile, he thought about Benjamin, thought about Matt Heath's smile in that photograph. He thought about his own smile in high school. Was is different? He thought about how, back then, he would just as likely shove a kid like Greg into the girls' bathroom as kiss him. He was jealous of Ben, jealous of how well-adjusted his parents were, how beautiful he had been, how happy to be himself.

"Whatcha thinkin'?" asked Greg. He was dying to know what was going on behind those pensive eyes. Nick thought an awful lot, and Greg knew a lot of it was probably pretty dark, but he wanted to know about it just the same, and right now, Nick looked like he needed a hug. "Warrick and Brass are supposed to be bringing in Matt Heath," he said, looking at the clock. "They're sure taking their time."

Greg felt annoyance radiating from Nick, and decided maybe a hug wasn't appropriate. "That whole thing sounds pretty messed up," he commented, hypnotized by a swirly screen saver in the room across the hall.

"Yeah..."

"Can I uh..." Greg trailed off. "Do you think Brass would mind if I watched the interrogation? You know, from behind the mirror?"

Nick smiled thinly. "He does love an audience. I'm sure it's fine with him. You don't have any work to do?"

"I'll have Hodges do it," replied Greg.

Nick saw the doors opening, saw Brass and an officer escorting a handcuffed Matt into the interrogation room.

"That him?" asked Greg with a faint sneer.

"Yeah..." said Nick quietly. "I better get in there."

Greg bit his lip, let his hands drop. He hadn't realized how distraught Nick was, although he supposed he should've. He was still buzzing from the previous night, not really feeling the effects of gravity.

The interrogation room was uncomfortably chilly, which was the way Brass liked it. People were more anxious to leave when it was about fifty degrees, more likely to blurt things out.

Matt Heath shivered, rubbed his hands together. He had his elbows on the steel table, gazed at the mirror. Did that ever fool anyone? His head gloamed blue under the harsh lighting. Greg shifted uneasily, put his hands in his lab coat pockets. He'd been expecting a monster. A big, muscled, tattooed brute, not the pale, could-be-pretty, frightened kid that glanced anxiously at the door.

Brass entered the room, followed by Nick. Nick pulled up a chair, Brass remained standing. Greg could hear each of them breathing over the speakers, hear Brass's staccato footsteps on the gritty cement.

Nick eyed Matt with a troubled expression that Greg couldn't see.

"Your friend Hunter told us all about you," began Brass, folding his hands across his belly, his face cast in blue shadows.

"Really?" asked Matt, wanting but not daring to look either of the men in the face. "What did he say?"

"He told us you were really... hard-core."

The weary smile that flitted across Matt's face didn't escape Nick, didn't fail to disturb him. Matt kept stroking his scalp and his eyebrows, the hair on his forearms standing and shimmering in the light.

"What else did he tell you?"

"He told us about the night you told him where to find Benjamin Rath and William Baker," said Nick.

Recognition entered Matt's eyes, and he blushed at Nick's voice. "Oh." His lips quivered, and Nick could tell that he was terrified.

Greg noticed the blush, gritted his teeth in a possessive glare.

"Take it easy Greg."

He hadn't even heard Warrick enter the room.

"Shouldn't you be in there?" asked Greg, pointing at the class.

"Nick said he wanted to handle this one."

"And is he? I mean, is he handling it."

Warrick shrugged. "I dunno. Outwardly, he seems to be."

Greg dropped the conversation, strained to hear what was being said in the room.

Nick slid the photograph in front of in front of Matt, watched Matt's green eyes grow impossibly wide with the realization that he was naked in front of them, that it was no use keeping secrets.

Greg wanted to know what it was that made him blanch so suddenly.

"We've got enough to arrest you," said Brass. "We found the cigarette you were smoking when you killed Benjamin. And of course, your good friend Hunter, who seems to have some illusions about prison."

"He says it'll make us stronger," murmured Matt, his eyes glazing over.

"Well," said Brass, "Your friend Hunter is very pretty, and if he hates fags so much, I really don't think he'll enjoy what's going to happen to him on the inside." Matt swallowed, looked up at Nick with a defeated anger, asked, "So why did you bring me here?"

