Title: Personal Stuff
By: Joanner Soper-Cook
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: Mmmm, probably NC-17
Genre: First Time
Spoilers: For "Bad To The Bone" but not for anything else, I don't think...
"What personal stuff, Grissom?" (Catherine Willows)
n.b: takes place after the events of "Bad to the Bone."

Catherine is wrong. It doesn't look like a hickey at all.

It looks like someone put their hands around Gil Grissom's neck and squeezed. It gives Nick the heebie-jeebies just looking at it. He can't stop looking at it, that dark stain on Grissom's throat.

"Nick?"

He blinks. He's been drifting. Long shift, tired, didn't sleep well today - he keeps his excuses at the ready. "Sorry."

"You okay?" Grissom's face is close to his, so close that he could smell Grissom's cologne if the boss ever wore any, but the boss never does - doesn't need to, Nick realises, because he smells pretty damn wonderful all the time, formaldehyde notwithstanding. He smells like soap and tepid nighttime air. He smells like somebody you'd want to tug close and hold onto, just so you could breathe that scent a little while longer.

"I'm fine," Nick lies. "Tired." He reaches out towards Grissom's neck. "Looks like he got you pretty good."

"Yeah - um, could you just take a look at these?" Grissom passes him a folder of photographs. Their hands brush, touch, as Nick takes the file; Nick feels a shiver running down his arm, dangerous and elusive as quicksilver. Grissom would hate that, he thinks. He can imagine the look on Grissom's face, the tone of his voice: 'Call it what it is, Nick. Mercury.'

"It's more poetic." Too late, he realises that he's spoken aloud. He's an idiot. He takes the photos, mumbles something about coffee. He has to get away. The fantasies can wait till later, like they always do, when he's alone in his own room with only the whirr of the air conditioner and the faint murmur of the radio, and narrow daylight coming through the window. "Diana Krall," he says, apropos of nothing.

"Sorry?" Grissom is peering at him over the tops of his reading glasses. The entomologist has the bluest blue eyes Nick has ever seen. Perhaps there are more poetic words than merely 'blue'. Perhaps he's thought of them.

"Do you like jazz?" It's out of Nick's mouth before he can stop himself.

"Do I like jazz?" Grissom's mouth turns down slightly at the corners. It is, Nick thinks, a really nice mouth. "Yeah, I like jazz." He peers at Nick strangely. "Do you?"

"Diana Krall." Nick says it again. The room is weird, all smooth surfaces and threatening angles. There's too much steel, too much harsh fluorescent light. "I got tickets."

"Well, good for you."

And it's too late: Grissom turns away, murmuring to himself, pushing up his glasses, ignoring Nick and his folder full of gory pictures.

"If you want to - "

"Huh?" Grissom comes back. "What did you say?"

"Buddy of mine does the sound for Diana Krall. He gave me a couple tickets. I don't know anybody else that likes jazz." His heart is pounding in his chest like a trapped animal. He thinks he might be dying. He names the date, out loud.

"Well, sure." Grissom accepts, but then it turns to something else, something gelid and strange. His eyes skate away when Nick looks at him. "Unless there's somebody else you'd rather go with, maybe Warrick? What about Greg?"

"It's okay, if you don't want to, I mean, maybe I misunderstood." Nick is backing away, mortified, feeling a hot spill of colour into his cheeks. He's pushing, that's his problem, he's just too damn pushy all the time, he should know better. Grissom...Grissom is like a butterfly, he has to be allowed...he has to land....

Nick loses the metaphor as Grissom comes closer, and Grissom is smiling into Nick's eyes. "Thank you, Nicky. That'd be great."

After their shift, Grissom sees him in the parking lot. The bruise on Grissom's neck is livid, dark purplish. Nick thinks it must be painful. He wants to soothe it, wants to help - God help him, he wants to kiss it.

"Breakfast, maybe?" Grissom says. "I'm starving. You?"

Nick realises that it has been a very long time since he's eaten. "That would be great," he says.

"Leave it," Grissom says, when Nick starts towards his own vehicle. "We'll take mine."

It's a beautiful morning, still dewy, or as dewy as Vegas ever gets, but it will get hot later on. Nick doesn't relish trying to sleep in it, rolling around in twisty-damp sheets, having bad dreams and waking up with his hair stuck to his scalp. He steals a glance at Griss, feels his groin tighten in response to his mental picture: Grissom sleeping, Grissom sleeping naked, Grissom sleeping naked on damp sheets. He wonders what Grissom sounds like in bed. He thinks he'd like to find out.

