Title: Untitled
By: maribouquet
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Nope
Summary: A series of five connected Nick/Greg drabbles.

***

Tom get your plane right on time; I know your part'll go fine.

"You want me to come with you?" Greg squeezed his shoulder. Nick wanted to say yes, and he had a feeling Greg would do it - call Grissom, grab his work duffel from the backseat, buy him gum at the gift shop and make him watch the in-flight movie. He shook his head.

"'Fraid your Dad would shoot me?"

"No, but my mom might."

Something must have flashed on Nick's face, because Greg undid his seatbelt and folded him into a hug.

"It'll be okay," he breathed. "Will you call me, when you get there?"

"I'll call you after, too."


I'm holding here a book, Notable but not the greatest.

He'd known this was coming, and even so it made his stomach turn liquid and seep down into all his cracks and flaws.

"Nicholas," she shook her head, just barely. He'd made his mother cry, add that to the list of sins - his father, God, he'd have the same disappointed look in his eyes. Daddy could tell him chapter and verse which state laws he was breaking. His mother, she could recite verses to him, too. Once she stopped crying. She'd reach for the bookcase, for an argument he couldn't win, printed in red letters and bound in leather.


Flaxen hair blowing in the breeze; it is time for the geese to head South.

Nick shut the door quietly, unwilling to indulge the urge to let it slam. Was he angry? He didn't know. The wooden steps of the back porch were hot and he could feel them through the seat of his jeans. Greg would say it felt like a sauna, and he'd be right. Even in fall, Texas was hotter than Vegas. How that was possible, he didn't know. Greg would know. He'd know what to say. He'd lean his head against Nick's shoulder. For Greg, the heavy air would offer up a breeze. They'd sit. Greg would say nothing, just right.

I remember the pain in my mother's eyes; I remember the pain of her compromise.

"I'm home," Nick called. Not too loudly; he didn't want to wake Greg if he was sleeping. The bedroom was dark. He shucked his clothes and made his way under the covers by touch.

"Mmmmm," Greg stirred and pulled him close. "You're back early." Nick wrapped his arms around a very warm Greg. "Wait...early?" His voice was groggy and concerned. "Are you okay? How did it go?"

"Not good," was all Nick could say before his voice collapsed into a long, shaky breath. "They were so hurt," his throat was tight and burned. "I couldn't, they -"

Greg held him.


I will be the answer at the end of the line.

"I went to a meeting yesterday," his mother's voice crackled in his ear. Nick moved to the window for better reception. "PFLAG. Have you heard of it? It's for families of...families like ours."

"Yeah," he breathed, for the first time in weeks it seemed. They talked - really talked - for over an hour; they both listened. The thunk of a car door drew him back to the window. Greg was home.

"As long as you're happy," she said.

Nick traced his finger over the window pane, over small Greg, hoisting grocery bags from the car.

"I couldn't be happier."

***