Title: If I Say I'm Sorry
By: Ericalynn
Fandom/Pairing: CSI: Vegas- Nick/Gil
Rating: R (precautionary)
Prompt: #24-Sorry in my table
Warning: Adult themes (drinking, mentions of suicidal thoughts, violence, language)
Disclaimer: I don't own them, nor do I promote this kind of behavior. Its fiction, you don't like/approve, don't read. Nor do I own the song lyrics. The song is "Sorry" by Chris Daughtry. Al credit goes to him!
Summary: Any way you sliced it, it wasn't good, wasn't exactly legal, but somehow he'd skated by. And that was only because of the love of one man, the man he loved, the man he'd pushed away.

What the fuck was he thinking?! He must have been completely out of his mind. That was the only plausible explanation for what he'd done. Any way you sliced it, it wasn't good, wasn't exactly legal, but somehow he'd skated by. And that was only because of the love of one man, the man he loved, the man he'd pushed away.

Nick slammed his fist down on his kitchen counter, the one he'd been standing in front of for the past two hours. He'd been standing there ever since Gil had dropped him off from the hospital. The place where his world had fallen apart, slipping like tiny grains of sand through his fingers. He hadn't said anything, hadn't been able to. Gil would've seen through any falsity his words created anyway. He'd seen the truth.

Nick took another shot of tequila straight from the bottle hoping it would bolster his courage a bit. Setting the bottle down, he picked up his knife. The sturdy hunting knife his grandfather had given to him on their first hunting trip. The leather sheath stamped with his initials and intricate vines and birds was tossed aside. He stared, enthralled at his reflection on the spotless blade. It had never been used, not a single drop of blood had ever touched it, until today that was.

He didn't want to start at the wrist, too cliché he thought. Plus, he didn't really want to end his life, just pause it for a while. He needed to feel the pain, needed to feel free and in control. He needed to bleed and to be cleansed. It wasn't like he was a habitual cutter, but he'd come to know the pleasure of release only blood could give. So he started at his palm, a nice, clean cut straight across. No hesitation, no wavering, his hand as steady as a surgeon's.

And then the blood came. And he was too captivated by it, by the way it oozed out of the sliced flesh and pooled in his hand and ran in little rivers down his fingers to collect on the marble countertop, that he never heard his cell phone ring. Or the house phone ring. Or his pager buzz on his belt. He never heard the car pull up outside. He never heard someone knocking. Never heard a key being jammed into the lock and someone rushing into his house. He never heard anything until Gil grabbed his hand, pressing a dishtowel to it. But by then it was too late.

It could have been an accident, a simple slip of the knife as he was cooking. He could have explained it away that night, why he was late to work, why he hadn't answered anyone's calls. ‘I cut my hand and was in the ER getting stitches'. It sounded so simple. Only he hadn't been cooking when Gil found him. And he hadn't been sober. And it hadn't been his choice to go get those stitches.

Gil took him to the hospital, never uttered a word except to the nurses. And then he drove him home, unlocking the door and all but shoving him inside. He never said a word to Nick as he cleaned up the blood from the counter, bleaching it and tossing the destroyed dishtowels in the garbage. He never made eye contact with Nick as he dumped the rest of the tequila down the drain and put the knife away. Gil only looked at him as he was headed back out the door, dropping his key on the counter, in the middle of the now invisible bloodstain. Then he was gone.

Whatever happened here never meant to hurt you,
How can I cause you so much pain?

…

All the words that I come up with,
They're like gasoline on flames.
There's no excuse, no explanation
Believe me if I could undo what I did wrong
I'd give away all that I own.

Nick's heart was gone as well. He knew that things had changed, dramatically, over the past few years. He wasn't the same person that had walked into Gil's office all those years back on his first night of work, wasn't the same person that Gil had fallen in love with. But everyone changes, don't they? Gil had changed as well, though it wasn't the same way Nick had. The kind-hearted, ready with a smile and easy-going attitude of the Texan had been replaced by a mask of indifference hiding boiling rage and anger. The smiles were less genuine and came around less often. Things no longer rolled off his shoulders, they tug deep under his skin like invisible barbs. That's why he lost it in the interrogation room, that's why he slammed a suspect against a wall, that's why he held another at gunpoint, that's why he'd slipped under the surface.

And that's why he needed Gil. The man was his rock, the one steady point in his crazy, up and down Vegas style life. Through all the glitz and glamour and bright lights, Nick knew that what he needed would always be lurking in the shadows. Gil would never interfere, never impeded on his lifestyle; he was just there. There when Nick needed him. And he was there, watching just in case, even when Nick didn't need him.

And that's why he needed to explain it all. He needed Gil back. He loved him and he needed him like oxygen. Gil was vital. Gil was his other half.

He ran out the door and into the late night thunderstorm, not caring how the rain drenched him within the seconds it took to get from his front door to his car. He only had one thing on his mind. Words kept bouncing around his head like ping-pong balls, scattered and disorganized and truthful. Images played before his eyes, always Gil.

And before he knew it, he was stumbling up to the front door, soaked to the bone and shivering. He knocked once, twice, three times before the door opened. Gil stood there, his face blank, devoid of all emotions. Even those expressive eyes were carefully guarded. Nick didn't know where to begin, didn't know what to say. He swallowed thickly as he met Gil's eyes.

Will you listen to my story?
It'll just be a minute,
How can I explain?

…

When I say I'm sorry,
Will you believe me?
Listen to my story,
Say you won't leave me.
When I say I'm sorry,
Can you forgive me?
When I say I will always be there,
Will you believe, will you believe in me?

…

If I told you I've been cleanin' my soul, And If I promise you I'll regain control, Will you open your door, And let me in take me for who I am, And not for who I've been, who I've been?

Only two words came to mind and though they were lame, they were the best he could offer. He would do whatever it took, therapy, anger management, AA meetings, to get Gil back in his life, back in his arms, to get back into Gil's heart. He felt a tear slip down his cheek as he stepped closer, pulling the slightly resisting body to him, burying his face in Gil's neck.

"I'm sorry" he whispered. And for a moment thought that the words were lost, thought that he'd lost his chance. Then those arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, and the body relaxed. Lips pressed against his forehead. "Please Gil, forgive me. I'm sorry."