"So." Grissom digs into the enormous pile of scrambled eggs. "Diana Krall."

"Saturday night - that's if, nothing comes up?"

Grissom shakes his head. "Let Catherine deal with it." He grins at Nick, takes a sip of his coffee. "You don't seem like the jazz type, Nicky."

Nicky pretends to be offended. "Right. So, what? I line-dance to Billy Ray Cyrus in my underwear?"

The expression on Grissom's face stabs him. If he didn't know better...but Grissom would never...Grissom didn't know he was alive, outside of work. And then the transient emotion is gone, chased away from Grissom's features by something else, something a lot safer than this. "Tighty whities?" Grissom is laughing. "Or boxers?" He squints at Nick. "Let me guess: boxer briefs. Do you do that Tom Cruise thing from Risky Business?"

"Doesn't everybody?" And Nick is laughing with him, grateful to be back on steady ground. "None of your damned business." The sun is coming in through the diner windows; he's with Grissom. Everything is okay.

It's not like in the movies: Nick isn't sleeping when the phone rings. He hates stereotypes like that. He's lying on his back with the shades drawn and the bright Las Vegas day is slithering over the house, warming it from the outside-in. He's propped up on a pile of pillows with the t.v. changer in his hand, pretending; he's actually thinking about Grissom. "Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" Grissom never calls him at home unless it's important.

It must be important. "What is it?"

"Can you..." A pause, the sound of his boss's breathing on the other end. "Can you come over?"

"To your house?"

"If it's okay."

Nick's heart begins pounding in his chest. "What's wrong?" His hand clenches the phone until the plastic creaks. "Is someone...?"

"Could you just come over?" Grissom sounds tired. "I hate to ask."

Nicky doesn't even remember driving; nothing exists for him until Griss opens the door and lets him in. There's no crazed lunatic with a shotgun; there's nobody except Grissom.

Grissom in baggy pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt, sleepy, slightly cranky. When Grissom stands close to him, Nick can smell the fabric softener, whatever detergent Grissom uses on his laundry. Grissom's feet are bare, vulnerable-looking. The t-shirt is stretched from hell to breakfast; the loose neckline reveals the marks on Grissom's throat. Fingerprints, grouped together like an unholy necklace. Something tightens in Nick's chest; he can't stop himself. He feathers his fingertips over the marks.

"Too bad he's dead," Nick says lightly. He says it so lightly that he's frightening himself.

Grissom makes a warning noise. "Nicky..."

"He shouldn't hurt you." It's out in the open now. Damned if he can take it back again. "Nobody should hurt you."

Grissom slips away, padding towards the kitchen, his bare feet soundless on the morning floor. "Beer?" It dispels the curious tension, successfully diverts Nick's attention from his boss's neck, the dark marks there, the tender skin that some maniac has violated with his filthy hands.

"Hey," Nick forces himself to grin. "It's not just for breakfast anymore."

He accepts the cool, dark bottle and sits down on the couch. Grissom sits beside him. For several long moments they exist in a masculine silence, their hands busily peeling labels, their feet not-quite tapping on the floor.

"I thought he was going to kill me."

Nick doesn't turn. He can just see Grissom in his peripheral vision. "Bastard."

"He was so quick, Nicky." Grissom's free hand reaches up to touch the marks on his neck. "He was...vibrating. Just really angry." He takes a shivering breath. "When he...he...I started blacking out."

NIck can't help it: he has to touch Grissom. His hands find a fold of Grissom's t-shirt, hold on to it. Grissom is shivering.

"Will you stay with me?" It's so quiet, merely a breath; Nick finds himself leaning close to hear it, just in case he misses something.

"Of course I will." He takes Grissom's beer bottle and his own, lays them both on a side table. "You look exhausted. Come on, let's get you settled in." He's never seen Grissom this meek; it frightens him. He leads the older man into the bedroom (sparse, functional, painted a pale creamy beige) and turns down the coverlet on the bed. "I'll just be out here on the sofa," Nick says. He tucks Grissom into bed and pulls the covers over him. It's not real hot in here, not yet, but covers mean comfort, he knows that. He pulls the door not-quite-shut. This is weird, but it's okay. Grissom needs him, so he'll help out, and it's not like he was even sleeping anyway.

He finds Grissom's couch and folds himself down onto it. He's asleep in minutes.

