Title: Tension
Author: Emily
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Summary: Post-GD. A restless night has Nick and Greg pondering the way things are.

***

Nick has been driving for an hour, and he's still not tired. His body is spent, begging him to please lie down, please just sleep. His calf muscles ache and a slender headache has wormed its way into his brain, but he tells himself it's a punishment he deserves, he tells himself it feels good to hurt. Just sleep. But his mind won't hear it. Dreams remain elusive, nightmares all too frequent, and every time Nick tries to fall asleep, his brain hits overdrive, and his light headache becomes a full-blown migraine. As he finally manages to drift into unconsciousness, he finds himself there again, wakes up, throws his arms out to strike at walls that can't be shattered. Hard, panicked breaths knife through his lungs, and he's sweating and throwing the covers off the bed.

He hasn't slept well in weeks. He can't stand the blankets, can't stand having anything on top of him, won't be comfortable until all he's touching is air. Until he learns to fly, it's not possible. He can't stand the darkness of his apartment, the humming of his refrigerator. He reaches instinctively for the gun in the drawer of his night stand, but its cool handle brings him no comfort, only memories. The kiss of a barrel pressing beneath his jaw. It's summer and it's sweltering inside his bedroom, but he can't bring himself to unpack the window fan. Instead he takes a cold shower and leans out his second-story window, praying for a stray breeze to blow in from the desert. But it never does.

He gazes out at the fanfare that is Las Vegas, watches girls in slinky dresses and men in collared shirts, eating out, laughing, hears all the sounds he loves because they remind him that he's alive, hates for the same reason.

There's only one sound in the world that Nick wants, but can't admit he needs to hear. It's only one word, only one breath long, and it's a word that only sounds right whispered between that one pair of lips.

So when Nick can't sleep, he reads. When that doesn't work, he throws on a pair of sweat pants and takes a drive.

The problem is that now he's running out of places to drive. He's been over all the bridges and under all the overpasses, and he avoids the tunnels as best he can. But there's one place he keeps finding himself. There's an apartment building he used to go to, a place that used to be safe and used to be Heaven and promises and paradise, and when he starts driving and stops really seeing, he finds himself parked in front of it, finds his guts all in a knot because the light in that third floor window is on.

***

Dripping wet, steam rising from sienna shoulders as graceful hands clutch the towel around his waist. Blush, self-conscious chocolate eyes. Gold lame shirt, black vinyl pants stretched out on the bench.

"Gorgeous". The first word that wedges between Nick's lips. Plenty of other words, ideas, wants, flooding his brain, all dammed behind "gorgeous".

Nick's always been proud of his eyes. Dark as molasses, but now... now a pair of anxious, bright, muddy eyes running all over him. Can't remember why he came in here. Which locker is his? Can't suppress a grin at dark bangs plastered against his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he manages finally. Looks down, dingy floor, "You must be the new lab tech."

Wet lips, deep breaths, dewdrops in his eyelashes. "Greg Sanders," he replies, warm and lazy nervous smile. Reaches for the pants, holds them to his chest. "And you are...?" Raised eyebrow, subtle smirk, towel hitching low on slender hips. Hand tugging at a damp drip of hair, expectant eyes waiting for an answer. One thing. One million ways. Biting his lip with pearly teeth, soft lips, slender fingers. Greg Sanders.

"Nick Stokes."

***

It's Greg's fifth beer, and he's barely feeling buzzed. He's been trying to fall asleep, been doing everything right. He drank a couple beers, took a warm bath, turned on QVC and he's still drinking, but he's not getting drowsy. Sleep slips by him, wrapping enticingly around him and then dissipating, leaving him bitter and cold and gripping the arm of his recliner. He thinks he's come to terms with this loneliness, but he can feel his sorrow rising like a latent sickness that's never left his body.

The television is muted and he hears his stereo playing softly from the bedroom of his third floor apartment. He never turns it off. Silence makes Greg think. In silence, Greg's memory wanders to places he'd rather not go, and touches things that hurt him.

He looks at the clock on the VCR. "2:03," it tells him unflinchingly. It's not too late to make something of tonight, he thinks. He knows a club that never closes, and even thinks about putting on a blazer, catching a cab, but he can't stand the thought of dancing tonight. His skin seethes at the idea of hips grinding against him, head aches when he hears the pulse of industrial music and he's hit by the waves of cigarette smoke. But a part of him likes the scenario, likes the anonymity, likes the sweat and gore of the dance floor. An ill and vengeful smile molests Greg's lips as he imagines the scene.

