Title: What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas (Vegas Holiday)
By: rispacooper
Summary: I am using the premise and plot (and some of the dialogue) of the amazing classic film, “Roman Holiday” which I have seen about a thousand times. Which is still no excuse whatsoever for this.
Rating: R only if you push it.
Disclaimer: Don’t own CSI. Don’t own “Roman Holiday”. *sigh*
AN: I am mostly making stuff up about the Norwegian monarchy to suit my purposes. Although apparently they are a family who like to emphasize education and leading normal lives among their people, which is cool, and the HRH address apparently is correct. Also, they are incredibly LGBT friendly. I suggest all who can afford pay them a visit.
More AN: Grissom is quoting Richard III, by Shakespeare, and Nelson Mandela.
Shout out: Beelikej—thank you *so* much.

“And if you ladies and gentleman do not mind, that will be all for tonight.” Grethe’s voice was so calm that it was easy to forget she was talking to a pack of voracious reporters and paparazzi. There was the smallest hint of condescension in her voice as though she was talking to a group of schoolchildren—and in her head she probably was. But, Greg reminded himself for the thousandth time, controlling a sigh, that was why she had been with his family for so long, the unflappable manners that made even the worldwide press stop for long enough to allow him some space.

He should have been grateful, and he was. But it also didn’t matter if he felt grateful or not, and so he didn’t say anything when his trio of bodyguards swooped in around him and ushered him toward the elevator. She slipped in after them, Korsvald right behind her. Grethe had already requested that the operator usually used to escort guests to the hotel’s top floor not ride in the car with them, so she pushed the button, turning around to give Greg a careful look from over her glasses.

“His Royal Highness seems tired,” she remarked, dropping her eyes to how he was leaning against the handrail. Greg straightened up and hid another sigh, resisting the urge to ask why she insisted on talking to him without actually talking to him, and why she felt the entire world around was always in need of a diaper change. He had been doing public relations for most of his life; he didn’t need a nap.

“I don’t think they have much interest in me,” he said instead of what he wished to say, to distract her and also because it was true. He knew exactly what the papers and local new shows would say about him tomorrow. They would say he was in town, “Royalty visits Las Vegas” and briefly mention why he was here, which would be nice at least, since Greg couldn’t quite recall which conference he was here for, or if it was a conference at all, and there was no way he was going to ask Grethe. Then they would add some family history and perhaps mention him, “Norway…Europe’s longest continuing royal line…younger brother…closely guarded.” And then they would move on, as the always did, to his older brother Christian. Christian, the handsome, charming heir to the throne mostly known for his affairs, partying, and wild spending, “Last seen on the yacht of Stavros Niarchos with…” But to Greg he was the reason that Greg’s life, as they said on American television, sucked.

Because without Christian and his wild ways, Greg would not have been the son so closely protected, the son to be watched at all times. At seventeen, Christian had flung himself into decadence, so at fifteen, Greg had been sent off to strict boarding schools, and then to the guarded environs of Oxford. Not that he had minded the education, especially his radical choice of majors—Chemistry had apparently been a first for European royalty. But once he had graduated there had been a series of goodwill tours and education conferences and public appearances to keep him busy. If he really thought about it, which he always did no matter how he tried not to, Greg would almost say he hated his brother. Almost.

It was close to what he felt now, trapped behind five bodies—three of them enormous—in the darkly lit elevator car. If he looked up he would be looking into a camera, but straight ahead he could only see servants…retainers…protectors…whatever his parents wanted him to call them. Watchdogs. He looked down, at the shining leather of his shoes. The old man who ran this casino had been wearing shoes like this; Greg had shaken his hand when his car had arrived in the underground garage, their combined security surrounding the two of them.

“The conference begins with a panel tomorrow morning at nine.” Grethe was speaking to the doors, but she knew he was listening; he had no way of not listening. Even if the doors had been open, what good would running have done him? Three bodyguards, one valet and one secretary, watching casino cameras and the press, all waiting to catch him.

Greg put a hand to his stomach then took it away. He swallowed instead, grimacing at the bitter taste of bile, the rising sickness that had been bothering him for months now. If Grethe saw it would be more tea, more milk, more chalky medicine to coat his stomach, to take the problem away for a few hours.

The doors opened and he closed his eyes for a second at the wash of cool, fresh air. Then they were moving forward, hulking shapes in a triangle around him, orbiting satellites, and he pondered competing magnetic forces and gravity as Grethe opened the door to their penthouse suite and they swept in ahead of him, pretending they hadn’t already checked the room before he had ever arrived.

Korsvald stopped just inside the door, removing his suit jacket for him and indicating the blue bottles of water waiting on a nearby table. Greg grabbed one and smiled for the first time at the feeling on his burning throat, in his empty stomach. He shared a smile with his valet when he’d emptied the bottle and then turned to find the bodyguards done with their last check. Two slipped back out the door, one stood in front of the doors leading further into the suite and stayed there, frowning.

Greg didn’t know this group of men, and didn’t really feel like asking their names. It wasn’t like they ever talked to him anyway.

Grethe was inside the suite. Greg gave Korsvald one last glance and then followed her in, unsurprised to find her setting aside outfits from his closets, his luggage flown in before him and already unpacked. He wondered briefly where his mp3 player had been stashed, but knew he wasn’t going to get a chance to listen to music tonight.

She chose three grey suits before Greg made himself look away, down at his old man shoes. He pulled at his tie, not willing to call Korsvald back just to take care of it, and threw it down on a table before he walked into his bedroom.

She followed him in there, standing in the doorway while he tugged his shirt out of his pants and undid the buttons. He could feel her disapproving stare, but she thankfully didn’t remark on how he was treating the outfit she had chosen for his welcome to Las Vegas press conference.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, smoothly pressed shirt and pants, white and grey, hair as calm and flat as Grethe’s voice. He was almost surprised to see his hair wasn’t grey too, and then he took his eyes away and looked to his windows.

A whole rainbow strip of windows, sharply angled panes and clear, clear glass, letting him look down onto the world at his feet, the famous Las Vegas strip, where the city had gotten its sinful reputation. Even now, with the sun only beginning to set, it was a marvel of bright lights and neon. He looked out and down, saw the artificial lake in the middle of a desert, sprays of fountains and white lights, crowds of everyday people, stopping where they wanted to stop, and then moving on when their eyes had had enough of the taunting, beautiful signs.

His brother had probably been here many times. Greg would visit this city without ever leaving this hotel, except for when he had to return to the airport. He would never put a coin in a slot machine or dance all night at a club or wake up sick and disoriented after a night of partying, just as he would never run away to be in a band in New York City or go to California and surf.

“If I may?” Grethe’s question was something his grandfather would have sneered at. Because it wasn’t a question at all, and people never spoke that way to his Papa Olaf, wouldn’t have dared even if he hadn’t been a king, and the father of a king. She went on before he could answer, because his answer didn’t really matter and they both knew it.

“You gave the same answer to two of the newsman downstairs.” That was her way of scolding him for not paying close enough attention. But Greg could have asked their questions for them he had heard them so often, and he didn’t make the same mistakes he had when he had first been sent out on these appearances. In interviews with serious reporters he was to ignore the glazed look of boredom on their faces as he avoided giving his opinion on globalization and just as he avoided saying anything about Christian. And when paparazzi tossed out the occasional question about his far more interesting brother to try to get a candid reaction, they were to be ignored no matter what the provocation. And always smile if possible.

“So sorry,” he murmured under his breath, watching little people come and go. He inclined his head and smiled carefully. “So sorry,” he said again; he could say it in over twelve languages. He could say “thank you” in fourteen, but he couldn’t ask about the weather or give someone a compliment. Those were not productive lines of inquiry, since, after all, wasn’t like he was ever going to have a real conversation with anyone other than Grethe and his parents.

“Your schedule for tomorrow…” He could hear the soft click of her stylus on her Blackberry and shivered a little though he could feel the sun warming him through the glass. “Rise at 6am, we have reserved the gym for you so will not be disturbed.”

Greg almost laughed at that, the idea of anyone talking to him without previous approval.

“6:45 shower. 7, breakfast. Tea, not coffee. Toast and one egg if His Highness’ stomach is bothering him…” Now she did really pause, wanting an answer, and Greg bit down on his tongue and inhaled through his nose. Grethe was worried about his illness, even though Grethe would never say she was, because such concern was not what was expected of her.

He sighed.

“Toast is fine.” He considered the restaurants he had seen from behind the window of the car on their way here. Denny’s. The International House of Pancakes. Places he would never go no matter how intriguing they seemed. And he hated tea, but coffee had been banned the moment his stomach had begun to trouble him.

Tea was just hot water, burning like acid in his mouth. It didn’t give him a sweet buzz, didn’t make his skin warm, or rest, strong and soothing, on his tongue. He always had his first cup alone, his clothing set out for him but he was left alone to dress, left with a silver tray and a plain white mug for his coffee. A few moments just to breathe and plan and think and sip his drink how he liked it. He didn’t even add sugar to his coffee. They had had no right to take that from him too, but it seemed useless to protest.

“7:30 you will dress,” Grethe went on the second he spoke, clucking her tongue softly, just enough to let him know he hadn’t imagined the concern. It was strange that the noise made him put a hand against the window pane, using the glass to hold himself up. He could sleep for a year but his mind would not be still, couldn’t keep him from hearing every memorized word. “At 8 we will head downstairs, and by 8:30 reach the convention hall. You will have half an hour for a surprise visit to a few of the stalls, where people will wish to meet you…”

“Shake my hand, I know,” he whispered, closing his eyes and seeing the people behind the flashing cameras, waiting, watching.

“At 9 there is the first panel. You will listen in the audience and then, when asked, make a speech. I thought perhaps…”

“Trade relations.” His stomach churned, his throat felt like it was closing. He shut his mouth tight and swallowed back the coppery tang.

“Trade relations…” Grethe marked something off; her stylus smooth and swift and about as inevitable as the blade of a Guillotine. “At 10:30 there is a meeting to discuss the use of technology and the effect on employment…There will be questions and answers…”

“Avoid answering anything about Christian…”

“You will of course not comment on your brother. At this conference a respected author will present you with a copy of his book…”

A book on job statistics. “No thank you,” Greg muttered. He wanted to put his face against the glass, see how warm it was. If he did Grethe would stop, but only for a moment to ask about his childish behavior. He did not put his face to the glass.

“Which you will accept,” Grethe corrected him.

“Thank you,” Greg amended his answer, shaking his head. His hand closed on the window, shaping a fist. The light from outside was almost blinding.

“You will stop at noon for a lunch with the CEO of a software company. He will present you with a computer prototype…”

“Thank you!” It was impossible not to keep the excitement out of his voice even when he knew how Grethe would grow louder as a result.

“Which you will not accept.”

“No thank you,” he responded as if it were easy, inclining his head politely and feeling acid at the back of his throat again. He swallowed, but it was still there. Greg had last eaten boiled egg and soft bread and imagined his vomit as white, or perhaps the pale color of his tea. His skin felt too hot, his clothes uncomfortable, tight and chafing. But he must not tug on them.

He opened his eyes and saw people, laughing swirling circles of people far, far away from him.

“12:30, I will make your excuses and you will move on to the panel on increasing career opportunities in science and technology.”

“I will listen and make a speech?” he offered, lifting his head. That was something his country could use, he’d seen that just from his studies alone. Her stylus clicked softly.

“You will make an appearance and then move on to the main hall. You will speak when asked about…”

“Trade relations.”

“You will try to avoid questions about…”

“I must not talk about Christian.” Greg beat her to it this time, hitting his hand gently against the glass. “I will listen and make a speech.” So many cameras, like eyes, millions of eyes watching him, not listening to single word of his boring, well-rehearsed trade relations speech. He ought to mix it up, throw in some profanity and see if they would notice. Some of them would love it. “I will go to a conference and not learn anything,” he promised her, his voice getting higher. “Thank you. No thank you. Thank you so very fucking much.”

His hand was moving, slamming harder on the glass but he couldn’t feel it. It must hurt, he thought, to hit glass that hard, if he was hitting it at all. Grethe was scolding him, probably instructing him not to get fingerprints on the windows, that it was time for bed. Her voice seemed strange though, louder, hoarse with alarm.

“8:30, undress for bed. 9 take medicine. 9:02 brush teeth. 9:06 rinse mouth and wash face. 9:30 look over schedule for tomorrow one final time.” He thought maybe he was getting too loud, and Korsvald was in the room with them now, his eyes round and shocked. “9:45, in bed. At 10 pm, asleep. 10:15, dreams are permitted.”

Greg shook his head and shut up. He realized that Grethe had pulled him from the window and was leading him to the bed. He shivered and looked down, gaping to have her touch him. Korsvald was getting closer, his mouth opened like he was afraid of something. But he had a blue bottle and a small vial in his hands. Greg had never seen that vial before but he didn’t think he wanted whatever it contained.

“No thank you,” he told them both, trying to breathe but his throat was too tight, closing, and suddenly a Guillotine didn’t seem like such a bad idea, at least then he might be able to get some air. He couldn’t, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t taste anything but the oily panic and sickness in his stomach, white and sour. He fell back on the bed and put out his arms, squeezing his eyes closed and sighing when they both stepped away from him. It was only a few feet, but it was enough for now.

“What is that?” he asked without looking at it. He could guess. That this is what it would take now to keep him going. “The doctor suggested it?” The doctor in New York they had brought in to examine him, to send an explanation for the sickness back to his worried parents. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know Grethe and Korsvald both nodded.

“He said…” and Grethe was suddenly uncertain, her voice wavering for just a second. “He said it would help you to sleep, to be at ease.” Greg’s heart was racing, pounding unevenly in his chest and he shook his head again, but it wasn’t as strong this time. He didn’t want to hear them anymore, didn’t think it would be so bad, to lay in a bed and let his life explode around him.

“To be at ease?” he repeated softly, his voice cracking. No drug could give him that. They certainly hadn’t seemed to work for Christian.

Christian.

