Title: Come Tomorrow
Author: podga
Pairing: Nick/OMC, Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me and I don't make money off of them
Warning: Main character death
Summary: Nick meets someone

"May I?"

At first Nick continues reading his notes, not realizing that the voice is addressing him.

"Sir? May I sit at your table?"

Nick looks up at the second request, to see a man with a tray in his hands standing behind the chair diagonally across from his at the table. Frowning a bit, he scans the restaurant and realizes all the tables are taken.

"Be my guest," he says and turns back to his notes.

"Thank you," the man says and sets his tray on the table. He has a slight accent that Nick can't quite place, and he puzzles over it for a few seconds, before the text in front of him absorbs him again.

After a while Nick starts to get the feeling that he's being watched and it breaks his concentration. He re-reads the same paragraph, not paying attention to the words, as the feeling grows to certainty. He glances up quickly to check, but the guy is simply sipping his drink and staring blankly ahead of him. Feeling a bit foolish, Nick tries to turn back to his reading. It's been a long time since anybody scoped him out, a long, long time. Still… He flicks another look, but the guy doesn't seem to even be aware of him.

He's not bad looking, Nick thinks. Reddish blond curly hair, a long straight nose, full lips, around his age. Suddenly he's staring into eyes the color of jade, and before he can stop himself, he looks quickly away, heat rising to his cheeks.

"What do you think of the seminar?" The voice is deep and slightly rough, at odds with the guy's lanky frame.

"Sorry?"

The man tilts his head towards the stack of papers in front of Nick. "The seminar. Do you find it interesting?"

"Oh. Yeah, it's OK," Nick shrugs.

"That sounds like you don't."

Nick grins. "You got me. It's not really covering new ground, is it?"

The man shrugs. "It depends where you come from."

"So where do you come from?" Even as he asks the question, Nick is appalled at his tone; he hopes he didn't sound as flirtatious as he thinks he did.

The guy's mouth tilts in sly half-smile. "Guess," he says.

Nick may have been out of the scene for a long time, but he can still recognize an invitation when he hears one. He looks the man over more deliberately this time, taking in the high forehead, the long lashes framing the odd-colored eyes, the prominent Adam's apple. His eyes stop on a thin black bracelet that looks like it's made of knotted rope, a blue lucky eye charm hanging from it.

"Turkey?"

The man laughs. "Close enough. Greece." He reaches a hand out over the table. "I'm John."

Nick shakes it, liking the firm, warm grasp. "Nick."

"And are you from here, Nick?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I work here."

John leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping an odd, nervous rhythm on the table. "I like America. Except for the fact that there seems to be nowhere I can smoke." He continues tapping the table. "So you must know Las Vegas well."

"Well enough. Probably better than I'd like to."

"Ah, you're thinking about work. Forget about work for a moment, Nick. Do you know where to play?"

"Depends on what your game is."

John's mouth tilts into that half-smile that Nick is starting to find as sexy as hell. "Well. Nothing that involves line dancing or breaking plates."

"That leaves a lot of options," Nick says slowly. What if he's wrong? And even if he isn't, he's not sure he wants to pursue this further. He breaks eye contact and looks at his watch. "Sorry, I have to go. The next session I'm attending is about to start." He stands up, collects and sticks his notes under his arm, then picks up his tray. "It was nice meeting you."

John smiles up at him. "It was nice meeting you, Nick."

Nick starts to leave, then hesitates and turns back to John.

"If you need anything while you're in Vegas and I can help, give me a call." Balancing his tray in one hand, he gives John his card.

"Thank you, Nick. Perhaps I will."

Nick smiles awkwardly and then walks away, leaving John sitting at the table, still tapping his fingers.

He's dozing in front of the TV, when his phone buzzes, the vibration making it judder across the coffee table. He doesn't recognize the number on the screen and rejects the call. After a few seconds the phone buzzes again, indicating a received message on voicemail. He recognizes the rough, accented voice immediately, and it sets off butterflies in his stomach.

"Hello, this is John. You said to call if I need anything, so I am. I need a drink, Nick. I hope you would like to join me." John has left his phone number. Nick considers his options and decides he'd prefer a drink to watching re-runs. Remembering old habits, he allows a quarter of an hour to drag by so that he doesn't seem overly anxious, and then calls John back and arranges to meet him at his hotel.

"Where would you like to go?"

John shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know Las Vegas. Do you have a favorite place?"

Nick hesitates. He does, but he's still not completely sure he's reading John correctly. What if what he thinks are signals are just the habits of a different culture?

"Do you like pool?"

"Pool?"

"Billiards? Big table, balls, sticks?"

"Ah, yes. The Color of Money, Paul Newman and Tom Cruise."

"Right. There's this bar I go to. Country and western music, pool. It's nothing special, but I like it."

"OK" John says agreeably and follows Nick to his truck. "Do you know what happens if you play a country & western record backwards?"