A dank and smoky club, strobes flashing when Nick walks in the door. Greg sees him, pretends not to. Instead, he leans in close to the guy he's dancing with, whispers, "Come home with me," takes him by the hand and out the door. He glances over his shoulder at a heartbroken Nick, smiles, and says, "It could've been you." But there's a problem with Greg's fantasy. No one in the club, the DJ, the bartender, his nameless fuck, none of them has a face. Greg only sees Nick's face, and it hurts, because he knows the look. Betrayed, confused, but refusing to cry. Goddamnit Nick, just cry. Greg closes his own watering eyes, rips himself up for thinking like that. Greg knows that whoever he brings home, it won't feel good, it won't feel right, and he'll wake up abandoned. Rapists. They're all rapists.

***

Warm for Winter, chilly for Nevada. No snow, just dry air. Leaning over the flimsy railing in front of Greg's apartment. Nick in a forest-green turtle neck that flatters his eyes and draws attention to his graceful hands. Greg in a god-awful reindeer-print sweater and a Santa hat that presses chaotic strands of frosted hair against his face.

The end of the year. The end of the night. Crisp air, sharp breaths. Tension. Greg is watching Nick, watching his breath wreath in the air, ruddy cheeks.

Nick drove Greg home from a Christmas party, and Greg is grateful that he's had company on this, his first Christmas away from family and friends and sunny California. Nick's had more to drink than he'd like to admit, Greg's nowhere near as drunk as he's pretending to be.

Greg wishes it were snowing. Heavy, thick flakes, falling around them, melting on Nick's lips, alighting in dark hair. He knows Nick's been watching him, felt the velvety drunk eyes following his every move over the rim of a glass of scotch. Greg's biting his nails, fingers pressed against full lips, and he can see that Nick wants him.

Looking at Nick, doesn't feel so lost in the desert. Watches Nick's profile, closing his eyes. Want that, his brain growls. Want that all over you. And Greg is shipwrecked in dreams of Nick's throat, of secret kisses, of strong hands holding him down. Greg wants desperately to be held down by Nick, wants to cry and protest as Nick presses inside him, wants to hear his name in a moan, wants to be called "baby" and "bitch" and "love" and "Greg".

Suddenly, thoughts are drowned in a wave of hot alcoholic breath, Nick gazing into him with frightened eyes. Back pressed against his door, hands like flames gently at his neck. Nick's kiss surprisingly soft, remarkably tentative and hopeful. Greg kisses back, parts his lips, draws Nick closer by his belt loops. Hard, against Nick's thigh, friction. Greg uses his other hand to bat the ball of his Santa hat out of his eyes.

Nick pulls back, the lust in his eyes diluted and replaced again by apprehension and fear quivering on the brink of regret. Greg smiles. Swollen lips, cracked lips. Blood.

"Funny," he says. "I didn't hang any mistletoe this year."*

***

Nick always feels guilty when the gas gauge hovers just above a quarter of a tank. Things like that make him nervous, things that run out. And everything runs out sooner or later. The lights go out and you're alone.

There's a certain part of Las Vegas he can't go near anymore, a place he's only seen from beneath. A place he's only dreamed. He tries to forget, tries to deny how many hours he spent down there, how close he was to blowing his brains out. And he knows, he tells himself that it won't ever happen again. That he never has to go back down there. But what if he does? What are the odds, he's dying to know. Those moments were distilled pain, and it hurts to admit that it broke him. Made him scream till he passed out, made him sob and piss himself. It seems insane. He thinks he must be mad, that maybe they got him out of the box, but that he's crazy, and all of this... his truck, the parking lot, the light on the third floor, maybe that's all just his memory.

Nick never fell under the spell of the city, of neon dreams and lucent streets. But this place is home to his one phantom, that single thing, that feeling, that body that could convince him that he truly is alive and in the world, could force him to forget the sin of his life and the thirst of the desert. Those eyes that drew his suffering away, and left him whole and safe again. Nick can't feel safe anymore. And the worst part is knowing how little it would take to make him feel that way again, knowing how close it is, how easy to get it back in two little words, knowing he doesn't deserve it.

