Title: Sometimes
Author: sirjimmy24
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: R
Kink: scent
Spoilers: Very brief for "Daddy's Little Girl", that's it.
Warning/Author's notes: Decided to push a few "The Sentinel" buttons, and gave Nick a specific ability when it comes to the sense of smell. Hope you like it.

***

Sometimes, Grissom makes you want to stick your head into a trashcan.

Or volunteer for dumpster diving.

Or just cut your nose off all together because you think it very well may come to that just to keep your sanity.

And your life, because if you give in to it, well Grissom may just kill you.

Look at him, back towards you, completely oblivious to your very existence as he pores over evidence on the layout table, mind focused on the case.

He could be there for hours, and take notice of no one.

Which is why you decide to let yourself indulge.

Once, just this once.

Stupid.

"What the...Nick! Did you just...sniff me?"

"What? No way Grissom..."

Your face goes pale, and you turn to flee...

***

Pheromones.

Chemical messengers.

Known to be used by animals, especially insects (damn you Gris, damn you!) for all sorts of reasons. Food trails, sex, warnings, sex, relationship identification, sex.

Oh yeah, and sex.

There are ongoing studies about their possibility of uses regarding humans.

But nothing concrete yet.

They haven't even figured if we actually emit them, let alone respond to them.

Yet we do emit them. Constantly, as a matter of fact. And yeah, we do respond to them.

Well, not necessarily we.

But you.

Nicholas Stokes, CSI 3 for Clark County Nevada, and human pheromone detector.

None of those scientists and researchers is asking you for your observations on the subject.

Granted, you'd never tell them anyway.

***

It goes beyond the normal sense of smell, and it was years before you were able to realize that.

You thought you were just extra sensitive to things, able to pick up on what others may be missing.

But the investigator in you was always there, and it noted that it was people you were focusing on.

With exception to that, your nose wasn't really any better or worse at detecting other scents than anyone else you knew of.

Except Hodges and his cool cyanide trick.

But Hodges is just a freak anyway.

You read about people who get off on smelling their partners, they relish the musky odors coming off their bodies as they fuck, and you can appreciate that.

Really appreciate it.

But those people aren't dealing with it all day, every day. They aren't sensitive to it in the way you are.

It isn't just when someone is a little aroused, (though that really gets you going, gender and preference be damned), but always.

And while it usually isn't a bad thing, because most people generally "smell" to you like something pleasant, you're afraid you may lose your control and do something regrettable.

Like sniffing Grissom in the Layout room!

Stupid.

You shake your head in self-disgust.

***

Crowds use to bother you, but not anymore. Scented deodorants and perfumes courtesy of our smell obsessed culture help to block most people out, sparing your mind and body, and you don't concern yourself with the science behind that.

And they also serve to mute those who emit really strong pheromones for your nose to go to town with.

Health plays a factor, not yours, but theirs. If they have a cold, or are hung over, you get nothing, which is why you are always cheerful during flu season.

Of course, in your profession, perfumes and colognes and anything that can interfere with the senses of "normal" people are an unwritten no-no.

The Grave shift is "Unscented" central, and its really beginning to wear you down. Especially after pulling a double, your co-workers seem extra potent.

Or when it is particularly hot; or they are particularly aroused in some way, and then you might as well go change your shorts.

Again, it usually doesn't pose too much of a problem, whether it be Catherine (cucumbers and melons) or Greggo, (blueberry muffins) Warrick (sometimes citrus, sometime sandalwood) or even Sara (crisp burning leaves).

You can spend hours with Archie (the woods on a windy day) checking surveillance tapes.

You love examining ballistics evidence with Bobby (chocolate chip cookies) or looking at DNA printouts with Wendy (cherry lemonade) and even Hodges (vanilla and brown sugar) can put you in a better mood.

But Grissom...he's a different beast altogether.

He is an amalgamation of many things. Scents converging that should not work, yet they do.

Assaulting your brain and stimulating your lustful desires.

When you first met him, in that fateful interview so many years ago, he surprised you.

With most people you meet, you are able to categorize them right away, because they generally remind you of one thing, or a simple combination.

It may change depending on different factors, but nothing you couldn't handle.