Nick laughs. "Don't even start, man. Where I'm taking you, you'd better show some respect."

So far John has been pretty relaxed, almost blasé, but when they walk into the Badlands Saloon he goggles, his eyes swiveling around the bar.

"So what do you think?" Nick asks.

"I didn't expect something like this," John says slowly.

"We can go someplace else," Nick says, turning and trying to herd John back towards the door.

"No, Nick this is fine. I just hadn't realized that cows play such a predominant role in American gay culture." John's lips twist into that half smile again.

"You're sure you're OK with this?"

John is tall, hovering at around 6'5" and he's standing so close to Nick that Nick has to tilt his head back slightly in order to see his face. Suddenly John bends his head and kisses Nick on the mouth. It's a quick, hard kiss, and it tells Nick all he needs to know.

"Another beer?"

"No, thanks. I have to drive us home."

John catches the eye of the bartender and points at his empty mug, then turns towards Nick again, leaning his hip against the bar. He's already had four beers, not counting the half one he knocked over with his cue stick. His green eyes are slightly glazed and he seems to have some trouble focusing, but he's still steady enough on his feet. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a squashed pack of Marlboro Lights. In a practiced, one-handed move, he shakes one cigarette loose and puts it in his mouth.

"You don't smoke, do you, Nick?" he asks.

"Nope. Never have."

John flicks open a Zippo lighter and lights the cigarette, then inhales deeply and holds the smoke in his lungs, before expelling it though his nose.

"I've smoked since I was sixteen. Almost everybody did in my school, including the basketball team. Now I can't stop."

"Do you want to?"

John has an odd shrug, tilting his head towards one lifted shoulder. Nick has seen him do it several times, and it seems to serve both as a yes and as a maybe.

"Do you mind kissing someone who smokes, Nick?" he asks, staring at Nick's mouth, then up into Nick's eyes.

The sudden question makes Nick's stomach coil. The noisy crowd around him seems to fade away, until it seems that all he can hear is the roar of his own blood in his ears. His eyes fixed on John's full lips, he takes a step closer, then he feels John's warm hand cupping the back of his head, pulling him forward. John's mouth tastes of cigarettes and beer, but Nick barely notices, and he strains closer, wrapping one arm around John's back and anchoring him firmly against him.

When they pull apart, John leans his damp forehead against Nick's. He mutters something that sounds like a question, but Nick can't make the words out.

"What?"

John raises his head. "Nothing." He slides his hand along Nick's nape, a fleeting caress, then sticks it in his pocket.

Nick almost savors the moment of uncertainty, of being at the brink of something. In the past years he's flirted (hell, that's why he comes here), he's even dated, but hasn't felt this sexual tension in so long that he'd almost forgotten its urgency, the way it makes his groin tighten and his nerves buzz. Whether they go forward or not, he'll remember this moment without regrets.

"Is your name really John?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"In Greece. Do they call you John?"

"Yanni."

Nick tries it out, but John grimaces. "I think it's better if you just call me John."

"John. Do you want to come home with me?"

John raises his beer and drinks deeply, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't think so, Nick. But thank you."

Despite the fact that just seconds ago Nick told himself he'd have no regrets, he feels a sharp stab of grief, and he knows it has to do more with the past than with the present. "Just thought I'd check," he says, smiling tightly.

John turns half away from him, bending over to rest both elbows on the bar, and stares pensively into his beer mug. "How old are you, Nick? Forty?"

"Forty-four."

"Me too. For a little while I felt about fifteen years younger and I liked where this was going. But I suddenly realize that I can't do one-night stands anymore." He smiles crookedly. "Maybe there have been too many in my past."

Nick leans his own elbows on the bar. "Maybe there haven't been enough in mine," he says.

"I really like America," John says, repeating what he'd said earlier in the day in the fast-food restaurant. "I see gay couples in the street, commercials for gays on television, even gay marriages. In Greece it's not that easy. To live openly with someone you love, it's impossible, especially if you're our age."

"It's not that easy here either," Nick says. "Not everybody is welcoming or tolerant."

"No, but you can find welcome and tolerance. Maybe it's not easy, maybe it takes courage, but it's not impossible."

"Living with the person you love shouldn't have to be an act of courage," Nick says.

"It's always an act of courage, no matter who or what you are," John says. "If you're serious about it."

Later they sit in the truck in front of John's hotel.

"When are you flying home?"

"Saturday night. I have two stop-overs." John smiles his half-smile. "Police department budgets."

Nick hesitates, smoothing his fingers along the steering wheel. "John, after the seminar's over tomorrow, would you like to come to my house? Just for dinner," he adds hastily.

John shifts in his seat to look at Nick.

"Thank you, Nick. That would be nice. Do you have a garden and a barbecue?"

"Of course. Eating grilled cows in the back yard is another predominant aspect of American gay culture," Nick answers seriously.