Greg laughed, stopping abruptly when his voice rose too high and sounded frightened. “Give it to me,” he said when he could speak again, narrowing his eyes when they exchanged looks, only staring at the label of that vial as Korsvald poured droplets into his water, and handed him the blue bottle. He held it in his hands and looked back at them, wondering how wide his eyes were, if he looked calm at all.

“I would like…” the sick laughter rose up in him again to say those words, and he took a sip from the bottle, saw it ease the tension on their faces and thought about throwing the bottle out the window. It would not shatter, and they probably had more. He took another sip. “I would like to be alone for a while.” Permission to withdraw, he thought about giving it officially, pretending he was his grandfather, but they were already stepping back.

He kept his eyes on the bottle as they shared another glance, as they backed out of the room, waiting for him to pass out on the edge of the bed before they came back to manage him. Dressed. Undressed. Put to bed. Woken promptly at 6. Dressed.

He couldn’t breathe.

It would not do to wonder at why they chosen the liquid form and not asked him to take pills, no matter how much he enjoyed a mystery.

He stood up when the door to the outer room closed, swaying a little with dizziness. He put the bottle back to his mouth and turned around, the room spinning as he walked to the window so he could stare down at the city that had no memory. That is what the slogan promised, he had seen the airports billboards. What happens in Vegas stay in Vegas.

He blinked.

There was a door. It was hard to see, in the strange design of the panes, in his wall of glass. Art as room design. But there was a door. Greg licked the water from his mouth and put his hand on the warm glass, pushing slightly and grinning when that made the door open.

The room had a balcony. As strange as the windows, because it was lower than the room itself, two steps down into a space with long chairs and tables filled with fruit and flowers and a bottle of wine he was not to accept.

“No thank you,” he told the wine graciously and drank his water instead. The water full of a drug to put him at ease, to sedate him until it was time to go home. And if this is what Christian felt when he drank too much and occasionally snorted what the family denied he snorted then Greg thought he might understand his older brother a bit more.

He turned his face to follow the sun and saw something else instead. He gaped to see the thing there, the kind of thing people like him were not meant to see, and the man staring back at him from the window cleaning casket, hanging only a few inches below his private balcony. The man would get in trouble for this too, simply because he’d been seen. They had that in common at least, this window washer and himself.

Suddenly, Greg grinned and finished his water bottle. Then he grabbed the wine from the table and opened his mouth to say hello to his first unsupervised visit with an American.

He stumbled a little as he walked over to the ledge so he tossed his blue bottle aside with a frown of disdain that would have done Papa Olaf proud.


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

“Come on, Nick. One more hand…” Davis from Days was nothing if not persistent. Nick stopped next to an especially loud slot machine and waited, turning to watch the man approach and trying not to sigh. Davis was a fun guy to hang out with on occasion, a guy who understood a job like his that Nick didn’t have to actually see and work with every shift. They normally went for a drink or went to a once-a-month poker game with some of the other guys from the lab. Quiet, relaxing nights to get their minds off work, the kind of thing women imagined when men said they were going to play poker—smoke, beer, cards, and no conversation.

But Davis had had some friend in town who had wanted to see the sights, and they had ended up playing cards at Caesar’s. Which had really meant Davis and his friend getting drunk and being obnoxious to their waitresses. And that kind of thing just wasn’t how Nick wanted to spend his night off; as though being in this town meant it was okay to be boozy, disrespectful horndog. He hadn’t thought of that as especially fun even back in his fraternity days. It had made him seem strange, which he had accepted, because he still didn’t understand why being one thing automatically meant being something else too. Being in a fraternity meant he had to be a jerk. Living in this town meant he must like strippers and gambling. Being part of the police department meant… Nick sighed. He just wanted to do his own thing, without anybody getting hurt, that’s all he had ever wanted. So he’d just played his last hand out and quietly grabbed his coat.

“I think I’ve lost my limit for the night,” he told Davis easily, not really lying since he had lost a little, but Davis scowled anyway, stopping just short of him.

“You really don’t know how to have a good time, do you, Stokes?” The look on Davis’ face wasn’t really all that playful, and if he hadn’t been drinking, Nick might not have had the chance to see it. He narrowed his eyes, but Davis didn’t seem to notice.

“I do. I just usually try to make sure everyone else is having a good time too.” He kept this tone polite, just like he’d been raised, but he thought maybe Davis got his meaning anyway. The man’s face flushed with color and Nick nodded, once. Hopefully the man would sleep it off. If not then Nick would have to find somewhere else to play poker if he wanted mild distraction. “I’ll see you later.”

“You’re probably going into work.” Davis called out just as Nick turned his back on him, and Nick paused, exhaling but not actually bothering to deny it. “It’s your night off, Stokes!” he yelled when Nick finally started to walk toward the bank of doors at the main entrance. “Night off! You even know what that means?” His voice followed Nick out the doors, lingering just a little in the back of his mind.

It wasn’t the first time someone had remarked on his dedication to his job, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The last time he had tried to forget about work it hadn’t turned out well, not well at all, and he shuddered at the memory of poor Kristy. He enjoyed his job, loved his job, found it rewarding in ways that guys like Ecklie and Davis never would, and he wasn’t about to risk it all again for some drunken idiots. He was going to go home, get a good night’s sleep for once, and maybe get up in time to go hiking before work tomorrow night.

The sun had just set, which for most people in this town meant the streets were cool enough to prowl, and Nick thought about it for about half a second before shaking his head. That had never really been his scene either. But he stayed where he was, under the flashing pink lights of the Caesar’s entrance. He looked up at the bit of sky he could see, down at the imitation marble statues and pools of splashing water. Then a Hummer stretch limo blocked his view and he shook his head in disgust. Just a typical night in Vegas. He walked over to the valet and gave them the ticket for his truck.

He turned back to see if his view had returned and noticed the limo was gone right as he also noticed the slight figure of a man collapse heavily onto one of the stone benches they left out for tourists who had to get out of the heat.

Nick could tell it was man from the slim hips and broad shoulders, but even if he hadn’t seen that, there was always the combed down, serious hair and shiny old-fashioned dress shoes. And whoever the guy was, he had obviously had a little too much of what this town had to offer. He managed to stay upright for all of thirty seconds and then he very, very slowly slid down sideways to lay across the bench and to rest his head on his arms.

He was going to fall asleep like that. Nick stared at him and then felt all the air leave his chest in a long, drawn out sigh. He was moving forward before he could change his mind, frowning and shaking his head at the people who lost control the minute they got off the damn plane. They took that slogan too seriously.

“Hey, buddy, time to take it inside.” He kept his voice low and reasonable, patrol training that never really went away. Most drunks were harmless, but there was always that one ready to be the exception.

The body on the bench shifted slightly but didn’t really move. “Is this your hotel?” Nick kept on frowning and tried again, looking over the man’s body, a little surprised to see the spotless white of his dress shirt, the pressed line down his pants. Expensive pants too, at least they looked that way; Nick couldn’t really spot labels the way the others seemed to.

He reached out slowly, put a hand on the man’s back near his shoulder, and pushed.

The man’s head came up immediately. His brows were drawn into a strangely elegant frown and he stared down at Nick through eyes that were half-closed. And considering he was lying on a bench that was really some trick.

“6am, rise and go to the gym,” the man told him, then blinked. Nick blinked too, because it was young kid, just out of college maybe. Delicate skin and rosy cheeks. Thick, full eyelashes, pink lips, and a spot that his aunts might have called a beauty mark—Nick would have called it a big freckle. He had friendly brown eyes, but it was hard to tell his hair color from how it was slicked down. It looked like light brown, maybe dirty blonde. The hair was as bad as the clothes; it didn’t match his age at all.

That he had stolen them seemed possible, except that they fit his lean body exactly. Lean body…and Nick remembered that bit of weird that had come out of that pink mouth a second ago.

“Not the gym, buddy. Bed time. This your hotel? They’ll take care of you but you’ve got to get inside.” His hand was still out, resting on the warmth of one shoulder, and then the other man shuddered.

“No thank you,” he told Nick firmly and tried to put his head back down. Nick thinned his mouth and pushed him again, harder. The head came back up, with the same annoyed, disdainful look that was totally at odds with the pleased, lit-up eyes. For some reason this time it made Nick want to smile. He pushed deliberately, one more time, and with a heavy sigh that sounded well-practiced, the kid moved himself back to a sitting position. His head fell back like it weighed a ton and then his eyes opened wide.

Maybe it was the lights above that made them gleam like that. Nick tried to look forbidding and stern and everything he had had to be years ago on the force. The kid blinked, again, his face going even pinker. Then his eyes started at Nick’s face and slid down to his boots. Then they worked all the way back up and Nick couldn’t tell if they lingered or if it was just whatever was working through the guy’s bloodstream at the moment.

“You are my second.” He was informed by a cool, polite voice, and then out of nowhere a big grin split the kid’s face. “But I like you better.”

“Well…thanks.” Nick was not grinning back just because the guy had a nice smile, no matter how much he wanted to. “You had a little to drink?” he asked gently, making a rude sound when the other man shook his head in the exaggerated way that people did when intoxicated.

“I gave away the wine for a ride.” Even the kid was frowning at how that one didn’t make a bit of sense. “I just want to sleep now. I should be allowed to dream.” He leaned forward to insist and swayed dramatically. His hand came out and Nick nearly jumped back from the groping hand. It settled on his thigh, but before he could sigh in relief and try to remove it, it was followed by the kid’s face and then half his body.

“Um…” Nick was red, he knew he was. The guy had probably passed out against his leg for all he knew. He wasn’t talking anymore, just resting, hot and heavy on Nick’s lower body, his head—and his mouth—sinking lower. “Come on, man…” Nick tried, his throat constricting.

His slid his hand uncertainly over the slick hair and settled it back on the guy’s shoulder. He tried a pat, clearing his throat at the look a passing bellboy gave him. Then he pushed again and the kid slid easily back into a sitting position, his head lolling back.

Those shining eyes were on him, half-closed once more, but he could see the original annoyed look was gone. And it wasn’t the lights putting that color in the man’s cheeks. Nick frowned, bending down. He ignored the shock of how hot the other man felt to touch, the startled way his mouth opened when Nick got close. Nick pulled gently at his eyelids and then swore under his breath at the slightly dilated pupils.

“They put it in my water,” the kid informed him calmly, his eyes falling shut. He batted away Nick’s hand, or tried to.

Nick swore out loud.

“Who drugged you?” he demanded, trying to keep his cool. He thought about pulling out his phone and calling PD, maybe a hospital. Who knew what was in the kid’s system, even if he had apparently escaped unharmed. “Do you have anyone you need me to call? Someone worried about you?”

“Ha!” Eyes still closed, the kid waved a hand in the air. Like before, the gesture was strangely elegant. Then the effect was ruined by the playfully whispered confession. “Everybody’s worried about me. But they don’t have to be, I’m not like him.”

Nick almost asked “him, who?” but bit his tongue. At this point he wasn’t going to get anything that made sense. And then the valet was behind him, coughing repeatedly as though he had already been trying to get Nick’s attention for a while. Nick smoothed a hand over his hair, not even wanting to imagine what Sara or Warrick would say about his tendency to find trouble. Nick turned and took his keys, tipping the guy whatever was in his pocket just to get him gone.

The kid was about to fall asleep. PD was not going to be interested in a drugged kid without evidence of violent crime, and there was no way of knowing if this was his hotel. And they were of course in a town built around hotels, and each of those booked up for some kind of technology convention.

“You have a name? A wallet?” Judging from the clothes, the kid must have had money. Of course, if he had, it was likely gone now. Maybe they had just rolled him for his cash. “You hurt? Do you feel sick?”

“Tired…” the kid told him and then rubbed at his face sleepily, mumbling something that didn’t sound like English.

“Yeah,” Nick agreed, drawing out the word. “I got that. You’re tired. Check.” At his lame try at a joke, what could have been an attempt at a smile lifted up one side of the sad, pouting mouth. And that was it. Nick worked his jaw for a full minute and then bent down, sliding his hands down the kid’s side, over his hips to his pockets, then his back pockets, trying to keep the touch quick and impersonal.

His new friend giggled, opening his eyes to look at Nick without raising his head. It made him look almost wicked, like some beauty from an old black and white film, and Nick shook his head and immediately stood back up, because women in those movies always knew exactly what that look did to a man. He wiped his palms on his shirt.

“Your pockets are empty,” he explained himself, locking his teeth together when the guy smoothly informed him that he never carried money. “Look,” he went on, glancing up at the streaming neon lights for help because even though he knew what he was going to say, he couldn’t really believe it. “Do you want to crash at my place for a few hours…sober up someplace safe?” he asked and then shivered.

“Nothing weird, I promise, I work for…” He twisted, reaching for his wallet and his police department ID card and badge, and froze at the warmth of fingertips trailing across the back of his hand. The kid’s hand slid away, his eyes the clearest they had been all night, hot and bright and hopeful. “As soon as you can remember your name and where you’re staying, I’ll bring you back.” He meant the promise, but there were too many who wouldn’t have, so he felt himself scowling when the kid gave him a drunken—drugged—smile and closed his eyes.

Didn’t anybody care about this guy at all? Nick fought to be gentle as he slid an arm around the kid’s waist, pulling him to his feet. It took some maneuvering to get the passenger side door open and get the guy inside, even if the kid was trying to help him. It was like he had never climbed inside of an SUV before, or maybe that was just the drug.

Nick ignored the looks from the parking attendants as he got into the driver’s seat and buckled up. The car was already running, not even giving him a chance to reconsider. He pulled carefully onto the strip before glancing over at his passenger, a little startled to see the man a bit more alert and staring intently out the window.

“If you start feeling sick at all, you tell me,” Nick said quietly, looking over every few seconds. The kid’s face was partially turned away, his cheek pressed to the window glass as he finally looked away from the lights and closed his eyes.

“I’m always sick. That’s why…”

“That’s why what?” Nick needed to know, and he had a vague idea about keeping the guy talking and awake until they were at least back at his house.

“That’s why. They had to give it to me. But it doesn’t matter.”

Nick held his breath, waiting.