"We want..." Nick bit his lip. "We want to know why you did this."

Brass leaned his face down, till Matt could feel his breath, till he had to close his eyes.

"Were you jealous?" taunted Brass. "Were you upset that Benjamin was with another guy?"

"No," snorted Matt, offended. He glared up at Brass with barbed wire eyes and said, "I wasn't jealous." Then to Nick, softening slightly, "Do you know what he made me do to him?" "He didn't make you do anything," answered Nick darkly. "He scared you."

"I'm not afraid of faggots," said Matt, his voice rising.

"You were afraid of how you felt," said Nick. Brass looked at him with mild surprise, decided to let Nick continue. "You cared for Benjamin, you liked the things he showed you, and you were jealous that he loved himself. It made you angry that he accepted you for who you are. It complicated things for you."

"Who I am?" choked Matt, a tear escaping down his cheek. "What would you know about who I am?"

"More than you think," said Nick quietly.

"I am nothing." He clenched a fist against his forehead. "I am wrong. I am... Everything inside of me is disgusting."

When Brass and the officer took Matt away, the boy was crying, kicking, screaming, anything but this. Greg hurried to meet Nick outside the interrogation room.

"Nick, you..."

Nick clasped a hand over his mouth, his face was peaked, and he put his other hand on Greg's chest to stop him from following as he hurried down the corridor and into the men's room. Greg stood stupidly for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind Nick. Two minutes passed, and Greg opened the door gingerly. He heard Nick vomiting in one of the stalls, silently pushed open the door.

"Shut the door," barked Nick, his back heaving as his diaphragm pushed against his stomach.

Greg wanted to comfort him, to hold his hair for him, but Nick's hair was too short to need holding, so he obeyed. He wetted some paper towels in the sink, waited for Nick to come out.

When he did, Greg saw that he'd been crying, handed him the paper towels.

"Thanks." Nick's voice wavered. He stood at the mirror, wiped his lips and chin, said, "Greg, I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize," insisted Greg. "You just did your job." Greg paused, took the towel from Nick and threw it in the trash. "That little prick's going to be in jail for a very long time," he mused with a very faint grin.

Nick had been leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. He looked up at Greg, an expression of ire spread across his face, his eyes narrowed, and he felt more tears creeping up on him.

"Tie a can to it Greg. Seriously."

It was Greg's turn to look angry. He folded his arms, raised a harsh eyebrow. "What, you actually feel empathy for that... that kid?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Jesus Christ, Nick."

"You don't know everything, Greg," said Nick, leaning on the counter with his fingers extended.

"Um..." Greg put a hand on his hip. "I know that that little asshole killed someone. I know that because he couldn't just deal with himself two innocent people are dead."

"We can't all come from San Francisco, Greg," muttered Nick, straightening.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" Greg said between his teeth.

"It means that you don't have a clue what it's like to live knowing that your parents would hate you if they knew who you really were. It means that you don't know what it's like to wake up every morning hoping that maybe during the night you'd become someone else!"

"So what, just because the kid came from a messed up family he has the right to go around killing people?"

Nick reached for Greg impulsively. "Greg, that's not what I said..."

"You think high school was easy for me?" shouted Greg, backing away. "You think I didn't get my ass kicked by assholes just like Matt Heath?"

Nick looked away, looked down, felt Greg's eyes boring into him. "I..." he bit his lip.

"Goddamit Greg, that might have been me in high school!"

Greg shook his head, denial flooding his brain. "That's not true, Nick. I don't believe you. You didn't fucking kill anyone!"

Nick felt his stomach knotting up again. "I used beat up guys like Ben, guys who knew what they were and didn't hide it like I did. Don't fault me, just because I can understand how Matt feels about himself."

Suddenly tears were streaming down Greg's cheeks. He wanted to tell Nick how beautiful he was, how wonderful and strong, how worthy he made Greg feel. But he was too enraged to permit any of it to leave his mouth. "Is that... is that how you feel about me?" he choked.

"Is what how I feel about you?" asked Nick, suddenly very worried about Greg. He carefully placed a hand on Greg's shoulder, but Greg let himself fall out from under it, twisted himself away, and looked up at Nick with red, accusing eyes.

