Title: The Fic of Transferrence
By: Maribou
Pairing: Nick/Greg & John/Rodney
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Nope
Note: CSI: Vegas & Stargate Atlantis fic

***

"I can't do it," Rodney let the pliers slide from his fingers to land on the jumper floor. He joined them there, letting his head fall back on the seat cushion with a resigned thud. "I can't," he turned to look at John. His voice was thick and threaded with frustration, anger even, but his eyes were watery. They had the doom shine.

John sighed and leaned over him, placing his hands firmly on Rodney's weary shoulders. He gave him a little shake. "You can. I know you can."

"You're just saying that," Rodney accused, looking at the ceiling to keep from crying with manly rage. "You're just saying that because you want to live and you need me to save your ass, Major."

"No," John picked up the pliers and pressed them into Rodney's sweaty hand. "I'm saying that because it's true. You can cry all you want," he began, pressing a knuckle against Rodney's cheek. Rodney made a strangled, embarassed sort of huffing sound and jerked away from him.

***

"I'm not crying," Greg was adamant, but he wouldn't turn away from the stove. He just stood there with his back to Nick, slowly and needlessly stirring the pasta. The only sound was the quiet hiss of boiling water.

"I saw Grissom on the way out," Nick gently offered. "I'm sure—"

"Forget it," Greg's voice was steely. "I'm better in the lab anyway." He shook far too much salt into his palm and tossed it into the pot. When the water jumped up and flecked his hands, he didn't make a sound.

Nick came up behind him and gathered him up in a hug, arms around his waist, mouth pressed to the back of his neck. Greg put the spoon down and leaned backwards, sagging gratefully into the embrace.

"You're gonna be a great CSI, babe," Nick whispered.

"Whatever," Greg turned and burrowed into his shoulder. "I suck. I suck and I can't even make pasta right. Jesus," he choked.

***

"Don't you get it?" Rodney tired to push him away, but John was stronger and also not hampered by trying to hide any tears. "I can't do anything! Nothing can be done, it is impossible. We are going to die, can't you see that? Can you get that fact into your tiny, bullet-loving, ridiculously good looking brain?"

He was on a roll now, something about firey death and the flammability of John's hot, hot pants and I never should have come here, wish I'd never even met—

John knelt, trapping him, and held him still. He kissed him, then, but it didn't seem to work. Rodney just thrashed harder and yelled at him.

"You think you can just? Now? After all this time, you think you can just expect, Jesus, Sheppard, I don't even know what you want! What do you expect me to do?" The sensor lights flashed blue and red across their skin like police lights and John half expected to hear a siren, something, anything to say that help was on the way. Rodney was falling apart right in front of him, tears streaming openly down his cheeks now, face flushed and folded into a miserable shape.

"I can't," Rodney repeated, voice small and fading.

***

"Yes you can," Nick held him still with one arm while he picked up the spoon with his other hand. He flicked his wrist and sent a strand of pasta flying at the wall where it stuck, tracing the squiggly coastline of some new and alien continent. "See?"

"I can't do anything," Greg protested, fisting his eyes and wiping them with the edge of his hoodie.

"Your argument sucks," Nick replied. "Sorry, G."

"Fuck you," Greg spat.

"I think you're just hungry," Nick was unperturbed. "Let's get your blood sugar up." He let go of Greg and calmly reached for the colander.

***