“It was… The GABAa receptor is an inhibitory channel which, when activated, decreases neurologic activity… and benzodiazepine binds to a subunit on the GABAa receptor…”

“Benzodiazepine?” Nick repeated, not dwelling on the rest of that speech for the moment. “Like Valium or Xanax?” And that wasn’t good but it wasn’t the worst scenario either, and at least he had a hint of what he had been given. “Someone made you take one of those?”

“Chemistry…” Bright eyes focused on him, and Nick felt the momentary strength behind that look, saw the surprise in the raised eyebrows, the pleasure maybe, that Nick had guessed the right chemical compound from what had been said. The kid smiled wide and it was beautiful. And then like that focusing had taken it all out of him, the kid slumped back in his seat and slid down until his chin was resting on his seatbelt, passed out cold.

Nick swore out loud. Again. His mother would have been so disappointed.

Just under half an hour later, he had just gotten the kid stretched out on his fold-out sofa bed when his cell buzzed in his pocket. Considering the hour, it couldn’t be good news. His night off just kept getting better. Nick smiled grimly and answered.

“Yeah?” he whispered, and felt silly for whispering when the kid could have slept through a train wreck. He even looked sort of like a train wreck, disheveled and wrinkled, flushed and flat on his back on the lumpy mattress, his shirt riding up and his mouth hanging open because he was snoring, just a little. Nick decided to take snoring as a good sign. He’d been worried when he had had to sling the kid over his shoulder and carry him in the house.

“Nick, I know it’s your night off, but I need everyone.” Grissom, being direct, which meant something pretty heavy. And that was probably all the apology Nick was going to get tonight if Grissom was getting pressure from above. It meant a big case all right. Nick pursed his lips and studied the sleeping figure in front of him.

He looked around his house, not that he really had any valuables aside from his TV. And he really doubted that the kid could do anything on the same level as someone like Nigel Crane, even if he did wake up. He could even kind of regard this as progress in learning to trust again—if he had still been going to his recommended therapy sessions.

“Yeah,” he answered at last, rubbing at the back of his neck a little and sighing so Grissom could hear him. Sara and Warrick could never know about this. He would never hear the end about his need to save everyone. “I’ll be right there.”

“The Bellagio. Penthouse.” Grissom ended the call without formalities and Nick shut his phone with a snap.

“Look,” he told Sleeping Beauty and tried not to grin at the loud snore that was his reply. Snoring was definitely a good sign. But he gently turned the kid onto his side, in case maybe there had been some alcohol to follow the dose of diazepam. He slipped the old-fashioned shoes off but paused at the belt before unbuckling it and sliding it free of the loops. He took off the big, chunky silver watch on one wrist too. He set watch, shoes, and belt at the foot of the bed, then laid a thin blanket over the kid, who didn’t so much as twitch at being tucked in. Weird. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t move. And don’t die on me, all right?” He just got more snores for his trouble, a steady, unbroken stream of snoring. The sound was strangely reassuring.

There was a private elevator to take VIP guests to the penthouse suites. But Nick had to take a different elevator and then the stairs to reach the top floor, following Brass as Brass explained that the private elevator was currently being printed by Sara. There was a camera in that elevator, just like any other, and they were compiling the last few hours of footage in the casino’s security office as they spoke.

“Last few hours?” Was Nick’s first question, because Brass had said it wasn’t a homicide and this was a quick response for anything less than that, and to bring the whole team in…

“Catherine is interviewing people, but you know this town…” Brass didn’t directly answer his question, gesturing Nick through wide, double doors that opened to reveal an enormous suite. “They never see anything, especially the people in rooms like these, Nicky.”

Nick almost whistled, because the discreetly lit artwork on the walls around him could have been in a museum and when he glanced down a short hallway he saw a bathtub bigger than his whole bathroom. White, the whole thing was untouched, virginal white, that made him think of something Grissom had said once, about the ancient Roman nobles valuing white because it was so hard to keep clean. This place probably had a staff just to clean this room. Even the flowers were white. The only color was in the paintings and the tray of bright blue bottles on one table where most hotels would have placed a magnum of champagne.

“And that’s only the first room,” Brass remarked, smirking at him a little. There were uniforms stationed on the inside of the main doors, and next to them were three huge men in black suits. Their size and their blank faces said private security. Nick did whistle, because whatever happened had happened under the watchful eye of those guys and about half a million casino security cameras.

There was black dusting powder on several surfaces, bruises on all that white, which in a hotel meant they could get prints from the last hundred guests and the cleaning staff. Thousands of false leads already and the case had barely been opened.

Then the sound of a woman’s voice distracted him, and he caught the warning lift to Brass’ eyebrows as they walked through another door into another, larger room. It was a bedroom, one wall entirely made of windows, though it looked like it had been cut into the sections with the way they had arranged the panes. The bed hadn’t been slept in, but there were several suits laid at the end of it, all grey. They looked like someone had sat on them.

He looked up and met Grissom’s eyes across the room, and then looked over to the older woman Grissom was listening to. Fifty-ish and trying to look older, in a suit as grey as the ones on the bed. Her hair was pulled back and she was speaking very quietly, very calmly, but her hands were clasped tightly together over her stomach.

Her gaze swept down over him and then she lifted her chin and looked away. From the corner of his eye, Nick saw Brass fade into the background.

“Nick, this is Ms. Grethe Andersdatter.” Grissom was actually attempting politeness. Nick nodded, trying not to look surprised at that, but she didn’t look at him so he supposed his expression didn’t matter. “Ms. Andersdatter, if you’ll excuse me…” Grissom stepped away before she could excuse him or not, one eyebrow indicating Nick should follow him.

“What are we doing here?” Nick asked, gesturing at the wrinkled suits on the bed. “Bellagio VIP gets robbed and they call us out?” This town… Grissom was going to give him a look, because he sounded as put out and irritated as he was, getting called in on a night off, at the worst time, for some high roller’s missing Rolex. But Grissom didn’t even bother to chastise him; his voice was gentle, like he knew he was about to say something unbelievable.

“The country of Norway seems to be missing a prince,” Grissom announced, watching him carefully. But Nick couldn’t help it, he knew he was smiling in disbelief and straightened his face so the witness in the room couldn’t see it.

“A prince?” His disbelief was real for a second, and then he remembered the town he was in, and the room he was in, and frowned, thinking back to tabloid TV left on in the break room. “The one in all the papers and…”

“No. At least, I don’t believe so.” Grissom turned to glance back at the tense woman behind him. “We got the call about half an hour after he is believed to have disappeared. I gather that this…is not his usual behavior.” Grissom being polite and delicate, Nick straightened up and took another serious look around the room.

“Missing prince, got it.” Nick cleared his throat and nodded. He looked around again and found his eyes going back to the woman. “And she is?”

“Personal secretary. She last saw him at sunset…” Grissom’s lips pushed out as he had a thought, but he didn’t share it. “The press doesn’t know about it yet, and Ms. Andersdatter, as well as the Bellagio Hotel and Casino, would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. I suspect the FBI will take over if there’s the slightest hint that this is anything other than someone disappearing to enjoy the city. So any evidence you can find as quickly as you can find it.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Itinerary, personal effects,” Grissom answered instantly, leaving Nick to wonder what the rest of the team had already been assigned to. “We need to get to know this guy, his routine, if she’s telling the truth, and…”

“See if he’s really the kind of guy to wander off like this.” Nick finished. He nodded again and picked up his kit, heading to the closet.

“Ms. Andersdatter, ma’am,” Nick paused awkwardly as he got close to her. “I’m Nick Stokes…” Her eyes were cool appraisal, and the slight frown between her eyes seemed familiar. He imagined she made a very good secretary with that look, but he’d rather work a triple than spend his free time with her. “Anything you can give me about his schedule will help us…”

“Of course.” She cut him off crisply and handed over a Blackberry. She picked up the stylus for him, showing him screen after screen of schedule. The entries were in English, which was surprising.

“English?” he murmured without looking up.

“His Royal Highness spent many years in England. He prefers English unless he is at home.” He couldn’t tell from her tone whether she approved of that or not, but it made his job a lot easier.

However it still took him a moment to realize that all those notations were for the same day. Tomorrow, starting at 6 am and going until 11 at night. He noticed commitments at that technology convention, notes on speeches, and then marks about medicine.

“Medicine?”

“His stomach…” When she hesitated, Nick looked up, and for the first time she was looking down. “His Royal Highness…has not been well for some time. Nerves, perhaps, the doctor said.”

“Right.” He left that one alone for now. “Well, we’ll need a list of all the medications he’s on, as well as anything he used, like a toothbrush or a hairbrush…” He kept his voice low, his words slow and easy, because the even if her eyes were cold, her hands were another story. “We’re also going to need to take this,” he held up the PDA. “We’ll download the information at our lab. You should get it back.”

He could see Grissom leaning sideways to stare at the weird giant window, peering at the way it had been arranged to look like cut glass. A big stained-glass window, only lacking color. He was probably trying to imagine how the sun would have still been shining in here at sunset.

Nick looked down, using his fingertips to poke at the Blackberry until he saw today’s schedule. Their prince had only arrived at McCarran a few hours ago and come straight here. Not a lot of time to piss off anybody in town or to make new friends.

He skipped ahead again, noting the orders to be made for room service in the morning, plain toast, no coffee—that was mentioned twice. Instructions for the cleaners about the suits. The early rise for the gym.

Nick frowned, looking up again to see Grissom carefully applying powder to the window and smiling to himself at what looked like a palm print.

“His whole life’s in here.” He said his thought out loud, then realized that he meant it; this guy’s whole scheduled, boring, controlled life was inside the PDA. He scanned through a few more days anyway and knew he was still frowning. The notations were endless. Call doctor. Photo appearances. Who to shake hands with. Who to not shake hands with. Even the menus from the hotel restaurants and what the prince had been forbidden to eat. He didn’t even know this guy’s name, and he didn’t think it mattered. Prince was all that people seemed to care about.

That was all he could stand for the moment. Nick bagged the device and set it aside. He turned back to consider the closet, knowing the secretary was watching him. The prince wouldn’t have unpacked his own belongings, but Nick opened the doors anyway, staring for a moment at the wall of grey suits. There were a few in black, and two tuxedos.

They were exactly the sort of suits that Nick’s grandfather would have worn…back in the late forties…to a funeral.

“Ms. Andersdatter,” Nick stopped, trying to think of something reassuring, but he still didn’t know exactly what was going on here. “Is anything missing that you can see?” he asked without turning back, snapping a few pictures of the dark wardrobe, the rows of shiny, carefully arranged shoes. He put on some gloves as she answered that everything was where it should be and then opened a drawer. Pajamas. Actual two-piece men’s pajamas. He had thought only women wore those now.

Another drawer revealed sweaters—in Vegas—and then another revealed boxers, plain white. The last had dark socks.

“So tell me again what happened,” he ordered, knowing she had already told her story to Brass and Grissom and probably the hotel’s security. But he didn’t know the whole story yet and he knew she wanted to feel useful, most witnesses did. He found an mp3 player, turned it on and scrolled quickly down through lists of artists and bands he had never heard of. Sigur Ros? Black Flag? He put one headphone to his ear and turned it on. His ear was immediately blasted with screaming guitar, up at the highest volume setting. He turned it off and put it back.

“We had just entered the suite. I was giving His Royal Highness the details of tomorrow’s itinerary. Korsvald brought him some of his favorite water. Then His Royal Highness retired. Korsvald went back in to straighten and found the prince missing.”

“And Korsvald is…?” There was a case in one corner, full of books. He flipped through them, and from her shocked indrawn breath, Nick guessed that these were the prince’s personal belongings. He snapped a picture just to annoy her then looked closer. New titles. Scientific journals and spy novels. A few detective novels too, more L.A. tough guy than Sherlock Holmes. Well, their prince was well-read, and listened to music Nick thought sounded like screeching cats. He also wore boring clothes.

“His Royal Highness’ valet. The man who sees to his personal needs and takes care of his appearance.”

Nick resisted the urge to tell her he knew what a valet was. Or that he wasn’t snooping for the sake being nosy, that he was doing his job. The same way that he was sure that being this condescending and rude was part of her doing her job. He let out a noisy breath.

“Is there a laptop? A cell phone?” Her eyebrows went up even higher. And this was just getting strange. Because nobody who listened to that music could possibly live the dull life that he was picturing here.

“Did he make any calls? Or get any?” And even before she shook her head he figured he knew the answer to that.

“He was to receive a call from his parents tomorrow.” Her hands twitched like she wanted to double-check the Blackberry. Nick clenched his jaw.

“Does His Royal Highness have any friends? Or a name?” If Grissom got complaints about his attitude, he could always say he was tired.

Ms. Andersdatter’s head went back, her mouth thinning. When she spoke her words were precise and icy.

“His Royal Highness is well loved by his people.”

“I’m sure he is.” And that should have come out soothing, but Nick knew his voice was tight, higher than it should have been. He tried to regulate his breathing. He must be more tired than he thought, to be getting this worked up over a case like this. “Was there anyone with a grudge against him or maybe your country?” Nick doubted it, but had to follow routine. Most Americans would have a hard time saying where Norway was on the map. And he was willing to bet that most people couldn’t think of a single extraordinary fact about this guy. Which made it weird that Nick was sure he’d heard something about some party crazy prince from some Scandinavian country, and he was pretty sure it was Norway, though he didn’t pay much attention to tabloid trash.

Ms. Andersdatter completely ignored his question as though it was beneath her and the people she served. Which might have been PR and that was just fine, but he waited, and after a long moment, she sniffed.

“He has no enemies I know of, and I am at his side almost every second of every day.”

“He’s never alone?” He was being rude. He ducked his head quickly, glancing around and noticed the chest of books, thought of the music player hidden away. This guy honestly had no life.

“Ms. Anderstatter…” he turned back to try again, letting out a loud breath. “There…are rumors…”

“You are speaking of the Crown Prince.” She cut him off and narrowed her eyes. Nick opened his mouth, then shut it. He could see now why Brass had vanished. That was all the information they were going to get out of this lady about that subject unless someone scared it out of her in interrogation. And personally, Nick didn’t think that would work, but he kind of wanted someone to try.