When Nick Stokes begins to think, lets his mind float, he always winds up in one of two places. Both of them hurt, but one leads to more pain and one leads to nothing, and Nick will take the pain.

***

"Nick..."

The word courses so gently from raw, parted lips, and it flutters against his cheek.

Disbelief. Nick is stunned and paralyzed in cinnamon eyes that peer into him with desire, assurance. I want this. Soft hair tousled in his right hand, firm shoulder beneath his left. Bronzed. Delicate. Warm skin beneath him, slender fingers, sharp nails down his spine, across his shoulders, scratch marks like wings, flexible legs wrapped around him, muscular hips pulling him in. Excruciating. Horrifying.

"Am I hurting you?" Intoxicated laughter. "You worry about me too much." Radiant eyes set as bait, trapped in long eyelashes. Snare. Sweat. Pleasure beyond comprehension. Numb and high, the fuse is lit. Fear. Self-conscious. "Say something... please."

Concern, gentle, burning palm against his face. "What do you want me to say, Nick?"

Tongue flickers across trembling lips, eyes back, perfection stretched out under him. Absolutely edible. Weak. Who's weak? Clutches himself, bites his lower lip. "Do you want me to tell you how you look right now?"

Neck straining to chain a moan. He nods slowly, his hand joins Greg's.

"You look like I've imagined you every day for the past six months." He studies Nick's face. "You look like you're holding back. You won't shatter me, you know." He runs a fingertip down Nick's torso, adds, "Not that easily."

Nick's never thought he was into talking during sex, but he's caught in the riptide of profanities flowing from Greg's open lips. "Break me Nicky, fucking break me." He feels himself going deeper, feels the softness of Greg's thighs against him, shudders. Electricity. Heart's going to stop. Greg's fists, full of damp sheets, head back and shaking from side to side, slamming against the headboard, throat exposed in offering. Nick's teeth graze his Adam's apple. Greg giggles, tightens around Nick. Nick draws a sharp breath, holds it for thirty seconds.

"Don't stop," pleads Greg, frantic, scorching hands flying across Nick's chest, tugging at the hair on the back of Nick's neck. "I've wanted you forever, Nick."

Nick smiles. They've only known each other for six months.

A devious smile crawls up Greg's lips, notices that Nick hearing his own name elicits a consonant moan.

"I've thought about fucking you so many times, Nick. Thought about fucking you in the bathroom at work." His head lolls forward, he tightens his grip on himself. "Sometimes... oh God, sometimes I can't even make it through my shift without..." Eyes drift closed, line of saliva flowing over his bottom lip, lands on his collar bone. "Oh Jesus, Nick."

Body tensing, head thrown back. Screams. Tears. Sticky white dripping down his arched throat, tangled in his damp hair. Shaking fingers reach, smear his seed down his throat, over his chest, licks two fingers, and that's just too much for Nick.*

***

Sixth beer. Still nothing. Greg decides that if a seventh doesn't do the job, he might as well try to sleep. He's gripping the smoky bottle in his right hand, feeling the cool condensation seeping between his knuckles, and he's thinking about letting it go. Let the whole thing go. Grudges don't look good on you, he reminds himself. He runs a sweaty palm through greasy hair, sinks even further into his recliner. Forgive him.

But Greg has a hard time forgiving. Forgive him. Forgive yourself. Let yourself be happy.

It's agony, still pretending to be angry after nearly two years. Turning a bitter shoulder when what he wants is powerful arms enveloping him. But he knows he has to. He can't just let himself forget. He can't let that happen ever again. That Greg is gone, he tells himself with a sneer. That Greg who fell fast and fell hard, that Greg who sent flowers, tried to make dinner, paid for carryout when he failed.

I love you. Come back to me. I'm sorry. It's a song that never leaves his head. I'm sorry. Greg hates being sorry, and he scowls as the sour flavour of apology wells between his lips. I'm sorry it has to be this way...

***

Sunny afternoon, beautiful day, Donovan playing in the cafe. Fear rising like a knife blade in Greg's throat, twisting behind his eyes. Rubs his temple. Surreal. Migraine. Don't cry. Don't cry. Cup of coffee, steaming hot, Nick's treat. Stares into it, stirs the cream.

