Title: Spot, Spot, Spot
Author: podga
Pairing: Nick/OMC, Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Sequel to Maslow's Hierarchy. Series 5

Bitter experience has taught Nick the following: If there is one person in the world that he absolutely does not want to see, he will run into him.

Repeatedly.

The corollary to the above is that said person will invariably be in the company of somebody who will insist on making small talk with Nick, either unaware of, or ignoring, the awkward silence between said person and Nick.

To make things worse, that somebody will decide that they’ve been meeting so often that she can now invite Nick to a party.

 

“Come on, Nick, it’ll be fun! And Buck cooks a mean burger. Not like some people I could mention.”

“I don’t know, Kate, I’ll have to see. My sister might be coming from out of town.”

The moment he utters the lie, he wants to kick himself, because he knows what’s coming next. And sure enough, it does.

“Bring her along with you! Is she single? I happen to know a couple of eligible bachelors!” Kate says enthusiastically. She doesn’t quite nudge Brian as she’s saying it, but she couldn’t be any clearer.

Brian looks like he doesn’t know where to hide. Something in his panicky expression strikes Nick as both extremely funny and unbearably touching at the same time. He only realizes he’s smiling when Brian’s eyes lock with his, and he has to make an almost physical effort to turn his attention back to Kate.

“I’ll let you know, OK? I’d better get going, Grissom’s waiting for me.”

“See ya, Nick,” Kate responds brightly. Brian remains silent, as he has during every single chance encounter so far.

 

“Do you think you could hoist yourself up there?”

Nick considers the wall thoughtfully. It’s over seven feet high and smooth. Even if his ribs and wrist were 100%, he’s still need a running start and he has no idea what kind of surface his fingers will land on.

“I guess I can try. Give me a boost?”

“I didn’t mean it literally. The witness says the victim ran into this alley. The only way out is either over this wall or back the way he came. And the wall…” Grissom leaves the sentence unfinished.

“Well, according to the descriptions he’s young and fit. He’d have been pumped up with adrenaline, as well. If he hit the wall at a run… What?” he interrupts himself as he sees Grissom shaking his head.

“Recently painted wall. You’d expect to see at least some scuff marks.”

Nick experimentally drags the toe of his shoe lightly against the wall. Even in the gloom of the narrow alley he can see the mark he leaves.

“And the witness said he never came out,” he muses. “So either the witness is wrong or…”

“…the witness is lying.”

“Gee, that’s never happened before.”

Grissom smiles. “I know, always a surprise. Ready to head back?”

“Yeah.”

They’re in the truck, Grissom driving for once, and Nick decides that he’s suitably distracted. It’s pay-back time.

“Hey, Griss, say ‘spot’.”

“Spot?”

“Yeah. Now repeat it three times.”

“Spot. Spot. Spot.”

“Quick, what do you do at a green light?”

“Go.”

“No, you—” Nick starts to say gleefully, then Grissom’s answer sinks in. “Aw, shit. You didn’t even hesitate.”

Grissom isn’t quite smiling, but he’s looking pretty pleased with himself.

“You’ve heard it before,” Nick accuses Grissom.

“Yep.”

“Well, shit,” Nick repeats, and this time Grissom laughs out loud.

“I did fall for it the first time I heard it, if that makes you feel any better.”

“You’re not going to tell me you were six years old at the time, are you?”

Grissom laughs again, but he doesn’t answer until they reach the lab and are climbing out of the truck.

“Seventeen. Psych 101, in front of a full auditorium,” he tells Nick.

“Ouch.”

Nicks spends the rest of his shift cataloguing the evidence found at the scene of an apparent murder/suicide at the Golden Nugget. It’s relatively boring work, and he’s finding it hard to concentrate: picturing Grissom at eighteen is entirely too distracting.

 

He’s in a great mood when he leaves work. He briefly debates joining Catherine and Warrick for breakfast, then decides against it. He doesn’t want to talk about cases or spend time with the two most down-to-earth people he knows; he doesn’t want anybody bursting his bubble for a while.

He regrets his decision the moment he turns into his street. Anything would have been better than this. He pulls into the driveway and climbs out of his truck, his jaw clenched so tight it’s already beginning to hurt. He can hear his mother’s voice in his head, telling him that to act as if Brian isn’t standing there and simply walk into the house is childish and rude. And then there’s his brother’s voice, telling him that he’ll feel a lot better after he beats the living crap out of Brian.

“Nick.”

He crosses his arms against his chest.

“Hey,” he says coldly.

Brian swallows audibly. He has a habit of rubbing his left upper arm when he’s nervous, and he’s doing so now. He gives Nick a small faltering smile, but quickly turns serious again.

“Listen, I— I wanted to, uhhh, you know… I wanted to apologize.” It comes out garbled and in a rush, but it still sounds heart-felt. Not that he cares, Nick tells himself firmly.

“Okay. Apology accepted. Is that it?”

“Nick, don’t be like this.”

“Like what?”

Brian makes an uncertain gesture. “I’m sorry. Okay? I shouldn’t have said what I said that day. It’s just that…” He trails to a stop, a pleading look in his eyes.

Nick stares at him for a couple of seconds. He wishes that the sight of Brian left him cold, but it doesn’t. He wishes he didn’t remember how it felt when Brian kissed him, or when he’d just hug him close, but he does.

