Title: Too Old
Author: podga
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters do not belong to me. I write and post for fun only.
Summary: Gil has the flu. Sequel to “From Before to After”.
Warnings: Some light spoilers for episode 8.12 “Grissom's Divine Comedy”.
A/N: Quote towards end of fic is from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

He’s too old for all this, he thinks grumpily. Way too old. He’s fifty two, for God’s sake. He knows the statistics for his age. Four to five times a month. A month. With nice periods of rest in between. He needs the rest. Please, God, he needs the rest.

The alarm clock buzzes again and he groans. Get up. Let Hank out in the back yard. Shower, dress, have some coffee. Have lots of coffee. Go to work. Try not to fall asleep in the office over the paperwork. Maybe work a double shift. Come home. Take Hank for his walk. Eat. Sleep.

He can do this. He can.

Jesus, he can’t even get up.

Sorry, Conrad, can’t come in today. Why? Well, I’m exhausted. What? No, nothing to worry about, just too much sex. Yeah, five times in the last five days, not counting the repeats. Thanks, I knew you’d understand. No, I’ll be fine; all I need is some rest.

The trouble is that he only remembers that he needs the rest at moments like these. Sort of the equivalent of people swearing they’re going to go on a diet on Thanksgiving, right after turkey with all the trimmings and dessert.

“I’m going to take off now. See you later?”

How the hell does Nick look so fresh? Sure, he’s younger, but doesn’t he need more than three or four hours of sleep per day? Not if I see you first, buddy, he thinks light-headedly. He closes his eyes. Five more minutes. Then he’ll get up.

The mattress sinks next to him and a cool hand rubs his neck and bare shoulder. That’s nice. That’s really nice. He could go to sleep like this.

“Gil? Are you OK?”

“What? Fine.”

“You’re burning up, man. Are you sure?”

He pushes himself to a sitting position and Nick’s hand drops away.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired,” he says curtly.

“Should I be apologizing?”

Nick would almost sound contrite if he wasn’t grinning knowingly. And if his hand wasn’t now meandering its way up Gil’s thigh. And Gil would almost sound irritated when he tells Nick to get out. If at least one part of his anatomy wasn’t displaying more signs of life than the rest of him.

He's relieved when Nick kisses him lightly and then leaves.

“You’re looking a bit peaked,” Catherine observes.

Peaked is good, considering he’s feeling like death warmed over.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Why don’t you get out of here while you have the chance? It’s pretty quiet and I can take care of anything that comes up.”

“Thanks, Catherine. I think I will.”

On his way out, he runs into Nick returning from the field.

“What’s up, Griss? You look like hell.”

It occurs to Gil that Catherine was being kind in her description.

“I’m not feeling too well. I’m going home.”

Nick scans the hallway, then takes a step closer, dropping his voice.

“Do you want me to stop by later? Bring you anything?”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t want you catching what I have.”

“I don’t get sick,” Nick states confidently and Gil feels a prickle of irritation at his cockiness.

“Everybody gets sick.”

Nick shrugs. “Not me. Healthy as the proverbial horse. In eight years here I’ve only been sick once.”

“That would have been around ten days ago?” Gil asks and Nick reddens.

“I’m going home,” Gil repeats. He stalks out, aware that he’s left Nick gaping after him. He should probably apologize, but he doesn’t really feel like it. There’s nothing more annoying than people telling a sick person that they don’t get sick.

He realizes that it’s the first time he’s been alone in almost a week. With only Hank and himself, the house feels too quiet, almost unfamiliar, and despite the fact that he feels awful, he’s too restless to sleep. He lies on the couch in the living room, his eyes closed, listening to the TV, hoping the drivel will blank out his thoughts. It doesn’t.

He has no idea what’s been going on these past five days. He barely recognizes himself, or Nick, and he’s pretty sure constant sex is not what either of them had in mind when Nick showed up on his doorstep and when he later invited him to stay. He doesn’t underestimate physical attraction; it’s powerful and undeniable, even though he never expected to feel this hunger about anybody again (much less their feeling the same way about him). On one level he’s okay with the fact that apparently that’s all there is between them; sooner or later it’ll burn out, and they’ll part amicably. He’ll go back to his life and his pursuits and Nick… well, Nick will find what he really needs. On another level he’s deeply dissatisfied. He wants more, so much more that he barely dares admit it, even to himself. You don’t only miss the things you once had. You also miss those you thought you might have. It wasn’t Nick he was protecting when he hadn’t wanted to get involved, and it wasn’t Nick’s needs he was considering when he finally decided to do so.

He knows what he should do. He also knows he won’t.

He gets up to make himself some soup.