“Nick.” Grissom needing him cut through his irritation, gave him a second to calm down, and Nick gestured at the air.

“Ms. Andersdatter, why don’t you get those things I asked for, for us?” And yeah maybe he was breathing a sigh of relief to be getting away from her as he walked over to the window. Grissom was pushing gently against one panel. Nick was more than ready to try to justify what really had been unacceptable rudeness, but just like that, with the smallest amount of pressure, the glass slid open.

“There’s a balcony?” Nick asked in disbelief as Grissom flipped a switch, and then they were both staring down at a delicately lit balcony, a patio really, with tables of flowers and fruit baskets. If there had been people walking around out there, they would have seen them, but the balcony itself was just low enough to be almost hidden.

“Shall we journey through the looking-glass?” Grissom asked softly, then stepped out onto the private balcony, taking a picture and then moving to the ledge to look down. Nick followed him for a glance at the lake. At sunset the lake would have been dancing with sprays of water set to music.

They both looked down at the same time.

“There was no way he climbed down from this,” Nick agreed with the look Grissom gave him as they turned back to observe the balcony. Empty chairs for guests this guy was never going to have. Bouquets he probably hadn’t seen. Untouched fruit…

“Something missing from this basket.” He snapped a few pictures of the flat patch of straw, surrounded by pears and grapes. “A bottle maybe.” Grissom just grunted. “The thing is…” Nick stopped waking, frowning a little. The volume had been turned all the way up on that mp3 player for a reason. “I don’t think this guy is a drinker. I don’t think he has a chance to drink anything. I get the feeling…”

Nick blinked and shook his head, realizing with more than a little embarrassment that Grissom was watching him stare into space and speculate without concrete evidence. But Grissom just waved him on, tilting his head and waiting. Nick took a deep breath. This was what Grissom had wanted from him, right? He shrugged, trying to dismiss it. But then he lowered his voice.

“This guy is never unsupervised for more than a few minutes at a time unless he’s sleeping. His every waking moment is scheduled for him. And even if she’s not there, he’s got security on him.” Nick paused, considering. “No way any one on the outside got close to him unless one of them allowed it.”

Grissom’s look was serious, but he was still waiting, so Nick went on. “The way they treat him is seriously strange, not quite a prisoner but...” He looked through the glass and saw that one of the private security guys was now in the bedroom, standing silently at the door and watching the two of them. “They’re afraid of something,” he finished and Grissom quirked an eyebrow.

“The prince did not sleep quiet at the tower,” he remarked, probably something from Shakespeare, but seeming to take Nick seriously. Then his gaze shifted and he walked past Nick, bending down to peer at something on the ground.

“He would not have come out here!” They both turned at the sound of Ms. Andersdatter’s voice. She was probably as close to yelling as she ever got, standing awkwardly in the doorway and staring them down.

“Why not? Wouldn’t let him?” Nick demanded and almost flinched at how sharply Grissom called his name. “If I could figure out how, I’d say this guy probably ran away.” He lowered his voice, but only slightly, and Grissom was saying his name again, his voice harsh.

“He would not do that. He knows his duty.”

“And if he forgot I’m sure you’d be right there to remind him.” Nick sucked in air after he spat out the words, looking down, not really sure where his anger was coming from. Maybe he was really was too tired. Maybe he just should have stayed at Caesar’s and gotten drunk and played cards. Maybe somebody should have slipped something into his drink.

“Ms. Andersdatter?” Grissom’s voice again, calm, inquiring, and just the tiniest bit threatening. Nick half-turned to follow the sound, and saw Grissom carefully inspecting an empty blue bottle, one just like the ones in the hall outside. He sniffed it, and shot Nick a warning glance. Nick turned back to Ms. Andersdatter right as she went pale. “Jim?” Grissom barely raised his voice but suddenly Brass was in the bedroom like he’d been waiting, working his way toward them.

And then Grissom was talking just to Nick. And Nick was nodding. Because being told to drive the evidence they’d collected so far back to the lab and then to finish taking his night off was only the first part of his reprimand for his attitude. He might get a few more nights off, without pay—that was clearly in the air between them, because even if Grissom didn’t care, Ecklie would. That was almost nothing next to the questions Grissom was going to have. Nick was actually grateful Ms. Andersdatter was there to keep Grissom busy for a while, because Nick didn’t have any answers to give him.