"When we were making love, were you thinking about how wrong it felt?"

"Greg..."

"No, honestly Nick, when you're kissing me are you thinking about how we're both going to burn in Hell for it?" Greg's voice had raised to an amazing pitch. "When you're... when you're watching me sleep are you thinking about how repulsive I am?" His face was flushed, his arms were shaking. Greg had meant for it to hurt, but when he saw the agony on Nick's face he wanted to reach out and take it all back.

Nick pursed his lips, blinked, swallowed hard.

"Nick, I..."

But the door was already slamming, and Greg was alone in the bathroom. He stepped inside a stall, put the toilet cover down, collapsed onto it, and wept.

***

Nick wasn't surprised that Greg wasn't answering his door, but he was still disappointed. "Greg?" He pressed an ear against the wall. Silence. "Greg, if you're there please open up." He sighed, smacked his forehead against the door. "Greg, I need to talk to you. Please open the door."

Nothing. "Fine," growled Nick. He turned and stalked down the hallway. It had been such a long day, and he could tell that he just needed to go home and fall asleep. But he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He knew the sheets would keep falling off, knew he'd wake up cold at three in the morning, hungry, wet and lost.

He had never noticed how sterile his own apartment building seemed. He yawned, covered his mouth even though he was alone in the elevator. His distorted reflection challenged him from the stainless steel doors. He watched the numbers change above his head, praying that nobody else got on. It was the last thing he wanted, to see somebody from his building, have to say Hello, How are you?

His face split in half as the doors buzzed open and he yawned again as he emerged into the hallway. He looked left, no one there, looked right... groaned. As he got closer, he saw that it was someone sitting against his apartment door.

"Don't worry; nobody saw me."

Nick glared at him.

"Thought you'd never come home," said Greg softly, running his fingers through tan shag carpet. He leaned his head back against the door, looked up at Nick with adoring, rainy eyes.

"I went to your apartment," explained Nick.

"I wasn't home," said Greg.

Nick laughed airily. Greg smiled, his chin quivering as he checked a sob.

Nick extended an arm down to Greg, who grabbed his wrist, hopped to his feet.

"Listen," said Nick. "I'm sorry that..."

Greg barred Nick's lips with his index finger, hushed, "Don't say another word." He moved in close to Nick, ran his finger along Nick's jawline. "I shouldn't have said that. I..." He faltered, took a breath. "I don't know what it's like to grow up the way you did," he admitted. He pressed his forehead against Nick's. Nick became enraptured in Greg's limpid irises, felt Greg's long eyelashes butterfly across his cheeks. "But I do know that I've wanted you for so long that I can't just throw last night away."

Nick fitted his hands delicately beneath Greg's jaws, melted into Greg. Greg's lips parted only slightly, the tip of his tongue in Nick's mouth. Greg's throat was burning beneath Nick's warm hands, and he gripped Nick's forearms lightly to steady himself. He smelled like patchouli and coffee tonight, tasted like fermented grapes...

"Have you been drinking?" asked Nick, not bothering to remove his lips father than a centimeter.

"Not really," muttered Greg, moving his hands up into Nick's hair.

Nick pulled back, gave Greg an incredulous smile. "What kind of answer is that?"

"If I keep kissing you, will you stop asking questions?"

Nick shrugged, pouted, "Maybe."

Greg leaned in, pressed a grinning kiss at the place where Nick's ear joined his jaw, and purred, "You should open the door."

Nick dug through his pockets, turned, and began to try every key on his key-ring. Just to get a rise out Greg. "I'm sorry Greg, but I seem to have forgotten which key it is."

He felt a pair of forceful hands clutching his hips, heard Greg say against the back of his neck, "Seriously, if we're not in that room in the next ten seconds, I'm having my way with you right in this hallway."

"Okay, okay." Nick opened the door, wished he'd picked up a little bit. He didn't really have much time for housekeeping.

Greg whistled appreciatively. "Sweet gaming system."

"Yeah, thanks," said Nick, feeling kind of silly about the mountain of rented games that were strewn across the living room.

"Oooh, Final Fantasy VIII!" said Greg, a boyish smile plastered on his face. "You'll have to play me sometime."