John wanders through Nick's house, exclaiming at its size. "You live here alone?"

"Yeah. It's really not that big."

"Everything is big here. I have a tiny one-bedroom flat and I can barely afford it." He stands in front of the shelves in Nick's living room. "A lot of books on birds," he comments.

"A hobby of mine."

"May I?" John asks, reaching towards one of the books.

"Sure. I'll go fire up the grill. Would you like a beer?"

John looks up from the book almost reluctantly. "I'll come with you," he says, starting to put the book back.

"You can bring that out with you, if you want," Nick says, turning towards the kitchen.

The small patio at the back of Nick's house is shaded and cool, and John sits at the table, leafing though the book, while Nick tends to the grill.

"Who's this?" John suddenly asks and Nick turns to find him holding a photo in his hands.

Nick thought he'd lost the photo during his last move and now here it is. He takes it from John and looks at it, even though he knows it well, every detail imprinted in his mind. In it, he's standing with Gil, one arm flung across Gil's shoulders, laughing at the camera. Gil is looking down, a smirk on his face. One year, the day their performance evaluations had been due, the whole team had practically dragged Gil to the Desperado roller coaster. The picture had been taken with one of those cheap one-use cameras, Warrick bending back and forth and making a whirring sound to simulate the non-existent auto-focus. At that time they weren't together yet, but something was starting between them, and Nick sees the evidence of that clearly, in the way Gil is leaning in towards him.

"Somebody I used to know," he says, giving the picture back to John.

John goes back to perusing it. "You look really young here. When was it taken?"

"I don't know. Ten, eleven years ago," Nick says casually, wishing John would put the photo away.

"So who is it?"

"He used to be my boss. It's just a picture from a departmental outing."

"That you keep hidden in a book."

Nick shrugs, seasoning the steaks. "How do you like your steak cooked?"

"Well done."

"That's a waste of good meat," Nick protests.

"Well done," John repeats firmly. "What happened to him?"

Nick remains silent, gripping the fork so tightly that the bones in his hand start to hurt. He unclenches his hand. "He died," he says dully, the heartache suddenly as sharp and vivid as it was five years ago. "A car accident."

In the days following the accident, the entire lab was quiet with shock. Some people genuinely grieved for Gil. Others, though they'd worked years with him, didn't know him well enough for that, but even they were distressed by the abruptness and irreversibility of his absence. Afterwards, the normal routines slowly took over, although nothing was ever the same. Catherine acted as an interim supervisor, but then moved to the morning shift, and Nick was promoted. Nobody had moved Gil's stuff from his office, except for the spiders which had been turned over to the SPCA.

His first night as shift supervisor, Nick sat there, Gil's books and collection of artifacts all around him, his grief tightly reined in, until he opened the bottom drawer of the desk and saw a mess of files, leave forms and, lying on top, Gil's prized Trigger ownership certificate. He hadn't cried until that point, but suddenly the sorrow burst through all his defenses, racking his body with sobs. He buried his head in his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stem the tears, and wasn't aware that somebody had walked into the office until he felt a hand clasping his shoulder.

"It's OK, Nick. It'll be OK."

He looked up at Warrick. "I don't know what just happened there," he said shakily.

"No?" Warrick sat down. "I'll help you move and pack his things, if you want. You shouldn't have to do it alone."

Something in the way he said that, in the knowing look in his eyes, alerted Nick. "You knew about us?" he asked cautiously.

"I suspected."

"Was I that obvious?"

Warrick smiled. "Not you so much. Him. Every time he looked at you, when he thought nobody was watching."

Nick puts the plate down in front of John. Sometimes he still cries, when he's more tired or lonelier than usual, but never in front of anybody else. He sits opposite John, his own plate in front of him.

John looks at the picture once more, then he places it carefully between the pages of the book. He slides the book over to Nick's side of the table and Nick grips it tightly, staring at the brightly plumed peacock on the cover.

"Next summer, you should come to Greece. We can go to Mykonos and pretend to be tourists. On Mykonos, nobody cares if you're gay, if you hold hands in the streets, or kiss on the beach. Maybe we can have our one-night stand," John says quietly.

"Greece is too far away to go for one night."

"Maybe a seven-night stand then." John pauses, looking down at his plate. "I'd like that."

Nick notices that in some parts, the green on the peacock's feathers exactly matches that of John's eyes. He looks up at John and can't see a single feature that reminds him in the least of Gil, yet there's something there, almost like a faint echo, and somewhere inside Nick, a long suppressed emotion stirs.

"I'd like that too."

John's grin is more crooked than usual. "I'm afraid there aren't many cows on Mykonos. But we have plenty of goats," he says and Nick smiles.

He'll probably never go to Greece or see John again, but for the first time he really starts to believe that he will move on after losing Gil. He touches the book cover lightly. Tomorrow he'll have the photo framed.