He walked past her without a word and began gathering up the evidence bags. He kept his eyes and his thoughts on the job at hand. Everything else would have to wait.

~~~~~~


He was talking again. Greg smiled a little and turned his face into the warm cushion of his pillow. He decided the man talking had a voice just like this pillow, warm and soft and just right, which might have been something from a children’s story and which made him think of honey and porridge. Greg had never been sure what exactly porridge was, but it still sounded nice. Nice, just like the voice.

“Still with me, buddy?” the voice was asking questions, and Greg licked at his lips, annoyed to realize his mouth was dry, and remembering that in his dreams he didn’t need to answer questions.

“My name is not Buddy,” he told the voice and shivered at the rush of air on the back of his neck, over his cheek. He thought maybe He was amused, and imagined dark eyes, crinkled with laughter. It was an easy picture to see even if it shouldn’t have been. People didn’t laugh at him. At least, they never did to his face, not even when he forgot the name of someone very important in an interview. He had been seventeen. Or maybe eighteen. The news had been quick to assume he’d been high.

Greg turned and rolled his face into the pillow until the black behind his eyes swallowed up the memory. He let out a long breath and felt the touch of something woolen on his neck, tucked under his chin. Grethe still thought he was a child. But Greg didn’t say anything, and she went away.

“Well, then good night, Sleeping Beauty.” The voice spoke again, unafraid even of Grethe. Greg decided that perhaps Grethe could not hear the voice. Perhaps the voice could be his secret, for him alone. He smiled into his pillow, sinking back into sleep.

Different voices, a man and a woman, pulled him from the darkness again. And though they tried to be quiet, speaking of sports and weather in English, their whispers made them all the more insistent. Greg turned his face up, sliding his body over to curl around the uncomfortable lump in his bed. His pajamas twisted oddly around him, trapping him in place, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. So he lay still, thinking that his mouth was very dry and that water would be the most delicious thing he had ever had in his life. But they would see him if he opened his eyes, so he kept them shut, dreaming about splashing fountains, and lakes with white light, and blue bottles. Then he dreamed of dark eyes. Nice eyes which he had never seen before.

“Chemistry,” he murmured and felt his lips brush a wet spot on his pillow. For a moment his eyes opened, but the room was still dark so he closed them again. They would not stop talking, the voices, hushed and knowing, saying what they always said. “Royalty visits Las Vegas. That’s right, there’s a genuine Royal in town, for the FutureTech Convention, the largest gathering to date of software…”

He turned away from the pillow, laying on his hands, frowning into the darkness. They would not stop. “Norway…longest…the more serious younger brother… Only twenty-five but already…Gregory Hojem Sandersson…at his Vegas press conference yesterday…”

“No…way…” The shocked, whispered words were different, closer and real, startling Greg into opening his eyes once more, just for a moment. The voices stopped as though someone had simply shut them off. He saw a glimpse of unfamiliar walls, another strange hotel room, and rolled back around, fighting with his pajamas when they wrapped around him again. He was not interested in another nameless hotel. His pillow was still warm, and he inhaled, liking the smell. It smelled like soap and no perfumes, as clean as the wind, he decided, and let his mouth fall open to taste the fabric.

There was breath hot on his ear, and he twitched, shifting a little against the scratch of his blankets.

“Um…” He heard, and it was the voice again. His voice. New but familiar already, sweet and rough and with an American accent, something from a movie, from the speeches of their silly, stupid president. That voice annoyed him. This one he liked. It made him want to smile and to push back into the arms holding him up. “…Your…uh…Royal Highness?”

He didn’t want to hear that, not when there was hard heat at his back and the steady beat of a heart above him. Greg left the pillow and turned, moving his lips against surprisingly warm, living flesh. He felt the skin under his mouth pulsing, the quivering of muscles that moved as though his dream man swallowed. Greg’s mouth curved up because though he listened carefully, he couldn’t hear Grethe at all.

“You may call me Greg,” he answered slowly, with a lick, and then was left to scowl and roll his face into his pillow when the heat vanished. He shivered and rubbed a little into the unusually hard mattress.

“Oh man,” the voice said, wavering and unsteady, and then it was gone. Greg heard fast footsteps, hushed like shoes on thick carpeting. They left and then came back, only to leave again after a few short words. “I don’t believe this.” His honey and porridge American voice wasn’t as even as before, not nearly as slow and amused. “I don’t…”

He didn’t finish and Greg scowled and opened his eyes, staring at a wall that looked like it was made of dark blue fabric, and part of a white pillowcase. He blinked and his eyelashes tickled his cheek.

This was the weirdest dream he had ever had. He squeezed his eyes closed and wished himself back in the arms of the dark-eyed man, his face blurred as though Greg was looking at him through mist. But he almost felt real, strong arms wrapping tight around him, breath in his ear asking him questions, demanding answers. “Still with me, Sleeping Beauty?” Which wasn’t right, but he could hear it clearly, or something like it. “Don’t die on me, alright?” He shook his head, opening his mouth and trying to respond to the worry still ringing in his ears. And then he heard another question. “Um…Your Royal Highness?”

Greg opened his eyes and blinked away fog, struggling to focus on the same blue fabric wall, the same plain white pillow case. He heard footsteps, as loud as the heavy, fast beats of his heart, and he turned his head, very, very carefully.

White walls, plaster ceiling, white that made his head spin. But he kept turning, rolling around in pajamas that felt too tight, until he had gone a hundred and eighty degrees, until he was upside down, and half-lying on his side and staring at a strange man standing in a doorway and watching him.

The man had dark eyes. Greg let out a panicked breath and tried to ignore that particular realization, glancing carefully around. He wasn’t quite breathing normally, but he decided that in an abstract way this was fine, because he was no longer in his room in the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, even though that was the thing he could clearly remember, the fantastic cut glass pattern of a large window. And knowing that was much more important than breathing.

He was in a room with a big flat screened television and pictures that hung from the walls and fat, stuffed chairs that had sweatshirts and other articles of clothing lying over them. The television screen was black, giving him a shadowy reflection of himself on the bed he was lying in, that almost resembled a short couch.

He wasn’t bound and there were hints of pale light around the edges of the curtains, signs of life outside, which seemed careless and stupid for any kind of kidnapper.

So. Greg gave up on himself for the time being and looked back at the man. The man was frowning, clenching his jaw in a way that was almost threatening. It seemed upset, angry. But then he leaned against the wall and brought one hand to rub through his hair and then down at his neck and suddenly he just seemed tired. When he glanced down and his eyes were elsewhere, Greg felt his heart slow down.

The man cleared his throat and lifted his head and his eyes—brown, Greg decided faintly, but so dark they were almost black—searched quickly over Greg’s face. Then he spoke.

“Good morning,” the man said and Greg felt his whole body grow hot with his blush. It was the voice of the man from his dreams, who was obviously real and not imaginary. Greg pushed himself up onto his pillows, his back sliding against the solid part of the couch-bed he was in. His blanket, something warm and woolen, fell down to his waist as he did and he yanked it back up, wondering if he was even redder now that he had made a fool of himself by covering up when he was still dressed.

He glanced at the long sleeves still covering his arms, his own white dress shirt, though quite wrinkled. He tried to surreptitiously wriggle under the blankets, not sure whether to be relieved or worried that he was wearing his clothes from yesterday. He looked back up.

“Good morning,” he answered at last, and almost ducked his head when the man’s face broke into a wide smile. It was an unbelievable open smile, and even though Greg couldn’t think of why he had earned a smile like that—though he could naturally, and hopefully, imagine quite a bit—he opened his mouth and curved his lips up.

When the man smiled his whole face crinkled with amusement, and there was a shine to his skin, a ruddy glow, like someone who spent time outdoors. Greg dipped his gaze down over his fit, muscular body and imagined this man out in the middle of the desert he had seen from the plane window, or walking across the glaciers of home.

He froze, blinking once or twice and wondering if he had been staring a little obviously, or if he’d missed a question. He had that feeling, the press conference feeling in his stomach, and he put a hand to his chest to halt any rising sickness.

He had taken something. They had given him something, and he had stumbled out through the glass to feel the sky on his face and…and…

That was all he could remember.

“I…” He really was an idiot because he was alone with this man, this handsome American stranger, and he couldn’t even speak. He wet his lips and closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to remember anything. But all he could think of was Papa Olaf, winking at him over the heads of the serious, well-dressed men that had always surrounded him when Greg was a child, and his voice, saying, “som man reder, så ligger man.”

He didn’t taste any alcohol on his mouth, and the only time he could remember ever being even close to a feeling like this was when he had snuck out of one school and gotten drunk on pint after pint of delicious beer with a boy from the chess team. He had woken up in the bushes below his room without his pants, his security men staring down at him.

“I…ah….we…did I spend the night here…with you? Here…together…” he added, knowing his eyes were too wide and his face was red. But he kept his chin up and so he saw the startled look on the handsome stranger’s face and how he brought his hand up to rub at his neck again.

The dark eyes flicked away and the man rolled his shoulders; the action stretched the soft fabric of his grey-blue shirt.

“Well…in a manner of speaking…from a certain angle, yes… But it wasn’t…” The man stopped, and Greg tried to keep his mind on what the man was saying and not the embarrassment on his face, no matter how fascinating it was. Because Greg thought maybe the man was embarrassed at being asked if they had slept together, and wondered if it was because they had not, or because they were two men. He tried to remember American attitudes about that, then shook his head, because in the end it didn’t matter.

“You were…ah…a little out of it.” The man explained, grinning suddenly, and Greg had a vision of himself bargaining with a window washer to be taken to a lower floor, and then simply walking through noise and flashes of color, which must have been the casino. The air outside, cool and yet warm on his face, and more noise, more people, his legs getting heavier and…

Blackness. Blur. And a voice.

“I thought you could use a safe place to sleep it off,” his stranger went on, stopping abruptly as though he could have said more. He was watching Greg closely now, waiting for something, and Greg wondered if he had done something especially humiliating under the influence of the drug. He shifted under his blankets.

As a child, he had had a tendency to talk too much, something that had been noted in the security report on his drunken adventure as a habit that reoccurred when intoxicated.

He also hadn’t been alone with anyone in a long time. Especially someone who looked like this. He was alone with someone, unsupervised. He was unsupervised, he was…he was on his own.

Greg twitched, his thoughts crowding together, leaving him breathless for a moment until he tried to focus, to think on what exactly it all meant, on what he was to do.

“Som man reder, så ligger man,”he said out loud, saw what could have been disbelief in the other man’s face. He was probably confused. Greg was a little confused too, but, “You made your bed, now lie in it,” he translated softly and gaped when that made the man laugh, a short, pleased laugh, like that was the last thing he had expected to hear from Greg. When the sound died away, Greg tried a smile, wishing he could make the man laugh again.

“Feeling better, huh?” The man nodded, evidently happy to see Greg wasn’t ill, and Greg really wished he could remember what exactly he had done while the drug had been working through his system. The man probably thought he had been drinking. If only.

“They…ah….” He was not experienced with lies of this kind. He glanced around the room and tried to think. “I was feeling…nervous, and some…friends…tried to calm me down by giving me…some medication…” He tried to roll his shoulders like the other man had done, and looked carefully up from under his lashes to see if this was accepted. “I don’t think I reacted well.”

“Really.” Somehow, Greg had a feeling that the flat response was not really a question. The man clenched his jaw again, and narrowed his eyes to stare hard at him. Greg tried to widen his eyes, the way that always worked with his Nana when he was younger. “Well…” and Greg again had the feeling that the man wanted to say something else, that his pause was deliberate, but his experience with Americans was limited mostly to politicians and maybe he was wrong. “…That explains that at least.”

One square hand fell down to a pocket of the man’s pants—jeans. There was a rectangular outline, like a phone or perhaps a box of cigarettes, but though his hand hovered there, he didn’t reach into his pocket. After a long moment, he moved his hand away.

Greg took a breath so he could look up into those concerned eyes and try again. “I must have wandered away from my…tour.”

“Your tour.” The same flat response, and to that the man added one raised eyebrow. Then he stared, just stared at Greg and crossed his arms while he leaned against his plain white wall in his American home and pretended to be a cop from American TV. Greg twitched his nose, made a face. He tried to escape from the watchful eyes of his servants and ended up with someone just as protective. It was almost funny.

But he didn’t laugh because it was also really, really depressing, and because the man was still giving him that look. His Papa Olaf—Olaf the Fourth—had invented and perfected that look. It was almost as effective on this man. Greg tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. So he waited, lifting his chin a little when the man didn’t say anything.

“I only meant to be out for a few hours.” He confessed in a rush, using a partial truth for distraction. “I’m…I’m sorry, if I inconvenienced you or…” He coughed and bowed his head in what he hoped was a believable apology. He did mean it, he really was sorry it had turned out like this. “It was very nice of you.” To take in a stranger off the street, it seemed amazing, unlike everything one saw on the news about this country, about this city. But it must be true, because aside from his dry mouth and the lingering effects of the drug, he did not feel any aches or pains, or see any sign that he had done anything other than sleep on the weird couch-bed.

His mother would have been upset to know just how disappointed Greg was at that.

“I think I would like to get up now.”

He could instantly tell that he had erred a little by saying that, because most people did not announce their intentions, Greg was pretty sure. But the man made no move to help him or to force him to stay, so he carefully scooped the blankets around him and scooted himself to the edge of the mattress, surprised to see his shoes and his belt at the foot of the bed.

“You cold or something?” The amusement in that voice was almost enough to make him glare upward and think fondly about the way no one had ever laughed at him before. Instead, Greg glared at the blanket, still clutched in his fist. He counted to three, not quite closing his eyes, and flung it aside.

He was still dressed. Still in his plain white shirt and his boring grey trousers. He wiggled his toes in his dark socks and then silently wondered if the man was going to think he was childish.

“What kind of tour did you say you were on?” the man asked, and if there were amused crinkles by his eyes, Greg decided to ignore them.

He looked directly into the nice, dark eyes that had haunted his sleep and smiled slowly.

“How do you do?” he said formally and extended his hand. The man frowned, a disturbed line appearing in his forehead, but he stepped forward, taking Greg’s hand.

“How do you do?” His grip was strong. Greg half-hoped his hand would linger, but the man pulled away almost immediately. Greg put his hands politely in his lap and decided it was ridiculous that he didn’t even know his rescuer’s name.

“And you are?” Manners went a long way in bridging gaps, between nations or people. Greg was hardly going to forget a lesson like that, drummed into his head since childhood. But perhaps Nana had been right all along, because the same smile as before split the man’s face, as though Greg kept on surprising him but he didn’t mind. It was as though he liked Greg, and he didn’t even know who he was.

“Stokes, Nick Stokes.”

“Nick Stokes,” Greg repeated. A simple name with nothing behind it. He was bouncing up to a standing position before he could think better of it, but if it was too enthusiastic and undignified, there was nowhere there who seemed to care. The man—Nick—straightened up from the wall. “You have no idea how happy I am to meet you.”

He must have been grinning, but Nick Stokes was grinning back, holding still as though he was waiting. Greg ducked his head for one second, and then watched Nick carefully with his head still down.

“You may call me Greg,” he announced, curious about the flash of something in Nick’s dark gaze. Something that made his face shine like it had before, red and glowing. It made Greg’s heart beat faster, but Nick cleared his throat and blinked and the look in his eyes vanished.

“Greg, huh?” he asked, and he seemed almost teasing. He rubbed at his neck, his fingers moving to stroke across his throat, and then he looked up, his mouth parting slightly, his breath quick. “I…I suppose you’ll want to...ah, freshen up…Y—Greg.” He bobbed his head, his hair shaved close to his head but still sleek and dark. Greg curled his fingers into his palms and nodded in return. He made himself look back down at his wrinkled clothing, the strange oily looking stain on one sleeve, the way his shirt had been unbuttoned down to his waist to reveal his thin undershirt.

“You can shower or…” Nick waved a hand in the air at “or”, leaving Greg to wonder what else he might do, what Nick expected him to do.

“A shower sounds great.”

“Great!” Nick practically jumped on the idea. He pointed behind him, down the hall. “You do what you have to do, and when you’re done I’ll take you back, just like I promised.”

Greg took a step, then stopped, trying to think of when that promise had occurred. His mind remained blank, so he sighed.

“I suppose I should go back,” he agreed quietly and glanced up in time to see the warm look of understanding on Nick’s face, the uncomfortable way he moved aside so Greg could walk past him. Greg didn’t turn around, but felt the way Nick watched him until he reached the end of the hall, and the small bathroom.

Nick couldn’t help looking over at the guy in his passenger seat, even though sooner or later the kid…the prince…Greg…was going to notice him staring. His nose was practically pressed to the glass right now so he could study everything and everyone on the street, but Nick knew he was being obvious, and decided to play it off as lingering concern for the guy’s health if he was asked.

On the other hand, the guy had to be used to a lot of attention on him. Maybe he no longer noticed the watching eyes.

A prince. Jesus. Nick still didn’t quite believe that one. That a prince had passed out on his sofa-bed. That a prince—the secretly misplaced prince of Norway that Nick should have been out there looking for right now—was sitting in his truck and wearing his clothes. The wrinkled pants and shirt from last night were rolled up in a ball in his lap, and Nick tried not to look at those either, or to remember his shock at seeing Greg emerge from his bathroom, flushed and damp and wearing a thin, sleeveless t-shirt and a towel.

It had taken Nick way too long to make his eyes go up to where they should have been in the first place, and even longer to understand what the pri…what Greg had been trying to politely request. That was even weirder, that a prince would want to wear Nick’s boxers.

And he was not thinking about that right now. He was driving, and he was keeping his eyes on the road. They were on the outskirts of Vegas, heading in from Nick’s house in the suburbs. He should be paying attention to his driving now, not letting his eyes drift down to the dark blue jeans, or move up to the baggy black t-shirt and dark blue blazer the pr…Greg had pulled from his closet.

It was Nick’s fault for that too. If he could have he would have closed his eyes. But he tightened his hands on the wheel and wished he was back in his kitchen for that one long moment, that things were different.

He’d had his face in his refrigerator, not really looking for anything on one hand, wondering if he had anything fit to feed a prince on the other. His fridge had been empty anyway, and there had been no way he could have cooked anything with his cell phone like a hot brick in his pocket. He was so dead.

That he ought to call Grissom had been his only thought for those first few minutes, and then Prince Gregory had woken up and rolled over to stare at him and even though he clearly didn’t remember much of anything from last night—or what he had done in his sleep that morning—he had still been so calm, surprisingly cool about everything. Gracious, like royalty only was in the movies.

But there was no mistaking the face he had seen on the news, the combed down hair, the same suit, the way he had responded when Nick had called him by the form of address that that Ms. Andserdatter had used. “Your Royal Highness…You may call me Greg.”

Nick felt his face heating, and lowered his window to let the morning breeze hit his cheeks. He could still feel the hot little swipe of Greg’s tongue on his skin, even though he doubted the guy had known what he was doing, or who he was doing it to.

By all rights, his clothes shouldn’t even have fit. The prince had at least an inch on him, and was built on skinnier lines. Not thin, but sort of wiry…Nick had seen the strength from those gyms visits in his arms, in his bare legs. He had shaved too, judging from the scent around him, he’d smelled like Nick’s shaving lotion, and Nick had thought faintly that he had hardly needed it; his skin still looked baby-soft. His brown hair had been wet as well, sticking out in all directions, and Nick must have stared, because Greg had self-consciously smoothed it all down before expressing his concern about clean clothing. So Nick had murmured something—he still wasn’t sure what—letting the prince basically run free in his closet.

He couldn’t even say he minded, not even when Greg had taken half an hour to pick what he was wearing now. All the grey, apparently, had not been Greg’s choice. He was all dark blues and blacks and patterns that really should not have gone together. He still had on his old-fashioned shoes, but somehow they worked with the blazer. And everything was just baggy enough to keep reminding Nick that the other man was wearing his clothes.

Which was maybe why when Greg had come out his bedroom, his smile uncertain, Nick had pushed out a breath and grabbed his keys and suggested they should stop and get some coffee on their way. Anything just to keep moving. It wasn’t like he’d known that the mention of coffee would make the guy light up like a kid on Christmas morning, or that seeing anyone that honestly delighted at the thought of a simple cup of coffee had make Nick put his foot hard on the gas and head to the coffee shop a little farther from his house then the one he normally went to, to the one that actually made coffee right.

He was so dead. If Grissom didn’t fire him, Ecklie would make sure he never got a good job again. Nick shut his mouth hard and stared firmly at the road ahead. But right on cue, Greg took his eyes off the world outside to turn back and reach for the iced coffee sitting the cupholder between them. He sucked on the straw for a second, closing his eyes for a moment like he was still dreaming. It should have been an innocent picture, just a guy enjoying his coffee, and the fact that it wasn’t meant that Nick was in serious trouble.

Nick cleared his throat and Greg opened his eyes. He slurped up the last of his coffee and set the cup down.

“Thank you again, Mr. Stokes. You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve been allow…since I last had coffee.”

Which made Nick almost wish he had “accidentally” tossed the Blackberry off the balcony last night. But the device was probably in the lab with Archie by now, the details of the prince’s life, including his diet and his supposed nerves, being downloaded and scrutinized. Nick felt his own coffee resting heavily in his stomach.

“You…uh…said something about being sick. You aren’t feeling sick now, are you?”

“I did?” Greg’s expression clouded, obviously still not remembering anything about the night before. Nick wondered what exactly Grissom had found in that blue water bottle. Even if it seemed the prince had known he was being drugged, his staff had been oddly reluctant to mention it. But Greg was shrugging it off and putting a hand over his chest, blinking at some realization. “I don’t feel sick.” His bright eyes were wide, looking at Nick so gratefully that Nick wished he had eaten something to go with his coffee, all the milk churning in his gut. He was going to be sick if Greg thanked him one more time.

“I’ll make sure your money and your clothes get back to you.” Greg patted his pocket—the pocket of Nick’s jeans—where he had a little piece of paper with Nick’s address on it. Back at the coffee shop he had insisted on getting Nick’s address. Nick had scribbled it on a napkin as he had been paying for the drinks, trying not to feel like a guy on date but blushing anyway.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nick said again, meaning it, and saw Greg’s foot twitching on the floor. His hand moved, sliding down the window on his side, and then he was leaning partly out the window, grinning at the wind on his face.

Despite himself, Nick smiled a little to see that, the joy the guy was getting from something so simple. So he made himself try to remember if they used Euros in Norway. Then he started wondering how much trouble Greg was going to get into for this, worrying his family and his staff. Obviously they were worried if they had called in the police for someone gone less than an hour. Even if they were way too overprotective, it was probably only out of love.

Nick thought of Ms. Andersdatter. Or maybe not. He shivered the way he had only ever done before when he’d thought about Crane. It wasn’t something he really liked to think about; those eyes watching him in his twisted version of love and friendship.

They entered the city proper, tall hotels suddenly rising up in the landscape, and just like that, the kid sat back in his seat and straightened up. He was still observing everything with round, hungry eyes, but he rolled up his window, controlled the movements of his hands.

“You never told me what hotel you were staying in…” Nick broke the silence and nearly winced when Greg’s head came down, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I found you near Caesar’s.”

“Why were you there?” Greg asked immediately, and even though Nick knew a distraction when he heard one, he went along with it anyway, probably for the same reason he wasn’t driving so fast anymore.

“I was there playing cards with a guy from work.”

“Gambling?” Greg’s head whipped around, and judging from his stare he was imagining something from his novels, like James Bond. Nick shrugged.

“Poker. Nothing big. You’ve never gambled, huh?” He knew the answer, but still Greg managed the look of surprise so perfectly that if Nick hadn’t known the truth, he would have believed that Greg was just another college-age kid, in town to live it up. The guy was clever, and he was getting better at avoiding the truth.

The really weird thing was, Nick should have been angry at the lies, but he wasn’t. It was hard to be angry when he was doing the same thing. And he could guess the reasons for them because he already knew about the reality.

When Greg shook his head and actually looked wistful at the idea of losing money to casinos, Nick couldn’t help himself. “Then why are you in Vegas?”

“A conference.” Greg froze the moment the words left his mouth. Then he nodded his head and went on smoothly. “I’m in town for the technology convention.”

“Is that what you do?” Nick wasn’t sure what had gotten into him. All he had to do was make sure the prince was okay and that he got back to his people and everyone would get what they wanted. The prince safely returned meant the case was closed as far as CSI was concerned. Instead he was encouraging the prince’s little fantasy that he was someone ordinary when anyone just had to look at him to see how extraordinary he was. Nobody else would have woken up in a strange man’s house, in his bed, and sat up and calmly asked, “How do you do?” Those manners would have done Nick’s mother proud, but they were rare in this day and age, in this town.

“In a way…” Greg trailed off. “What do you do? You don’t have to work today?” He looked over at Nick, who was struggling to keep his face normal.

“I’m an analyst,” he said at last, just as vague. “They call me in when they need me.’ Which was possibly the biggest bullshit answer on the planet, but for whatever reason the prince seemed to accept it.

“You must be very good,” the prince said it as though there wasn’t any doubt in his mind, and Nick turned onto the Strip, using the excuse of driving to not make eye contact. But then Greg sat up straight, looking far ahead with his brows drawn together. “You can stop in front of the lake,” he pointed toward the Bellagio?, still frowning. “I’ll be fine from there.”

Nick opened his mouth, thinking that it was possible that he was frowning too, that he definitely wasn’t smiling anymore. He nodded even if the prince didn’t seem to notice, and moved over a lane. The lights stopped them for a long time, but Nick couldn’t think of anything to say, and he guessed Greg couldn’t either. He shifted uncomfortably as he pulled up to the curb outside the artificial lake, ignoring the honks from the people behind him.

It was when Greg took a deep breath that Nick realized he had been staring down at his hands on the steering wheel. He looked up and Greg held out his hand, inclining his head.

“You are a very nice man, Mr. Stokes.” He waited, blinking, and Nick licked his lips before putting out his hand in return. Greg’s touch was hot, dry, and then it was gone as the prince opened the door and slid out of his seat. He smiled, the kind of distant smile people normally only got from bank managers and politicians. Nick nodded as Greg—the prince—closed the door and started walking away.

The honking behind him was getting louder, so Nick slowly pulled away from the curb. He kept an eye on the small figure in his mirror, watching Greg walk past the lake without seeming to see it. He reached another red light as he was watching and sat back, knowing how long the traffic lights took. He could at least watch the prince head into the casino.

Only he didn’t. Nick held his breath when the kid walked right on past the Bellagio, past the lake, past the entrance, with no sign of stopping. And then cars were honking again so he went forward, pulling over as soon as he could to watch the slim figure wearing his clothes as he stopped at the corner of one block, looking around for a long moment before heading toward and then completely past the Monte Carlo. He handed his bundle of clothes to a shabby-looking street vendor and just kept on walking.

“Dammit!” Nick yelled at the inside of his truck and he didn’t care. Rubbing his eyes didn’t do a damn thing either. Because the prince he had somehow ended up babysitting was not going where he was supposed to go, and he was heading toward places most tourists didn’t really belong, and somehow Nick didn’t think the guy had a lot of experience with everyday people, much less the people from Las Vegas. “Damn.” He whispered it this time and turned the truck around, getting back into traffic and trying to keep watching where the prince had gone.

Minutes later he was cruising slowly down a small sidestreet, looking quickly left and right until he found Greg, walking slowly past small motels and cheap apartment buildings, staring into them with open curiosity. Nick ground his teeth together, slowing down enough to stay behind him, almost choking when Greg stopped outside a pawn shop.

Just like that he slipped inside, and Nick had to park and wait for him to emerge. The watch, Nick guessed unhappily when Greg came out smiling. His Royal Highness over there was planning some other adventure. And he was better liar than Nick had given him credit for being, but Nick could hardly just admit to following him here without admitting the truth, or seeming like a complete creep.

Greg kept on walking, more idly this time, crossing the street and heading back toward the Strip, and Nick got the feeling that he didn’t really have a destination in mind. The guy just wanted to be out away from those people for a while, in the city that was supposed to let him do that. Vegas promised people whatever they wanted and even though no one ever really got that, the prince was the one man who wouldn’t get the chance to even pretend.

But Nick couldn’t just let him go, so he followed him for a while longer, watching him stop and talk to every single person selling stolen or illegal crap on the street, even the ones offering hookers, though those made the prince grin and shake his head. Nick just exhaled in relief. Greg didn’t even pause for very long outside of one strip club, one of the seedier ones that couldn’t compete with the big shiny places further up the Strip.

Then his face lit up so brightly that Nick could see it from across the street, and when Nick looked up to see what had him so excited, Greg had already stepped inside of a barber shop. The shop was right next to a tattoo and piercing parlor, the kind of place that drunken tourists regretted walking into, and Nick felt that rumbling in his stomach again.

He was so dead. He took out his phone, considered, then put it back. He could go in, or he could be cool and sit here and wait. A haircut couldn’t cause Norway irreparable harm. Hair could always grow back. And anyway, Nick reasoned with an imaginary Grissom, chin up, Greg was twenty-five if the news had been right. He was old enough to choose his own hairstyle.

But Nick was definitely fidgeting as he waited. He turned on the radio, but the prince being missing still seemed to be a secret, so he turned it off. He tapped the wheel, checked his messages—nothing from Grissom. He swallowed his guilt and decided that when the haircut was over he was going to take Greg back to his hotel and that was it. The fantasy had gone on long enough.

A man in a dark blue jacket walked out the barber shop, and Nick blinked. “Oh man.” He should have guessed from that music.

His hands fumbled with his keys as he started the truck, not willing to take his eyes off the other man, not even for a second.

Up. The prince had had his hair done to stick up, as a whole, not in the usual punk spikes, all of it in disarray. The kind of carefully disheveled style that models wore to look sexy and sell lingerie, to make a man want to run his hands through silky, short hair and draw them closer.

He ignored his hot face, focusing on the rest of it, how it had been cut shorter and dyed—no, bleached—with streaks of honey blonde, and while it wasn’t exactly a Mohawk, Nick didn’t think Ms. Andersdatter was going to be pleased.

If Nick grinned a little to himself at that, at least no one could see.

It sort of put him in mind of plumage, like a Bird of Paradise in brown and gold. It looked like it would still be soft to the touch, just as it had this morning. Nick shook his head, gripping the wheel a bit tighter, and when the prince thankfully walked right past the tattoo parlor, he started the truck.

Outside the New York, New York, Greg paused, staring with his head to one side at the plastic-looking copy of the New York skyline. He had probably been to the real thing, Nick thought. He had probably seen all of it, Paris, Venice, Greece and Rome, Tuscany, all the places the hotels on the Strip tried to be. He probably thought it was ridiculous, like the Excalibur castle. Hell, the guy probably lived in a castle. He pulled into the casino’s crowded front entrance when Greg jerked his head in some sort of nod and walked toward the bank of doors welcoming people in from the street.

Even by the casino there were parking attendants, and Nick handed over his keys in a hurry; the cost wouldn’t matter if he lost sight of the prince right now. He stopped dead once inside, blinking at the darkened space, the wave of cold air, trying to scan over thousands of heads for the dark blue jacket, the brown and gold crown. He saw rows and rows of slots, crowds of people, glittering red apples hanging from the ceiling, but no prince.

“Shit.” His record today was not good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sworn this much, or felt half as sick as he did now, thinking of that naïve kid, out in a big, bad city like Vegas all alone, with no one to keep an eye on him. And Grissom…what was Grissom going to say when…

“Mr. Stokes?” Nick’s heart just about jumped into his throat at the sound of the prince’s voice, and the following careful touch to his shoulder. The touch was withdrawn as he looked over and saw Greg smiling widely at him, looking surprised and happy and not even the slightest bit suspicious. Nick swallowed, pushing his heart right back down to where it was supposed to be.

“Greg!” He tried to sound just as surprised. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.” Which might have been the point of that hair now that he thought about it, but Greg put a hand up amid the bright strands and his smile turned pleased. Whatever the barber shop had used had left it soft after all, not a tangle to be seen. He stroked slowly through it with his fingers, obviously still getting used to it.

“You like it?” Greg worried, and Nick made himself lean to one side, squinting and studying the hair seriously while his pulse slowed to normal. Maybe his stare wasn’t as intimidating as he’d thought, because Greg’s mouth turned up, just as slow as the fingers in his hair. Nick made himself look down.

“I thought I dropped you at the Bellagio…” He said pointedly a moment later, forcing his eyes back up. The smile dropped—slightly—from Greg’s face. He lowered his head and gave Nick another one of his appraising, sideways looks. Trying to see what he could get away with, Nick guessed, wondering where he had learned it, if it was how he got any concessions at all from that Ms. Andersdatter. Nick stood it for a few seconds and then glanced away before he gave in to his urge to just tell the prince everything.

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth before…” Greg murmured at last, beating Nick to the chance to confess. Nick met his gaze, unthinking, and then went still. The blond highlights seemed to make Greg’s eyes lighter, revealing hints of green. Those highlights weren’t exactly pink, he decided faintly, and they weren’t like that Seacrest guy on TV either—which was fine with Nick because that guy was annoying as hell—and streaks were a pretty harmless rebellion, especially for a prince.

“Oh yeah?” Nick jerked his attention abruptly back to the situation, when he realized how easily he had caved just from looking into the guy’s eyes, scowling a little at first, and then outright staring when Greg added to his growing list of BS.

“The tour I’m with…” Greg shrugged deliberately. Nick’s eyebrows went up. “They are very strict…with my schedule. And I wanted to see a little of your town.” Nick blinked and decided Greg was royalty all right—the king of bull. “It was only to be for a few hours,” Greg went on, with what was probably the only directly statement of the bunch. “Why are you here?” he added, turning the tables just as easily as he lied.

Nick ran hand over his head, hoping he wasn’t too red from his frantic run in here. “I had some business in the area.” He could dissemble just as well as any prince, or better than anyone at the lab thought at least. He stuck his chin out. “I thought I’d grab some lunch here.”

“Lunch?” Greg lifted his arm to look at a watch that wasn’t there. He met Nick’s eyes at that and then looked away. Nick grinned and didn’t care if Greg saw him or not, but Greg’s gaze slid back, innocent. “It’s still early.”

“You obviously don’t know what town you’re in. It’s whatever you want, whenever you want it,” Nick pointed out, still grinning and it should have felt silly except that the prince was grinning now too, as though Nick had just told him something very important.

“So you want lunch?” The prince leaned toward him so suddenly that Nick almost took a step back. He held still as they shared a breath. “Please allow me to buy your lunch,” Greg offered formally and for a moment Nick could have been back in his living room, staring at a sleepy-eyed prince wishing him a good morning. He opened his mouth, but Greg didn’t give him a chance. Maybe it was the coffee, but the guy was almost bouncing in place. “…To repay your kindness.”

“You really don’t owe me anything…” Nick pulled his hand away from his neck and tried to think of a distraction. “I didn’t do anything that anybody else wouldn’t have done.”

“But they didn’t,” Greg told him seriously. “And I…” He paused, putting a hand to his stomach. Then he blinked and Nick just knew he was grinning again at the plain amazement on that face. “I’m starving,” Greg confessed in hushed tones, looking around between the flashing lights and fake yellow taxis as though food were going to appear out of nowhere for him.

Nick didn’t even want to think about that one.

He sighed and shook his head and then found himself waving a hand toward the second floor mezzanine. “There’s a place up there, serves almost anything.” Not the greatest place, but it would do on whatever the guy had left in his pocket. Nick could bring him back just as well full as hungry. Get him something halfway decent before he was back to tea and toast and old men’s clothes.

He followed the dark blue of his own jacket to the escalators and tried to look around for someone who might know him without being too obvious about it, and trying not to think that he had just given in to a set of excited eyes, again.