It's late afternoon when Nick wakes up; the house is eerily silent. He goes to the bathroom and creeps past Grissom's bedroom door. Grissom has tossed the covers off, is lying on his back with his mouth open, one bare foot hanging over the side of his bed. Nick doesn't want to wake him just yet, so he goes to the kitchen and starts supper/breakfast. "Supfast," Sara is prone to call it. "Not supper, because you just got up, but not really breakfast either. Supfast." He finds a dozen fresh eggs in Grissom's fridge, and a stack of succulent, deli-sliced ham. He breaks the eggs into the cast iron pan, waits for them to bubble before adding the ham. He sets four thick slices of toast in the toaster slots, finds Grissom's coffee pot and starts a brew. There's a pot of jam from some chi-chi little patisserie just off the Strip; Nick sets it out on the table with a pitcher of cream for the coffee. He's buttering the toast when he hears noises from the bedroom; Grissom appears with his hair standing on end, yawning. "Good God, Nicky."

Nick is embarrassed. This isn't his house; he shouldn't have touched anything. "It's not what it looks like."

Grissom reaches past him to snag a piece of toast. "The evidence speaks for itself," he says, and if there's a touch of smugness, Nick is willing to overlook it. The bruises are already starting to fade on Grissom's neck. He looks well-rested and happy. "Thank you." He's close, his blue eyes gazing at Nick.

Nick moves slowly. He doesn't want to startle Grissom. His hands are cupping Grissom's face, and Grissom is still smiling at him, keeps smiling at him until his blue eyes close and he's there.

His mouth tastes faintly of butter and toothpaste. His hands are holding Nick's arms, squeezing. Grissom makes a small noise in his throat, a sound that goes straight to Nick's groin. Nick reaches over to turn off the stove. The coffee will keep, he thinks. Everything else can wait. He walks Grissom - Gil - backwards into the wall, slides his hands up under Grissom's ratty t-shirt. I want to touch you with gentleness, Nick thinks, right after, I want to fuck you into the mattress.

"NIcky." Gil is holding onto his hands. "You should know -"

"What?" Nick fights to keep a note of exasperation out of his voice. He resents any delay.

"I'm not...I don't do this very often. You might be disappointed." Grissom isn't looking at him; he's looking away to the side.

"Bullshit." Nick cups Grissom's chin, rubs his thumb over that sensual bottom lip. "Just go with it, huh?" He leans in, runs the tip of his tongue across Gil's lip, smiling when he feels Grissom shudder. "You like that?" he murmurs. Nick's voice is deep and sexy; it's making Grissom feel strange, unhinged, not his usual tightly-buttoned self. "Is that good, huh?"

"God, yes." He doesn't even sound like Grissom, this man; he sounds wanton and sexy and ready.

Nick is gentle despite his eagerness. His kisses start at Grissom's mouth and move slowly down his neck, ghosting lightly over the marks. Nick dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of Grissom's throat. They lie down, slowly, folding together with the fluidity of merging rivers. Grissom's ribs are ticklish; he whimpers when Nick sucks his fingers, when Nick's tongue traces the veins in his wrist. He lies back and let Nick take over, and Nick is everywhere, touching him, kissing him, drawing gentle hands down his sides. Nick whispers tender nothings, till every syllable has seeped into Grissom and turned his bones to water. "Oh, Nicky, sweet Nicky..." It's a blur, it's like he's imagined it would be; it's like nothing on earth. Hands and mouths and bodies, and Nick lying on him, holding his hands over his head while Nick plunders his mouth, taking him deeper into it, so deep now that he probably won't find his way out again, but he doesn't care, he doesn't. The orgasm splits him wide open, a throbbing pool of heat and slippery bodies. He's sobbing and he can't help it. Nick's hands tighten on his arms, he's leaving fingerprints, bruises, sweat, oil from his skin and quite possibly his DNA. Nicky's face is hidden in Grissom's shoulder; Nick's mouth is open on his skin. Bite, Grissom pleads, albeit silently, bite me hard. He wants that evidence.

The world stops. When he is next aware of things, Grissom finds Nicky lying in his arms, his cheek against Grissom's shoulder. It's too much: such closeness surely won't go unpunished. It will be taken away, as everything is taken away in time. He won't be allowed to keep it. But Nick is smiling at him: a hazy, loving smile, and Grissom is weeping. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Nick gathers him up, holds him. "Baby, why are you crying? Come on, tell me."

"I thought he was going to kill me." But that's not it. That's not it at all. He can't tell Nicky the truth. Not yet.

The End.