“What do you want, Brian? It’s been over a month. What are you doing here?”

Brian shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s just…” He looks down, rubbing his upper arm, clearly struggling with what he wants to say. He takes a deep breath. “I miss you, Nick.”

Nick shakes his head. “No. You don’t miss me. Maybe you’re lonely, but you don’t miss me.” He means the words as much for himself, as he does for Brian. He doesn’t miss Brian, he thinks stubbornly. He misses the sex, and looking forward to seeing someone when he left work, but he doesn’t miss Brian.

“You’re wrong,” Brian says quietly.

“Maybe. But I don’t really give a shit. I’m going inside now,” Nick says.

 

He thinks he’s okay at first. He calmly drops his keys and cell phone on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge to pull out a beer. He doesn’t complete the motion. Instead he slams the fridge door shut with all his strength, so hard that it bounces open again, the bottles on the shelves rattling against each other. A slender tall bottle falls to the floor, shattering on impact, splattering steak sauce on Nick’s jeans and sneakers and on everything else within a three-foot radius.

“Fuck! Fuck!” he yells. He slams the door shut again, this time holding it so that it doesn’t open again and jarring his recently healed wrist in the process. “Fuck!” He cradles his wrist, rests his forehead against the fridge and closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he repeats, but this time it’s more a whimper than a shout.

He searches his thoughts for something, anything to make him feel better. Instead, he has a mental picture of Crane filming Brian and him, not when they were having sex, but during their quiet moments, those moments that somehow felt more private, and bile rises to his throat. He never watched the tapes; he destroyed them the very day Grissom gave them to him and never thought of them again. He now wishes he hadn’t, because the reality couldn’t possibly be worse than his imagination. “Fuck,” he whispers brokenly, a sob rising to his throat. Why now? Why the hell now, after all this time? He was fine. Fine. Damn Brian to hell for stirring it all up again.

His phone rings and he has to pick his way through the broken glass and sauce spatter in order to reach it.

“Stokes,” he answers thickly, then jerks the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID, which is what he should have done in the first place. He recognizes the caller’s voice before he sees Grissom’s name and hastily raises the phone again.

“…a couple of hours?”

“Sorry, Griss, I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”

“I asked if you could come in for a couple of hours,” Grissom says after a slight pause.

“When? Now?”

“Yes. Brass just called in and we’ve got a fresh lead on the Diaz case.”

“The Diaz case?”

The pause is longer this time. “The homicide at the bodega on North 11th? The mysterious disappearance of the suspect down a blind alley?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that,” Grissom says slowly. “Nick, are you alright? You sound like you have the flu.”

He briefly considers the easy lie, but he was with Grissom less than four hours ago. “I’m okay,” he says. “Are we meeting at the lab?”

“No, at the scene,” Grissom responds briskly and gives him the address before hanging up.

 

Brass’ lead was a good one, and in the end it only takes only a little over an hour to wrap up the case. Brass will still need to interrogate the suspect and the initial witness, who turns out to be a lot more closely acquainted with the suspect than he first let on, but Nick’s job is done. They didn’t even really need one CSI, much less two; any 1st year detective could have found the evidence they did.

“Well, I’m going to head on home. Unless you need me for something?”

Grissom looks up from his clipboard. “No. Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem.”

Nick gives a small wave goodbye, but Grissom doesn’t respond, just stares at him from under lowered brows, so Nick turns away.

“Nick.”

Nick sighs quietly and turns back. “Yeah?”

Grissom tucks his clipboard under his arm and closes the three steps distance between them to stand right in front of him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

Grissom shakes his head impatiently and grabs Nick by the elbow, almost dragging him outside. Nick is so surprised, that he follows unresistingly. When they reach Nick’s truck, Grissom looks around, as if to make sure that there’s nobody within range, then leans in close.

“Don’t give me that shit,” he says deliberately.

“Listen, I told you—”

“Yeah, I know. You’re fine. Only you’re not. You were fine last night. You were fine this morning. You’re not fine now.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Tough. I’m making it my business.”

Nick opens his mouth and realizes he has nothing to say, so he closes it again. He has no idea what’s gotten into Grissom. He suddenly notices that Grissom hasn’t let go of his elbow, but he’s no longer gripping it; instead he’s kneading it gently, and Nick wonders if Grissom is conscious of what he’s doing. He moves his arm a little; Grissom drops his hand and Nick immediately misses its warmth on his elbow.

“Tell me, Nick,” Grissom urges softly. “A burden shared is a burden halved.”

The way he says it makes Nick smile, and Grissom smiles slightly in return, but he doesn’t back away. “Tell me,” he repeats.

Nick wants to. He wants to so much that he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“I can’t, Grissom. You’re my boss. We don’t have…” He pauses. “I can’t.”

Grissom finally takes a step back.

“Do you need some time off?”

“No! God, no. That’s the last thing I need.”

“Okay. Get some rest. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Thanks, Grissom. See you tonight.”

Nick climbs into his truck and drives off without looking back. He’s almost sure that Grissom is staring after him, but he doesn’t want to check in the rear view mirror in case he’s wrong. His thoughts drift to the encounter with Brian, but it feels like it happened a hundred years ago.

The traffic light up ahead turns green just as he reaches it. “Spot, spot, spot,” he says out loud, then laughs and steps on the gas.