With Grissom it was the ocean, and caramels, gently falling snow, and cinnamon sticks and melting chocolate, cool mountain air and peppermint and everything you have ever liked ever.

It was too much, but you loved it.

You're still not sure how you made it through that interview, but you don't question it.

You've picked up on dozens of scents from Grissom depending on his mood and what's he's focused on, (like that evidence in the layout room, he's putting out leather and massage oils and you are sporting major woodage in your pants).

It makes you want to touch and taste him. See if that compares to what you smell.

See if it doesn't utterly devastate you.

Dangerous thoughts indeed.

If you decide to indulge again, you may have to kiss your ass goodbye. The shift ends, and with thoughts of fucking Grissom making your clothing seem too tight, you decide to make your escape.

***

You clock out and head for the exit, nodding at Vartann (sugar cookies), and Sophia (movie theater popcorn) as they scour the break room looking for Greg's coffee stash.

You pause to allow Ecklie (strangely odorless, which means he really isn't human after all) and the Sheriff (Halloween candy) to pass by, grateful they ignore you.

You see Brass (peaches and berries, and he'd kick your ass if he knew that's what you picked up from him) grilling some suspect (dirty motor oil, he's guilty as hell) and rub your nose.

You know you should at least say goodbye to Grissom, but you start picking up on hints of sulfur and figure he's really annoyed with someone (hopefully not you) and you depart.

***

You don't need to hear the knock on your door to know who is there. Only one person can ever smell to you like a bonfire on the beach, and that's Grissom.

You take a deep breath, calming yourself down. The last time he visited you in your home was after Kelly Gordon killed herself, and he didn't like how your meeting with him ended.

His concern filled your head with the heady scent of good, aged Irish whiskey and you swear you were drunk off it for days, burying your face into the couch cushions where Grissom sat as you two talked things out further.

You are not sure why he is here now, and you are a little fearful of what you may do to him in your current state.

The door opens and bonfire fades into a smoky, spicy something and your mouth goes dry.

Does he have any idea what he's doing to you?

The bastard.

"Grissom hi! Come in. Glad you're here! What's up boss?"

You are so pathetic; you know very well he'll never fall for that falseness in your voice.

"Nick, are you ok?" he asks you, stepping into your condo and his very essence is threatening to knock you over.

"Yeah, great! Never better..."

That spicy something is being accented by the whiskey smell and you almost...

"Whoa Nicky! I got you," you feel his arms around you and your embarrassment at almost fainting in front of your boss is superseded by the thrill of just feeling (smelling) him hold you. He guides you to the couch and you both sit down and you catch yourself trying to sniff him again.

"I wish you told me your were sick Nick, I'd have let you go home earlier, you looked a little pale when I saw you and I was going to ask you then but you took off so fast and," whiskey fades to honey, "are you sniffing me?"

Honey to chocolate to leather, then mesquite to spiced rum and then to that whiskey smell again and you are about lose your mind and your cock is straining against your pants.

"Nick! Jesus, ok...I'm calling 91...!"

"No!" you say, and you're almost frantic and "I'm fine, it's ok."

"Nicky you look like..."

"Kiss me."

A pause.

"What?"

"I can't take it anymore Grissom. Now kiss me."

"What are you...?"

"It's you Grissom, I ...I can ...I can smell you and its making me crazy!"

So much for keeping it to yourself, and the world might as well be made of whiskey and honey and spice because the smell is wrecking havoc with your reality.

You are practically in his lap, breathing him in and touching (hell you're pawing at him) as much of him as you can and he seems frozen in shock, "Please, I can't...I have to taste before..."

So much for dignity too.

You're almost in hysteric tears and then he kisses you. Covering your mouth with his and his tongue sweeps in and you taste him and its so so so very good and you doubt anything could ever taste as good or feel as good and the spicy something in the air is in full force and now all your senses are being hit at once and you can die and you wouldn't care because you don't think it could get any better than this.

And then it does.

And afterwards, as the two of you lay panting in your bed, a tangled, sweaty, sticky mess of limbs and you with one hell of a sore ass, you place your face in the crook of his neck and inhale deeply:

Ice cream.

***