"I'll kick your ass," taunted Nick, backing towards the bedroom.

"Whatever," laughed Greg, running past him, jumping onto the bed, landing on his back.

He laid there with his legs splayed, one dangling off the bed, the other propped up. His head tilted down, gave Nick a ravenous, depraved kind of look that asked why either of them was still wearing any clothes. He kicked off his shoes, wiggled his toes, and said, "Do join me, Nick." Nick turned on the bedside lamp, sank onto the bed. As he bent to unlace his shoes, he felt his shirt lifted off his back, felt a trickle of soft, warm kisses flowing down his spine. He shivered, pulled his shirt over his head.

"You look really tired," observed Greg as he dragged Nick by the waist to the center of the mattress. Nick nodded heavily.

"Well, don't you worry," said Greg, straddling Nick's chest, feeling Nick's breaths lifting him. He ran his finger down Nick's nose, playfully poked him in the chin. "I'll do all the hard parts."

He shimmied his hips down Nick's torso, hooked his heels under Nick's knees. Nick offered Greg his throat, and Greg was more than pleased to gently bite the hollow of his neck. Nick's eyes lilted closed, his left hand ruffling Greg's hair, right hand pressing between his shoulder blades, bringing Greg's chest against his own. He felt their breathing synchronize, felt his heartbeat offsetting Greg's. Greg was moaning softly against Nick's neck, slowly grinding his hips against Nick's thigh.

Greg peppered Nick's chest with kisses, held himself up with one arm, used the other to undo his belt buckle and his fly, slide his pants down to his knees, kicked them off one leg at a time.

He felt Nick's callused hands down his sides as Nick laughed, tickled the velvety spot in the crook of Greg's thigh. Greg slapped his hand away, wrinkled his nose and giggled. Nick loved the way Greg's muscles tightened when he was being tickled...

This was Heaven, and Greg knew it. As he lowered himself carefully onto Nick, watched Nick's eyelashes flutter, his mind wound to a halt. All the things he'd been planning, all the things he'd been hoping for converged at that very instant, and for once in his life, Greg Sanders had nothing to say. He felt like kissing Nick from his hairline to his toes, dragging his nails down Nick's sides, telling him how beautiful and perfect he was... but Greg could see from the blissful smile that played like light across Nick's face that, at least for the moment, he felt as beautiful as he was. A surge of pride washed over Greg, that he could make Nick feel that way, interrupted by a stab of pleasure as Nick's pace quickened.

He cringed as Nick's fingertips dug into his thighs, knew that he'd have bruises in the morning, knew that he'd be going to the bathroom during their shift just to look and remind himself. He wrapped a fist around himself, threw his head back.

"Oh God, Greg..." Nick's eyes followed a drop of sweat down Greg's throat... God, every inch of him was that exquisite gold...

Nick came hard, his stomach tensing until his entire upper body was lifted from the sheets. A low moan rose from his throat, buzzed in Greg's ears. Greg winced audibly as one of Nick's finger nails broke the skin on his leg. Nick's body collapsed back onto the bed, a chain of shallow gasps rocking in his shoulders, his head rolling from side to side on the pillow.

"God," breathed Nick. "I wish you could see yourself."

"I dunno," said Greg, lying on his side. "I had a pretty decent view." He gave Nick a wide grin, wiped the moisture from his forehead.

He couldn't help but comply when Nick pushed him gently onto his back, couldn't stop himself from thrusting up towards Nick's jaw as he felt a tongue poke into his bellybutton, let a sharp gasp escape as Nick took him into his mouth. His legs jumped, draped themselves over Nick's shoulders. Nick felt Greg take a handful of hair at the back of his neck. He smiled to himself as Greg began to emit a series of short, impatient moans. Nick slowed down until he was barely moving.

"Do you know what I do to teases?" panted Greg, looking over his chest at Nick.

"What?" asked Nick, his lips grazing Greg's head.

"Neither do I," growled Greg. "But when I figure it out, you will be sorry."