"It doesn't have to be this way." But he knows it does. He knows with Nick.

"It's my fault..."

Damn right it's your fault. Humiliated, wishes he hadn't chosen a table so near the window. Because he's trying so desperately not to cry. And the idea of crying in front of Nick just makes him want to cry harder. Throat closing up, eyes swelling, his only satisfaction is seeing that Nick is on the verge of tears. Eyebrows arched with worry, lower lip trembling.

"I... I never should have let things go this far." Can't look Greg in the face, wrings his napkin to shreds.

Greg turns his head, presses his lips against his right shoulder. A scoff curls from his lips. "Right. How far exactly should they have gone?" Glances at Nick in his periphery, smirks, vindicated by a his wounded expression.

Shoot to kill. "Did you want me to be just another fuck?"

He almost regrets it, but not quite.

"G, I..."

He clutches a fistful of his own hair, grits his teeth. "Don't give me that 'G' bullshit." He spits when he says it, doesn't care.

"I don't want to make this any harder than it has to be." He runs a thumb delicately along the handle of his white porcelain mug.

Greg leans in, pleads softly, "Then don't do it." He hopes it doesn't sound like begging.

"It's just..." He scratches absently behind an ear. "It's just a bad idea. I mean, with work and everything..."

Can't be hearing this. Thought you were different. Told you I loved you. Going to throw up. Still so beautiful, dark eyes fogging, wet eyelashes, strong jawline quivering. Bad time for an erection. That's how much I want you. Even now, I want to be with you, want to forgive you. But you're not asking for forgiveness. It's not easy is it? New feeling. Chest pains. Maybe I'm having a heart attack. Static filling his ears.

Please wake up. Please don't let this be real.

"Who is he?"

Confusion, accusation? "Who is who?"

"Who's the other guy, Nick?"

"There is no one else." That subtle, sad smile. "I just... I just can't handle you. I can't be what you need right now."

Greg's close to dropping. Drop to your knees, beg him. He's shaking. He almost wants to. But Greg Sanders can't beg. He wants to, begs with his eyes, but that's as far as he'll go. Not even a goodbye kiss? Greg swallows when he realizes that he can't use sex to solve this thing. That all the sex in Las Vegas can't wash this away.

Greg's lips wobble, something falls half-way out, nonsense. He doesn't remember drinking the coffee, but when he glances down, his mug is empty. The manicured hand of the waitress. Nick snatches the cheque from beneath Greg's fingertips.

He can't see the stars from here. In Texas, he used to walk into the backyard, outside the protective illumination of the porchlight, and suddenly he was falling. Falling into space, falling out between stars so bright they made him cold, between the chirping of crickets and cicadas, formless and stellar.

It's not the same lying here in the bed of his truck with his arms behind his head, parked diagonally across two spaces in an otherwise unoccupied parking lot. The only thing he sees is the occasional airplane passing overhead. And the sirens. Nick can't escape the sirens. They spray their wailing over the night, into the desert, and they rip through Nick's tranquillity, prying open wounds too fresh to stay closed. When Nick is alone and in bed and staring at the ceiling, he holds his breath and waits for them. Their shrieks fly into his window like birds, and as much as Nick hates them, wants to shoo them away, he knows that they mean someone is coming. Somewhere down the highway, a truck backfires. Nick jumps.

Swallowing terror for hours, only now reaching the back of his mouth. Ebbs a little. Greg asleep, lips open halfway. Chokes back a whimper when he sees that beautiful face charred and blistered and bandaged. Angel in white, IV in his arms. Steady heartbeat, most sweeping melody Nick's ever heard.

"How's he doing?" Catherine asks the nurse.

"Stabilized. He's unconscious now, but he's going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up."

Pain. Greg. Pain. No. Not fair. Fingers twitching, thin hand draped over his bed, and Nick wants to hold it, press a kiss into that palm, cry, apologize, beg. Knees wavering.

"You okay, Nick?"

"Huh?" Looks at her. Dizzy. "I'm fine."

Going to suffocate on sterile air. Can't stand to see sunny, lively Greg practically comatose, nearly dead. Heart tugs on itself. Hold him. Tell him you love him.

In his mind...

"I love you, Greg."