~~~~~~


Greg wasn’t bothering to hide his staring, taking a bite from his “well-done Texas-size cheeseburger with everything” without looking at his plate, or even the man eating with him. Which was not something he would have thought possible yesterday, because his food was greasy and fattening and delicious, and because fate had given him a few more moments with his American rescuer, who was much more worthy of study than the depiction of the fifty American states on the walls behind him.

Each state had things stuck to it, but instead of geographical features there were cows and wheels of cheese and, in California, a large copy of the Golden Gate bridge. He could feel Nick Stokes glance at him as he had already a few times since their food had arrived. If he looked over Nick would move his eyes back to his own burger.

He thought maybe he was supposed to start the conversation, talk about something. He even opened his mouth once or twice, but he couldn’t think of what to say. He could thank Nick again, but that seemed to irritate the other man. He wasn’t about to tell him about his life, not at all, or what he wished had really happened that morning, and had considered while in Nick’s shower, which was probably against some sort of etiquette rule that Grethe had never bothered to tell him about. Not that he was ever, ever, ever going to talk to her about his intimate showering habits.

That left his trade relations speech. And no one wanted to hear that.

Greg frowned and slid his eyes down to the people at the other tables around them, and he watched the family with the two children and the baby in the stroller for a few seconds, picking up what was left of his chocolate milkshake.

The sound of his slurps as he sucked up the last bit in the glass made him stop and look across the table at Nick. He ducked his head slightly as he felt his cheeks heating and then he pushed the glass far from him.