ADA Madeline Klein is like a bull in a glass shop. She’s not political, she rarely considers others’ feelings and she lets nothing stand in her way, including her own demons. And if all that weren’t enough to make Gil like her, she values loyalty, she doesn’t sweat the small stuff, and she still has a sense of humor about herself. When she tells him that he wouldn’t have a team if it weren’t for her, she might be exaggerating, but only a little. He owes her. Which is why he doesn’t refuse her request – no, make that her demand – to get involved personally, even though there are enough healthy people in the lab perfectly capable of handling the investigation.

For the first few hours he doesn’t see Nick; somebody tells him he’s at the lab, working on Don Cook’s car. For a minute he considers calling him to come out and help with the search of Emilio Alvarado’s house, but in the end he opts for Warrick. Despite the modern miracle of cold medicine, the flu makes him feel thick and slow, susceptible to oversights and mistakes. He doesn’t need the extra tension at this point. If there are personal issues to be resolved, it will have to happen on personal time and until then Nick is off limits.

His thoughts are still on Nick as Warrick and he climb the stairs to Alvarado’s apartment. The explosion is loud and hot, and he sees Warrick fly over the railing. God, no! He feels as if it takes him forever to take the one step necessary to look over the railing, his mind frozen in disbelief. Warrick is picking himself up of the ground. He looks shaken, but OK, and rejoins Gil on the stairs again. Just like that, Warrick or he could have been killed. Nick could have been killed, if he’d been there. He pauses at the entrance of the apartment, his eyes burning. He tells himself it’s due to the smoke, or to his fever returning.

“I heard about the explosion. Are you OK?”

Gil nods. The worry in Nick’s eyes is oddly comforting.

“Fine. I wasn’t very far up the steps, so I was protected.”

“God, Gil! When I heard…” Nick’s voice is low, but there’s no mistaking its intensity. “Just… be careful, OK?” Nick grimaces, as if acknowledging the futility of the warning. They’re all careful; careful has nothing to do with anything.

Gil nods. He wants to reach over and hug Nick, feel Nick’s solid body against his own. Without realizing it he takes a slow step closer to Nick, aware of nothing but Nick’s face, his eyes, his lips. He could swear that Nick is also leaning towards him a little.

Greg breezes into the room holding a stack of photos and files, and Gil only just manages not to guiltily jerk away from Nick.

Nick may have missed the fact that the gang’s tag on Cook’s car was stenciled, but he’s the one to make the connection that leads to Gil’s discovery of Alvarado’s final message from prison, thereby perhaps saving Maddie’s life. Maddie seems numb, when Gil first tells her, then she pulls herself together and thanks him.

Gil drives home, pondering Maddie’s last statement. Are they really soulmates? Much as he likes her, she’s probably one of the loneliest people he’s ever met. He wonders if she realizes or acknowledges it. He also wonders if others see him the same way as he sees Maddie, if they pity him. No. He’s not like that. He won’t let himself be.

At home Hank is waiting for him. Leash in mouth, he trails Gil as Gil changes clothes.

“Alright, boy. Just wait a couple of minutes,” Gil mutters. He wants to talk to Nick, to hear his voice, but Hank is now whining. In the end Gil gives in. He’ll call Nick when he gets back.

When they return home, Hank heads for his water bowl and Gil sinks on the couch. Now that he can finally call Nick, he’s finding reasons not to. Nick’s probably asleep. He’ll see him at work anyway, their normal shift is due to start in only a couple of hours. He wearily rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his forehead, looking for the strength to get up and go catch an hour of sleep himself, when the phone rings. Shit. Will he ever get some peace?

Reluctantly he reaches for the phone and checks caller ID and his heart suddenly feels like it’s about to burst. He takes a deep breath, lies on the couch and flips the phone open.

“Hi.”

“I think sex with you lowers my resistance to germs,” Nick says and Gil chuckles.

“Maybe we should cut back then,” he suggests, only half-meaning it.

Nick is quiet for a couple of seconds, then his voice sounds hesitant.

“Gil? Maybe we should.”

Despite his thoughts over the last day and a half, Gil’s heart sinks and he’s not sure how to respond.

“I mean, it’s great and all,” Nick continues, his voice strained and nervous. “But that’s not all I want.” Gil hears him sigh. “You know?”

“I know.”

They’re both silent for a while.

“I mean, there’s more between us than that, right?”

He knows there is, although even now he shies away from acknowledging it. He also knows there are too many constraints surrounding them, and he still hasn’t resolved in his mind how they can overcome them, or if they’re capable of doing so.

His eyes fall on the tome of Shakespeare sonnets lying on the table. Oh, no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. But only if he finally admits what he truly wants, and takes the risks he needs to take. Only if he says to hell with everything else and really means it. It’s high time he did; if there’s one thing he’s definitely too old for, it’s for further prevarication.

He takes a deep breath, gathering his courage.

“Right,” he says firmly. “Much more.”