Eyes flutter open, awkward smile. "I love you too." Kiss.

But he stands inside the doorway, mute, numb. Catherine stands bedside. Nick paralyzed, unmoving, lips shaking, feels the world turning on him. If only Greg would open those eyes and whisper, barely whisper his name. He'd be there. He'd fly there.

Wants to see. Wants to see the burns, wants to kiss them away. Tear falls, thanks God it's on the cheek Catherine can't see. Smiles sadly. Still perfect, singed and seared and perfect.*

***

He's brooding at his window sill, shirtless, feeling the night around him. Pickup truck, black, parked at the far end of the lot. Black pickups still make hope catch in him, still make him look twice. But the lights are off, and it's probably just a new neighbor. He ruffles his hair, sighs deeply.

Greg's mind lapses back a couple of years, back to kisses that still burn on his lips, caresses, gazes that left him dumb and convulsing on his bed, on the floor, on the counter, the table, in the shower, the car, the stairwell... and words. Words ruin everything. Words that come back and make him remember.

"I can't be what you need right now." He says it softly, bitterly to himself. Translates. "I'm not in love with you." "Can't be what you need" means "not in love with you", means "want to fuck other people", means "forget".

Greg cracks another beer, lets the comforting chill drill to the base of his spine. He takes a long, desperate drink. Nothing. He rubs the back of his neck and the tip of his index finger catches on scar tissue. It's barely there, but it feels like it's on fire. He hasn't let anyone see his back since...

***

How did I get here?

Aware, vaguely, yelling, screaming, crackling, smoke and red and glass in his cheeks. Fire. He is fire. Face pressed against the floor, so much glass, spread out like a halo. Too shocked to feel pain... yet.

Eyes roll back.

Where's Nick? Is Nick okay? Soon the word consumes him like flames. Nick. God, I just want to see Nick. A smile burns across his face, pushes a piece of glass shard further into his flesh.

Greg's prayer comes spilling out in pictures, words, desires, regrets, and mostly wishes. He feels himself dreaming, slipping across a rockface, scrambling to go up, but only climbing in place.

Fear. He's too exhausted for fear. He wants more than he fears. Wants Nick to lift him from wherever he is. Warm blanket. His blood, stings his eyes. Blackness.*

***

The dry air feels cool, the grating in the bed of the truck digs into him. He's looking up at that third floor light, thinking about the balcony scene, and knows he's no Romeo. He knows that door would slam in his face.

But since he's been above ground, he's been feeling crazy, been feeling Greg. Every breath feels like a risk conquered, and he's feeling a little brazen, feeling a little drunk when he sits up in the back of his truck. He swings his legs off the end, feels a drop of rain on his arm.

Nick's never been one to believe in omens, but rain is always a good thing in Las Vegas.

***

Even he can't imagine it. It's not worth describing beyond pure terror. His own screams, foreign, his voice not his. Gun. Chilly. Glass. Smooth. Who is Nick Stokes? Who are you, Nick Stokes?

I don't know. Stop asking. I don't know.

Do they know you're down here?

They must. They have to. They can get me out.

Can they?

Yes.

Do it.

No.

Cry.

Too tired to cry. No tears left. Be calm. Wait. Sing. Think about something.

Anything. Greg.

Smiles thinly. Closes his eyes and he's there. Lying next to Greg in bed, going to get up and get dressed any minute. That's where he is right now. Opens his eyes. Dirt. Roots. Worms. Death.

Vows that if he gets out of here, he's going to kiss Greg senseless.

Hopeless. Do it.

No.

***

Greg turns his back to the window, staggers towards the bedroom. He leans on the door frame there, pauses to look at a bed that feels haunted. He still sleeps on the right side of it, because Nick liked to be nearer to the bedroom window. He hasn't washed the sheets. He's taken them off, thrown them in the closet, but he's never been able to wash the smell of Nick out of them. They're blue sheets, and he remembers how glorious Nick looks all stretched out on them, dark, hazy, possessive eyes and pale skin against deep navy blue sheets.

He allows himself to cry. He knows he's being selfish, and whoever's fault his unhappiness was two years ago, by now it surely belongs to him. Because he lost it. He almost lost it all, and he knew. Greg had that chance most people never have. To lose something only to realize how precious it was, that happens to everyone. But to get it back? He was lucky. He had been close.