“It was good,” he said defensively, maybe too defensively, but then Nick’s mouth curved in almost a reluctant grin, and he was shaking his head without saying a word. There was something about his grin that made Greg want to smile back, so he did, because he was doing what he wanted to today. He couldn’t forget that. Whatever he wanted. He stuck his tongue out a bit and Nick coughed on the slice of pickle he’d been eating. “You’re just jealous. You should have gotten one.”

“No. No thank you.” Nick took a long drink of water and wiped at his eyes. No milkshake. No French fries. No mayonnaise. Nick was very particular about what he ate. Greg studied him through his eyelashes and then flicked his gaze away. “And you’ll be lucky if all of that doesn’t make you sick.”

“I’m not sick. I feel…” Greg hesitated, looking around him at all the people in the restaurant who were not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. Then he looked at Nick, who had been watching over him for hours. He smiled on his own. “So far, today has been….awesome.” Awesome. The word was right.

“Awesome, huh?” Nick repeated after a pause and stared down at his half-finished cheeseburger. The tips of his ears were turning a shade of pink that Greg had never seen before. He almost reached out to see if they were warm to the touch, but he didn’t think that whatever he wanted today would be what Mr. Stokes wanted too, unfortunately. So he took another bite of his cheeseburger though his stomach was feeling stuffed as it was.

It was quiet for what felt like a long time. Greg shifted in his seat, then swallowed and tried to explain. “I mean that…this town has been more welcoming than I expected and…” He had embarrassed Nick with his stupid mouth, saying too much. “I like it here,” he finished, and felt like an idiot. He tore off another bite of his cheeseburger and made himself chew slowly. It had onions. He’d missed onions.

“Vegas welcomes anyone with money to spend,” Nick finally spoke, and if he was annoyed it wasn’t in his voice. But he was shrugging, his movements short and tense. He looked at Greg, frowning a warning. “Money to lose. They all believe the hype and go a little crazy. The tourists, I mean. You wouldn’t believe the trouble they get themselves into. Vegas to them means Sin City, the place to act like an ass without consequences.”

“Maybe.” No matter how much he might wish otherwise, Greg didn’t know anything about that, going crazy, but this town had an economy based on tourism. Of course it would promise anything to bring them here. He put down his food and leaned back in his chair. Nick had shut his mouth tight and had clenched his jaw, as though he wanted to say more. Greg’s hand came up to touch the bleached strands of his new hair. “You live here but you don’t like it?” he wondered and could have slapped a hand over his mouth. Grethe’s hands would have been itching to do it for him.

“I like it here fine.” Nick’s accent grew stronger as his appetite seemed to fade. He left the remnants of his food where they were and wiped his hands on the napkin he brought up from his lap. “I love my job. I have friends, a nice house…” He was as defensive as Greg had been moments ago. “I just…” he trailed off with a heavy sigh when Greg put his hands up. Greg let them fall on the table between them, then slid them back to his lap when he saw how close he was to touching the other man’s hands. Nick didn’t seem to notice.

“Wait…” Nick narrowed his eyes and Greg found himself under that same surprised, suspicious glare he had gotten that morning. He twitched, sitting up. But there was only Nick to see him, so he leaned back, even slouching a little. “You’re telling me that you like…all this?” Nick spoke slowly, and when he leaned his head to one side, the inquisitive look on his face softened.

Greg nodded. He waved around them, at the ugly three-dimensional map of the United States, and the family with the baby, and at Nick. “People are the same everywhere.” He licked his lower lip and knew he was frowning. “I used to wonder if everyone was looking for moments of freedom…” Or if he had only been him, but he didn’t want to say that part out loud. Nick continued to watch him, and it was probably only in Greg’s imagination that his eyes were warm with understanding. “But I know now that most people just want to be happy, even if it’s only for a little while.”

He had been babbling again. Greg sucked in a breath and then shut his mouth firmly. Nick’s jaw was still clenched tight, Greg could see when he darted a glance up, but he was blinking. Greg looked back down. He wasn’t going to explain anymore. He sounded foolish when he tried to explain. However…

“And by everywhere, you mean…?” Nick’s soft, calm question brought his attention back up in a hurry, and Greg sucked in a breath at the way Nick was waiting on his response, apparently not bothered at all by his need to over explain.

“I do a lot of traveling for my work,” he answered quickly, his voice level.

“So Vegas doesn’t seem…silly to you?” Nick seemed interested in his opinion. His real opinion. He was leaning in, his arms crossed in front of him, and Greg tried not to let his attention fall the watch the muscles play in his arms. But if he kept his gaze up, there were Nick’s dark eyes steady on him, curious, and Nick’s mouth holding in breath, his face still warm and pink.

Life was unfair, putting things he wanted finally almost within reach like this. Greg sighed, then jerked his head up, meeting Nick’s eyes squarely.

“The casinos and the theme hotels, I mean…” Nick was talking very slowly. Greg realized that when Nick had leaned in, he must have moved to match him. They were much closer than they had been. As close as they could have been last night, when he had done whatever it was that Nick still found so secretly amusing. He thought that he could go on amusing Nick for a long time before he even got truly annoyed. He considered that in the back of his mind. It would be very undignified of him.

He burped.

It was strong enough to make him jump, and he pulled back, putting distance between them right as Nick’s lips fell open, softening as though Greg had definitely startled him. Greg smiled sheepishly and put a hand to his stomach, which maybe wasn’t as fully recovered as he had hoped. “Sorry.” Really, he was. Onions.

“Nice.” There were crinkles at the corners of Nick’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything else about it as he leaned back in his seat and inclined his head. “You were saying…” he murmured, his voice low and inviting, and Greg shivered. They were just having lunch, he reminded himself, lunch and he would never get to see this man again.

“I like your hotels. I only saw them from the car, but so far I see…opportunity in them.” That didn’t seem right, but it was the word he wanted. Nick was frowning thoughtfully.

“Opportunity?”

“Opportunity.” Greg nodded, looking around them again, listening to the happy screams from the floor above them, the loud rumbling that seemed to shake the whole building. “They are here as a family.” He pointed to people with the baby, noticing that they were having milkshakes too. “They’re not.” He waved at two men coming out of the bar at the other end of the same strip of restaurants. Nick turned to look at them, and quirked his lips at the hooting sounds that followed them out which almost distracted Greg enough to ask why. “Your town has so many chances, the world captured in a small version on one street, for the taking.” He was waving his hands in no particular direction now, talking too much, but Nick wasn’t stopping him. “You have Paris and Venice and New York…I’ve never… They may never get the chance to visit those places.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Nick interrupted quietly, and Greg shook his head.

“It’s incredible. So much of life packed into such a small area. So much to experience they must be open all day and night just to give you a glimpse. It’s a chance for them… Even if it’s a lie, even though it won’t last. Tomorrow they will have to go back to their lives…tomorrow they are only going to have the memory of this.” He stopped, breathing too hard. He forced himself to smile across at Nick. “I’m being a dork.” The word almost tripped off his tongue, almost sounded natural. He shrugged to back it up.

Nick was still staring at him. Greg put his hands around his cup and brought it back for one last, loud slurp. He licked the chocolate off his lips when he was done.

“Yeah, I can see how you’re really living it up there, Mr. Milkshake.” Nick spoke at last, so seriously that Greg frowned, trying to determine the meaning of the strange name until he realized Nick was teasing him. He should have frowned in return. Instead he flashed his teeth and raised his eyebrows.

“That wasn’t just any milkshake.” He tried to find any traces left around his mouth with his tongue and when there weren’t any he looked sadly at his glass.

“Best you’ve ever had, huh?” Nick put his napkin over his cheeseburger, pushing his plate away slightly.

“No, the best was when I was five,” Greg answered, taking his eyes off Nick and watching the couples come up the escalators, snapping pictures. No one paid any attention to him. His sigh was happy. “Papa Olaf—my grandfather—took me for a walk and bought me one from an ice cream vendor. He liked to walk among… He liked to walk around and he took me with him.”

“Papa Olaf?” Nick asked and they both went still at the low buzzing sound coming from below the table. Nick’s brows came down, and then in sudden decision he sat back and pulled a phone from the pocket of his jeans.

“Stokes.” He answered the call abruptly and even though he was still staring at Greg, Greg looked away, studying the stupid map of the United States on the wall. The big one, down at the bottom. That was Texas. It had a cow on it. No, it was a bull. Greg wrinkled his nose.

Nick was listening to someone with a deep, rich voice. After a few moments he answered. “Yeah, well you didn’t meet her.” The voice went on, and Nick’s eyes crinkled. Greg realized he was staring and went back to looking at Texas. “Oh, you did. Sara too huh? That would have been worth seeing.” Nick was definitely amused, about some woman and some other woman named Sara. Greg turned his eyes to his cold, unappetizing Texas-size cheeseburger with everything.

But then Nick wasn’t laughing anymore, and he wasn’t looking at Greg. He turned partly to the side and lowered his voice a fraction when the person calling him went on. “No trail, huh?” Nick’s hand ran through his hair. Greg eyed that, glad now that when he’d asked for shorter hair, styled up, he hadn’t gotten it shaved, not that he didn’t like the silky shine of Nick’s hair, or imagined that it was soft to the touch, how it would brush against his palms as he held Nick’s head just so…

He coughed and widened his eyes when Nick glanced briefly at him.

It was just that he preferred his new style for himself, no matter what Grethe was going to say. It wasn’t as though he had gone out and taken a thousand pills and gotten celebrities pregnant and had illicit photos taken while doing the last two.

His stomach gurgled, and he scowled. He was not going to think about Grethe or Christian. Not yet.

“That’s a lot of camera footage.” The voice on the phone got a little louder at that. “Doubles?” Nick was trying to seem sympathetic, or at least Greg thought so. He wondered if Nick was going to get called in, as he’d mentioned earlier. “But I’m still out? Oh, so she specifically requested that I…”

Nick coughed and his eyes flicked back to Greg again. Greg hurriedly looked up as the rumbling overhead went past them again.

“Drugged, hmm? She claims he knew? I had a feeling…” Nick was still watching him. The noise stopped and Greg dropped his head to meet his gaze. “I bet Brass loved that one.” There was more low-voiced explanation that Greg couldn’t make out. “No way, man. I’m staying out until Gris calls me back. Hey,” he went on when the man on the phone laughed. “I know better than to try to argue with a lady.”

“I should go,” Greg burst out suddenly. He half stood up, then realized he still had his napkin in his lap. He sat down with a thump and picked it up to stare sadly on the brown stains of barbecue sauce. Then he looked down to make sure he hadn’t gotten any on his borrowed pants.

He had taken up enough of the man’s time already. And the last thing he wanted was for Nick to remember him as the man that he’d had to rescue and then who had gotten barbecue sauce on his pants, because even if they were blue jeans, it might stain. He’d have to make sure to send enough money for a new pair, just in case. Maybe with a note, though he couldn’t think of what to say that wouldn’t make him even more of a dork. And…

“Yes, I’m actually out. No, I’m not with a girl.” Nick just sounded annoyed now, which snapped Greg’s spiraling mind away from stains and the terrifying possibility of correspondence. “Volunteered to go check out the strip clubs? Archie too? Right.” Nick drew out that last word, and Greg darted another look over at him. He put his napkin on the table as Nick had and put a hand on the table to leave.

“You’re busy,” he whispered and whatever the man Nick was talking to said made Nick duck his head and give Greg an embarrassed grin.

“I have to go,” Nick said shortly and Greg could hear the laughter coming through the phone even as Nick snapped it closed.

“Buddy from work.” Nick dismissed the call and put his phone back in his pocket. After a moment he pulled it back out and frowned. It chimed as he turned it off; the noise he made clearing his throat didn’t quite cover the sound.

“I really should…um…” he started right as Nick spoke too. Greg shut his mouth.

“You know,” Nick began conversationally, as though his call had never happened. “You don’t seem nervous to me.” At that, Greg blinked and tried to think of exactly what Nick was talking about. Then he remembered earlier that morning, prevaricating just a little about how he had ended up incapacitated the night before. Nervous, he had said. “In fact, you seem remarkably calm. Dorky…” Nick threw out right as Greg was beginning to smile. “But…calm, considering everything. And that weird hair suits you.”

Greg sank down in his seat and glared at him. He didn’t think it was weird at all. But his glaring, strangely, made Nick smile.

“It would be hard to imagine what kind of people think you have any problems... Well, serious problems anyway.”

Greg opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Not a single thing. “I…” he started. “I…” And floundering wasn’t a good idea either, sitting here with his mouth open like an idiot when someone had just given him something so incredible. He sat up and, since it was what he was supposed to do, he inclined his head graciously. “Thank you.”

Nick was giving him a strange look again, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. His eyes traveled over Greg’s new hair, down to the borrowed jacket and t-shirt. Then he shook his head.

“So you have any plans?”

Greg thought perhaps he blinked. Nick seemed to understand his confusion, because he kept talking. “You know…for yourself on your little getaway.”

Plans… Greg thought of a few and then shook his head, trying to act like his stomach wasn’t up in knots at the very idea. He didn’t think it was the milkshake.

“No. No, I just…I thought I’d just wander until…” I got caught. He almost said it but shut his mouth just in time. “No plans. I’m not scheduling a single thing,” he said instead, hitting the table a little with his hand. Nick’s eyes followed the gesture. Very slowly, he nodded.

Nick probably liked to plan. Greg imagined that he was very careful with everything, like he was even with the crazy, drugged strangers he found on the street.

Nick took a sip of his water, and coughed. His hand came up to rub at his neck and then slid upward to run once over his hair.

“You know,” Nick’s voice went up with the question. He cleared his throat roughly and continued. “I’ve lived in Vegas for years, and I’ve never seen what you’re talking about.”

Greg let out a breath, peeking carefully across at Nick because it sounded almost like Nick wanted to come with him. He shouldn’t; if Greg were found out then Nick would know who he really was, and what kind of life he normally lived and he didn’t want the memory of this ruined. If… But the flipside of that was tantalizing. Because Nick didn’t know, and Nick wanted to spend the day with him, just him, being dorky as he called it, and doing the kind of things Greg had barely let himself dream about.

