Title: Untitled
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nick goes into the closet.

It’s been a perfectly average evening. Everything’s been fine. Work, yeah, but fine. Work on a weird new shift he can’t get used to, keeps on glancing at his watch and thinking, man, this day is taking FOREVER and then going, Oh, wait a second, I’m almost done, even though I’ve been on night shift for the past century and it doesn’t feel as if it’s quittin’ time yet, but fine.

All fine and dandy. Until he gets a look at Grissom down the hall. In conversation with Catherine, perfectly intent on her every word, poised, eyebrows raised, glasses just about to slide off the tip of his nose. He’s wearing a suit, courtesy of what Nick assumes was a late court appointment – no idea what Grissom’s even working on this week, which bothers him – and he’s gotten a good hair cut.

And Nick ducks into the trace lab and actually gasps, hard, and "hard" is the operative word here because he’s sporting major wood out of nowhere, hello, GET to know me. And it’s all about Grissom, and that beautifully tailored charcoal wool suit. That silvery tie that is so perfectly knotted. The way his hairline curves around his ear, the bright inquisitive look in his eyes.

He takes a frantic look around. No one there; he’s so fucking lucky. He thinks what Warrick would have said, seeing the pup tent in the front of Nick’s pants, and feels like cringing. God, he’d never have lived that down. Down. Oh god. This is NOT the time and it is most definitely NOT the place for this kind of crap.

And it hurts, too. Hurts in a way that says if he doesn’t relieve some pressure soon, he’ll be walking way too funny to be easily explained. He doesn’t even WANT to be turned on, but he thinks about running his hand under the sleek collar of that suit and feeling the material warm from Gil’s body heat, and he lets out a little "eek" of frustration and hobbles over to the storage closet. Closet, ha ha, we’re being metaphorical today, aren’t we, Nicky?

But at least no one can see him. His goddamn HAND is shaking while he unzips his pants and pop goes the weasel. Holy cow. He stares down at himself with awe. All from a SUIT?

Well, a suit with Grissom in it. But still.

Touching himself is a hair this side of painful. He’s SO ready, Christ, another minute and he’d have shot in his pants. That’s the only possibility he can conceive of as being worse than Warrick seeing him with a stiffie. Warrick seeing him with a come stain on his khakis would, admittedly, be worse. Warrick or anyone else.

The closet smells unpleasantly of spilled reagent. Doesn’t matter. He leans back and sighs, letting his eyelids droop closed. Much better. Get it out of your system, boy. As it were.

Thirty seconds later he nearly bites through his lower lip, but other than another eeking sound he’s all done. See? Now how easy was that? No fuss, no muss.

Well, some muss. Hell of a money shot there, Stokes. He snickers, a little post-orgasmic high there, whoopee, and goes to reach into his pocket for a Kleenex, something to wipe up the most overt bits of his Grissom-inspired evidence from the door, and his shoulder hits something sticking out on one of the shelves. Something that tips over.

And then it all goes to hell, and he yelps and cringes because EVERYTHING is falling, bottles and tubes and boxes of crap, like a foul-smelling domino effect. He hits the door with his other shoulder and reels out, coughing so hard he bends forward and sees his DICK hanging out of his pants, and does a little soft-shoe trying to cough and sneeze and tuck and zip all at the same time. And things are STILL falling. And breaking. And oh God, he’s about to cut off his dick with his zipper, and it REEKS in here.

"What the hell? Nick? Are you okay?"

He yanks his hands away from his fly like it just superheated under his hands, and draws a breath to say, Oops, sorry, and coughs helplessly. And yet even in the midst of what’s starting to feel like something that maybe ought to worry him, he glances at the door and SEES it, that little stain, glowing happily, like it’s finally reached stain nirvana, the place where trace evidence wants to go, revealed in all its tawdry neon glory by something in that closet, the TRACE closet, no less.

"Oh, shit," Nick gasps, and sneezes and coughs at the same time.

Grissom’s arm is strong under his own, grabbing him and yanking him away. "Jesus, Nick," Grissom grunts. "What the hell were you doing?"

Out in the hallway the air is much cleaner, and Nick draws a huge breath and hacks another series of hard coughs. He can’t look down. Please, God, let me have finished zipping my fly. Please. Please, I’m begging you.

"You okay?" Grissom asks. He has a dab of fluorescent something on his sleeve.

"Fine," Nick says, and blinks, because his voice sounds like he just inhaled a big hit of helium.

"I better go clean that up."

"NO!" Nick says, still in the dog-whistle register. "No, it’s okay! I’ll do it!"