***

Emaciated and swollen and to all appearances dead, but a heart monitor assures him. Oxygen tube, feeding tube, he knows how it feels. He holds Nick's hand, squeezes. Afraid. Afraid because the one person he felt could hold up his world is barely breathing, covered in sores, and unconscious. Atlas falls, and the world shatters around Greg. Convince him to quit. That's what he's been thinking, but knows Nick will never ever quit his job. And if he did quit, if he weren't a CSI, he'd be a cop, or a lawyer, or a detective, or in Green Peace or something. Greg wants to quit. Quit work, take care of Nick. Places a vase full of tiger lilies on the bed stand. Makes him smile knowing that they'll be the first thing Nick sees, and he knows Nick will think of him.

"A bluebell."

"What?" Nick looks insulted. "Why a bluebell?"

"Because," says Greg, leaning back in his chair. "They're stately, modest, sweet, and they smell good."

Nick blushes. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Greg shrugs.

"Tiger lily," says Nick after a thoughtful pause.

"How come?"

"Wild and brightly coloured."

Greg laughs.

Greg swallows. Remembers. Nick screaming, Nick crying. A million denials fly out the window and Greg is as in love as he ever was, and as afraid as he's ever been in his life. Helpless. Can't save you. Suicide. Hopes to God Nick doesn't have it in him, thinks he might try it himself.

Turns, needs to be held. Needs to be told everything's alright, even if it's a lie. But that one person, the person whose lies he craves, that's the person he can't have. Leans in carefully, delicate kiss on Nick's forehead.

"Please come back for me."*

***

Nick's counting the stairs as he ascends the third flight, even though he already knows that it's exactly 53 steps from the bottom of the stairs to Greg's doorway, and he doesn't know why on Earth he remembers things like that. He smiles as he passes the place on the second where Greg pressed him against the wall. Couldn't they make it to his apartment? Nick had asked. Didn't he care what the neighbors saw?

No, Greg had growled.

Sex in public places, Nick had discovered, was only one of Greg's many proclivities, and he had to admit that once he let Greg take over, a lot of things he'd never imagined doing became very very enticing. Of course, he remembered with a grin, Greg liked it when he protested. He liked a challenge, loved seeing exactly what he could make Nick do, and how quickly. He pauses as he reaches the third floor, glances down the burgundy carpet, sees the empty hallway. Televisions murmur within the apartments, laughter, fighting, the hiss of showers. He holds his breath as his white knuckles hover above door #396. He hears nothing from within, no music, and that worries him a little, because Greg ALWAYS has the music on, even when he's not home. He remembers opening his eyes, thinking he must by dead by now, hoping so anyway. He remembers smiling to the point of pain, at Greg, draped over a hospital chair, head back, snoring, mumbling to himself. Remembers the smell of tiger lilies. Greg's head has just settled in his pillow when he hears a pounding from outside.

Not for you, he tells himself, pulls the sheets closer around his chin and pouts.

Another knock, and it really does sound like his door.

"Greg? You home?"

When he opens the door, there's enough tension flowing through it that Nick's afraid he might have a heart attack. Greg's trying his best to look like he was asleep, tries to look annoyed, but Nick can see Greg's smile coming a mile away, and he recognizes the tear tracks down his lover's face. Neither of them says anything, and Nick can count the heartbeats between them. So much that needs to be said, and somehow none of it's important right now. As Nick watches the rising sun trickle through Greg's jungle hair like a gold crown, he's trying to formulate a formal apology. Light caresses Greg's shoulders, and Nick's memorizing the feeling of the scar tissue beneath his palm. Only Greg can make scars beautiful. Greg places one hand against Nick's chest, the other cradles his own cheek, and he's wondering what's brewing behind those charcoal eyes. Nick grins, and Greg can't help but wonder how many of those killer smiles he's missed. Nick's always saying that he feels old when he smiles, and Greg insists that he looks "mature, a man capable of handling me properly".

Nick purses his lips, blushes when he sees mahogony eyes trained on his face. He wonders again if he really isn't dead.

"Thank you," he whispers, placing a kiss on Greg's jaw.

Greg twists his mouth, raises an eyebrow incredulously. "For what?"

"For opening the door."

***