Nick's laughter reverberated up Greg's body, and he could tell by the way Greg's feet were twitching that he was on the verge of coming, and Nick had every intention of finishing him, when Greg pulled him by the hair up to his lips, kissed him frantically. Nick felt Greg's hand slide between them, felt Greg's knuckles against his stomach as Greg gripped himself with one hand, still clasping Nick's hair with the other. He felt Greg's toes wiggling in the sheets, felt Greg driving into his own hand.

Nick felt Greg's entire body go hard, felt pain jetting across his scalp as Greg pulled his hair, as Greg bit down on his lower lip. He swallowed Greg's desperate, exalting moan, felt it tickle the back of his throat...

Nick kissed Greg's wet eyelids as a pair of final shivers jolted through from Greg's body, placed a light kiss in the center of Greg's chest.

Greg pulled the blankets up beneath his chin, curled into Nick. Nick wove an arm over Greg's side, tangled their fingers.

"Did you know," said Greg, pressing a kiss against the back of Nick's hand, "That the average amount of semen produced by a single ejaculation contains more protein than a dinner-serving of steak?"

Greg felt Nick laugh against the back of his head. It was just such a Greg thing to say. "Dammit," muttered Nick after a heartbeat of silence.

"What?"

"I just realized I don't have anything good for breakfast."

Greg laughed tiredly, pulled Nick's arm tighter around himself. "Don't worry about it. You just sleep, and in the morning, I'll make a muffin run."

The next morning...

Life had never been complicated for Greg Sanders, but when he woke up that morning it had become suddenly, hopelessly, marvelously fractured. Greg couldn't make himself care. He was leaning against the elevator, singing to himself. "Finally someone let me out of my cage, now time for me is nothin' 'cause I'm counting no age..." He smiled as the numbers rolled up, brought him closer and closer to Nick. "Now I couldn't be there, now you shouldn't be scared..." The woman on the elevator holding the bichon frise gave Greg an odd look from beneath the wide brim of her yellow sun hat, and he smiled wider, nodded politely. Her dog yipped. Greg bared his teeth at it and growled. The doors parted, and Greg held them as the woman hurried away from him. He stepped into the hallway, ran a hand through his hair, looked at his watch. "I'm good at repairs and I'm under each snare..."

He thought about where he would usually be at nine in the morning... still lying in bed, or clutching himself in the shower. Certainly not strolling down the hallway to Nick Stokes's apartment with a key in one hand and warm muffins in the other. (Peaches 'n' cream for himself, blueberry for Nick.)

Greg was scared, and he knew that if he was scared, Nick was absolutely terrified. But it was that fun kind of scared, the kind that made the blood rush to his head, amplified everything he felt. He had no idea how things would be at work, no clue how exactly he was supposed to keep his hands off Nick for ten hours. He was just hoping it wasn't all a dream. Woke up, saw Nick with his head cradled in one hand, serene smile making little crows' feet - he'd never noticed that Nick had dimples - he wanted to touch... but he was afraid Nick would wake up and not remember anything, that Nick might turn into someone else... So he dug through Nick's top dresser until he found a slimming black shirt, shimmied into yesterday's jeans, and slipped out of the apartment and down to a bakery he knew.

As Greg hurried down the hallway, his heart jackhammering away at his brain, he couldn't keep a bounce out of his step, couldn't stop his arms from swinging, had to muss up his hair and put his head back a little. "I'm happy,I'm feeling glad, got sunshine in a bag..."

The door opposite Nick's opened and a guy wearing jeans and nothing else emerged, holding a laundry basket against his hip while he locked his door. He looked up at Greg, who waved slightly.

He had that Mediterranean look about him; the dark hair and olive skin, the kind of guy Last Week Greg might've gone for, but to This Morning Greg he was just another person to smile at.

"Hey," said the neighbor as Greg opened the door to Nick's apartment. He looked Greg over, grinned at the deli bag in his left hand, and asked, "You're with the guy in #37?"

Greg turned to the door to make sure, and nodded with a faint blush. "Yeah."

The other man shook his head and smiled, gave Greg a look that, as far as Greg could tell, said two things: "You're a little young, aren't you?" and "You lucky bastard."

"You're the first guy I've seen him bring home," he whispered confidentially. "He's beautiful."

Greg's smile twisted higher at the corners. "Yeah," he said, opening the door. "He is."

***

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