Grissom frowns at him. "You just inhaled some pretty dangerous chemicals, Nick," he says reprovingly. "You might need to go to the ER. I’d better at least seal off that closet."

"I’m fine," Nick squeaks, and coughs.

"What’s going on?"

Nick peeks at Warrick, and decides coughing is a great cover.

"Nick had a little accident in the supply closet."

"You all right, man?" Warrick has the same frown on his face as Grissom.

"Fine," Nick mewls. His eyes are watering.

"Whoa, what stinks?" Greg walks up, waving his hand in front of his face. "Yeow."

"Warrick, you take Nick over to the ER. There’s chlorine in that closet." Grissom gestures at Greg. "Grab a mask and help me clean this up before we have to evacuate the whole building."

"I’m fine," Nick mouths, and then bends over and coughs, and stares at his own crotch. His fly has green fingerprints on it.

"Come on." Warrick’s hand grasps his arm. "Let’s go."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six hours later, he’s sitting in the ER breathing into a hissing, smoking mask, Warrick has gone back to work with an admonition to call him when he’s done, and he’s got the day-glo evidence covered up by the gown he’s wearing, when Grissom walks in.

"How are you feeling?" Grissom asks. He’s changed, but he still looks hot, Nick thinks wearily. He has a plastic bag in one hand.

"Good," Nick says behind the mask. It sounds more like "guh." He gives Grissom a thumb’s-up.

"How many breathing treatments have you had?"

Nick shrugs, and then holds up three fingers.

"Jesus." Grissom looks worried. "Are you going to be all right?"

Nick nods enthusiastically.

And he IS fine, really, just…coughing. A lot. But that weird heavy feeling in his chest is getting better. Totally underestimated the power of chlorine. Not that any of this was planned. No, most definitely unplanned. And all because Little Nicky had to get some action. Couldn’t he have waited? Smacked the pup tent, thought about Ecklie naked or something? Ecklie and Mobley, together? Naked? Surely that would have solved the problem immediately.

Grissom’s phone rings, and the doctor comes in and listens to Nick’s breathing again, and stops muttering about admitting him for observation, which is a total relief. He gets a prescription for an albuterol inhaler and an admonishment to come back immediately if the tightness isn’t helped with the inhaler, or if he starts coughing up gross things.

Grissom hangs up and holds out the bag. "I brought some other clothes," he says calmly. "From your locker. Hope you don’t mind."

Nick gapes at him. But the only way Grissom would know he NEEDED different clothes was –

If.

He saw.

The REASON for it.

He holds the bag in his lap. "Thanks," he whispers, staring at the bag.

He can hear the smile in Grissom’s voice. "No problem, Nicky. I’ll let you get dressed."

The neon-bright fingerprints aren’t so bright any more. But he wads up the pants anyway and shoves them to the bottom of the plastic bag. His other clothes aren’t the freshest, but they’re free of incriminating evidence

that Grissom SAW, remember

and that’s all he asks at the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

Grissom drives him home. If he knows what Nick was doing in that supply closet – and Nick is pretty damn sure he does know – he isn’t saying anything. There’s a stop to fill Nick’s prescription, but finally they’re pulling up in front of his condo, and he’s almost free. He can go inside and do his best to forget everything that’s happened. Including a certain telltale spot on a specific supply-closet door.

"You’re okay?" Grissom glances at him, puts the truck in neutral. "How’s your chest feel?"

"Fine." Nick confabulates a smile and fights down a tired cough. "Thanks for the lift. Sorry about – you know. Mess."

"Greg did a good job of cleaning it up. He said to tell you he’d slide some chores your way next time."

Nick hahs. "I bet he will. Okay. Later."

Home free. Oh, thank GOD. His knees actually get a little wobbly.

"Oh, Nick?"

He circles around, steps close to the rolled-down driver’s-side window. "Yeah?"

"Just for future reference." He can’t see Grissom’s eyes behind the shades. "The fibers lab has a much bigger closet."

"Huh?"

Grissom smiles, puts the truck in drive. "And a much sturdier shelving system. See you later, Nicky."

Nick stands, mouth hanging open, while Grissom drives away.

How does HE know that?

He doesn’t move until someone honks at him, and then he staggers inside and throws his incriminating bag of clothes on the floor.

Lying in bed a quarter-hour later, he stares at the ceiling. Bigger closet? Better SHELVES?

In the midst of the semi-permanent blush that’s kept his face fiery hot for the past seven or so hours, he feels himself grinning, and shakes his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

END