He tried to roll his shoulders, be very calm like Nick had said he was. “I don’t mind company,” he said at last, his voice just above a whisper. His mouth was dry, sticky from the ice cream. He wanted some of Nick’s water, boring and careful though it was. Actually out, Nick had said as though he never got a chance to go out either. “If you won’t think it’s boring.”

“Uh, no.” Nick’s grin was wide and relieved, and Greg thought it was the dark shade of his eyes that made them seem so serious because he mostly seemed to smile. “No, I don’t think I’ll think that at all.” Greg looked away at the slow curve of Nick’s mouth only to swing his gaze back when Nick clapped his hands together. “So what’s up first?”

“Up?” Greg twitched, looked toward the roaring from above.

“It’s your day.” Nick pushed his chair out but didn’t get up. “What do you want to do first?”

“What do I want to do?” Greg repeated. He considered for a long moment, staring at the ugly wall map without seeing it, and then he said it again. “What do I want to do?” He stood up so suddenly his chair scraped against the floor. Nick’s head went up, his eyebrows high. Greg didn’t care, even if it was embarrassing when the chair wobbled and nearly fell over. “I want to do everything,” he declared and jerked his head up when the loud noise returned. “What is that?”

“The rollercoaster on the roof.” Nick’s mouth fell open the second he said the words, whatever he saw on Greg’s face seemed to alarm him. “Oh no. No way.”

“I’ve never been on a rollercoaster.” Greg went on, searching the space around them for the way to the rollercoaster. They were supposed to be frightening and wonderful. His mother would be worried for his safety if she knew he was close to one. It was perfect.

But Nick wasn’t moving. Greg tore his eyes from the stairways marked for the ride and studied the other man.

“You aren’t scared are you?” he wondered and then nodded when Nick went absolutely still. “Oh, I see,” he went on, grinning because he couldn’t help it, and Nick stood up and came over to him. He leaned in, and even though Greg was taller, he had to fight not to move. Not that he wanted to run away; Nick’s breath was soft against his face.

“I am not scared.” Nick insisted, his voice low and his body very close. “I go rock climbing. I go paragliding. Just because I don’t trust some kid working the controls on an old coaster…” he stopped suddenly and Greg swallowed. He tried to frown, tried to look doubtful, anything but out of breath and really, really turned on. It must have worked, because Nick turned abruptly and started marching toward the stairs leading up.

He paused a few feet away, turning back, and Greg realized he was waiting for him.

He jumped forward, not caring at all how undignified it was.

“So…” Greg glanced over at Nick and then swept his eyes over the street around them. There were tourists in front of them, or more tourists, he supposed, since he was a tourist now too. The thought made him walk a little faster. Right until they left the shade of the parking garage where Nick had left his truck, then he almost melted. The sun was the first thing he didn’t like about this town.

“Yeah?” Nick was holding back, slowing down, and Greg just had time to wonder why and then Nick was on the other side of him, between him and the street, and all the lines of people slapping little cards against their hands and waving them at him. Greg had taken the cards advertising women before, not wanting to be rude, but Nick simply shook his head at them without moving any closer. Some of the men in the group ahead of him took some, a few just dropped them on the ground a moment later. The women laughed and looked embarrassed.

It seemed like a messy and inefficient way to advertise, Greg thought distantly, wondering why they didn’t just put ads in the newspaper like the women did back home.

He was trailing behind Nick again and hopped forward, trying to look thoughtfully at the man walking next to him at the same time.

Nick didn’t seem to mind the sun, but he wasn’t wearing a jacket. It was no wonder Nick had been staring at him strangely. It was getting closer to noon and they were in the desert. He would have taken it off, but he had nowhere to put it, no one to hand it to. Funny how that made him walk a little faster again.

Nick kicked irritably at the cards being tossed on the ground and shot an angry look at the tourists ahead of them.

“A Las Vegas tickertape parade.” Greg announced softly as the pictures of half-naked women fluttered to the ground at their feet. He stared at them for a minute and then almost tripped when he saw the size of their breasts. Nick snorted.

“They don’t live here, so they don’t care about making a mess, and that’s without bringing the fact that they’re littering pornography into it…no matter how hot some of the girls might be, it’s just not right.”

Right. Nick thought the girls were hot. Greg slouched for a moment—since he was free to express his displeasure with his posture now that Grethe wasn’t there—then looked ahead to the splashing water fountain and then up, all the way up, to the top of the replica Eiffel Tower.

“You know, the real Eiffel Tower was used to transmit Allied Radio signals during World War II,” Nick volunteered and Greg took his eyes off the spectacle before him to stare until Nick actually ducked his head and smiled sheepishly. “I have a lot of cable channels…” he said, his explanation not making much sense, at least not to Greg. But he smiled anyway. Nick was a dork too.

“Nick…” Greg tried out the name, studying the café outside the Paris hotel, the posters designed to look authentic, pasted to lampposts. There were fountains and flowers and as they turned in the Tower was right above them. People were standing in a loose sort of line, waiting for something, and as he watched, doors slid open to reveal an elevator, and people got off, then some got on, clearly going to the top.

“You wanna go up there?” This suggestion didn’t seem to bother Nick, but Greg thought a moment and shook his head. He wanted to see inside first.

“On our way out?” he asked hopefully, peering sideways at Nick, but Nick just nodded easily. It was amazing. He had thought, after the rollercoaster when Nick had been so obviously afraid that he wouldn’t want to keep going that he definitely wouldn’t want to go to the top of a model Eiffel Tower with him.

His grin crept onto his face even when he tried to fight it. Nick reached the doors first, holding one open for him, and the first blast of chilled air made him whisper his thanks to Trichlorofluoromethane and the inventor of air-conditioning. He put up a hand to his cheek and then dropped it to his arm, where if he tried he could still feel the heat of Nick’s grip.

Nick had started out fine, holding onto the handlebar in front of their car, but the moment the ride had gone up the first big incline, his hand had somehow ended up clutching hard on Greg’s forearm, his fingers sliding down to cover Greg’s hand.

“What exactly is paragliding anyway?” he asked slyly, because Nick could have made that up for all he knew, and Nick stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to give him a tight glare.

“It’s like flying, or gliding, and it’s a damn sight better rush that being strapped into a tiny metal car and nearly dropped off the roof of a building.”

“I thought it was fun.” It was strange how much he wanted to stick his tongue out as he said that. But Nick still hadn’t moved, so he licked his lips, shaking his head instead. He’d offended Nick with his big mouth. He was talking too much.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” Nick scratched his head, and then jutted his chin out stubbornly as though he thought Greg was going to argue with him about it. Greg did think about it, for a whole second. Then he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Want to go again?” he wondered, the apology he had apparently never needed to say disappearing without a trace. Nick’s eyes narrowed.

“No.” His answer was hardly surprising, but nonetheless Greg gave a big sigh, letting Nick see his shoulders slump as he turned around. Then he stopped too, mesmerized by the lights and sounds, chimes of slot machines and voices, and ironwork and trees surrounding it all, and when he looked up, a starry sky like something by Van Gogh.

“Wow.”

“C’mon, Evil Knievel.” If Nick was again making a joke again at his expense, he didn’t care. Nick’s hand touched on his shoulder, pushing him forward. He started moving, switching his head from side to side to watch an old man throwing dice, and then someone younger than he was laying cards on a cloth covered table.

There were fake street signs which made him pause, trying to translate except that he had never needed to learn directions in other languages. Nick just prodded him again, gently.

“Shops, Hotel, or the Casino?” he was asking, but when Greg just stood there, he nodded. “How about the Shops for now, you can walk around all you want.”

The Bellagio had been all muted white light and colored butterflies. The theme had just been a sort of elegance. This was beyond that. This was…Tacky, without being tacky. Nothing in here was real, but he didn’t really care.

“My boss rides coasters all the time,” Nick volunteered a few minutes later as they stepped onto a cobblestone street. “I still don’t see why…”

“I do.” Greg tore his gaze from the fake trees. Nick wasn’t really looking around them at all, and when he raised one eyebrow, Greg felt his face growing warm. He looked away quickly. Someone walked by with a bright green, plastic version of the Tower outside, it was filled with some liquid. He frowned thoughtfully after it. “Do you like your boss?”

Nick’s job, where he spent all his time even though he lived in this city. He was probably very good at his job, very thorough. He took his time answering the way he took his time walking, keeping just a few steps behind Greg as Greg slipped in and out of groups of sightseers to peer in boutique windows. Tanned, elegant women in tight-fitting dresses and plump, red-faced people in t-shirts and shorts, families, boys and girls his age, they all streamed around him. Nobody said anything about how he was staring too much or being too obvious, no one even noticed him at all, except for Nick.

“He’s a brilliant guy, and I’ve learned a lot working with him, but he’s a hard guy to figure out.” Nick spoke softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the crowds around them. Maybe he didn’t want anyone else to hear. Greg glanced over at him.

Nick slid over silently to stand next to him, looking into the shop’s window and blinking a few times. He looked quickly at Greg and whistled, long and slow, his eyes dropping just a bit, almost considering, but that was probably just Greg’s imagination. Greg quickly turned back to the spiked high heeled shoes displayed in front of them, seeing his wide eyes and opened mouth in the glass. He pretended to stare at the shoes for a few more seconds then raised his head, his eyebrows jerking up suggestively.

“You like those, huh?” Nick was smiling, but there weren’t any lines by his eyes, and he turned away, walking a few feet away and leaning against a corner.

“Well, yeah.” It should have been obvious. They were meant for long-legged beautiful models on a runway somewhere, tight leather skirts and hair bigger than his. “Those things are pure sex.” Greg could have swallowed his tongue at how loud he said that last word, especially when Nick didn’t say anything in return. “Or not.” He kept his gaze down for a moment longer instead, hoping he didn’t look too ridiculous. They were sex as far as he knew anyway.

With one last look he left the shoes followed after Nick, trying out a leer in another shop window. It didn’t seem especially attractive, but it wasn’t as though he was going to get a chance to test it, so that didn’t matter. Though soon he would be getting to the point where even Grethe was going to start looking good.

He shuddered.

That was likely the reason he was imagining things now. He ought to forget all about shoes and just focus on what was real and almost too good to be true; the city of Las Vegas his for the taking, at least for today, and he was here, on his own, and having a conversation with someone of his choosing.

There were hundreds of shops around them, lining a miniature French boulevard, a twinkling sky above them. Or at least, it looked like a French boulevard from what he’d seen of them, without the graffiti or the gatherings of angry students.

He dropped the leer and tried a pout, licking his lips and arching his chest out a little just like the catwalk models did. It wouldn’t have the same effect when he did it of course, but it was worth a try if it got him even close to…

“Greg?” Nick’s face was red; Greg could see it in the reflection when he glanced over. Their eyes met and then Nick looked ahead. He almost asked what Nick was imagining, and bit the inside of his lip when he snapped his mouth shut just in time. He tried to remember what they had been talking about before he had gotten distracted by the sex—by the shoes.

“So you don’t understand your boss?” he wondered instead, picturing someone brilliant and distant. He could almost feel them watching, wanting him to measure up, but always with a set of rules he had to follow. And every time he mastered those, they would add more.

He looked up and saw Nick frowning, staring into space, up at the fake sky above them.

“You know, sometimes I just can’t tell if he approves or…” Nick shook his head and focused on Greg. He swallowed, the action taking effort. “And then I wonder why it even matters, because I know I do a good job.” Nick’s voice was thick with frustration, like he could feel the eyes on him too.

If Christian felt those eyes on him, it didn’t seem to bother him. Nothing seemed to bother him anymore. Greg cleared his throat and shook away the thought of his brother, glancing back at Nick.

“Sometimes…” Nick instantly turned to him and Greg trailed off, putting a hand up to his hair nervously. He really didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t know Nick’s boss at all, even if he did sound a little bit like his father. But Nick just continued to look at him, obviously waiting for him to finish. “I was just…sometimes people are hardest on the ones they have the most hope for.” Or so his mother had told him once, right before he had left for Oxford. He could feel her worry sometimes, even thousands of miles away, filtered through Grethe’s scolding. He knew his parents meant well, knew he was doing good for his family and for his country, but sometimes…

“It would be nice to get a little more,” Nick completed his thought as though he could read his mind, and Greg looked over with wide eyes, to see Nick’s mouth twisted in a knowing, chagrined little smile. He jerked his head toward the casino and Greg nodded, starting to walk, then slowing down when he saw that Nick was waiting for him.

“I think about my Papa Olaf a lot,” he volunteered, sliding careful looks at Nick. But each time Nick was just nodding and frowning thoughtfully, listening to him. It was encouraging and he hopped forward. “Many people think he was one of the best at his job, even if he was considered eccentric. So I think of him, and I try to do better.”

“Best at his job? Hard to live up to that, I bet.” A man with very pale legs and yet wearing incredibly short shorts walked in between them, and despite the seriousness of Nick’s tone, Greg turned for a second to watch the man disappear into the crowd. When he turned back, Nick’s eyebrows were raised and he was grinning. “Eventually, you have to just be yourself, and see what happens.” He didn’t gesture at the man, but Greg laughed anyway.

Nick couldn’t possibly know, but then he was laughing too, shaking his head and turning red but somehow not looking away from Greg. Greg stared back, his amusement drying up.

“Now there’s a nice display.” Nick announced suddenly, looking away and pointing to a shop window, and Greg turned, only to openly stare at the headless, pencil-thin mannequins wearing dresses made entirely of sparkles. He blinked.

“Wow.” Greg spoke quietly. “I think I’ve seen enough shops for the moment.” Which made Nick chuckle again for no reason Greg could see, but Nick swung around a man with a baby stroller and ended up at his side as they approached the flashing lights of the casino.

There was a restaurant on one side of them, all wood paneling and brandy glasses that reflected the light. On Nick’s side people were standing in line and coming away with glass statues of hot air balloons. The statues had straws coming out of the tops.

“I’m thirsty,” Greg remarked, eye wide.

“Well, come on then.” Nick didn’t even seem to notice the balloon-glasses, but he slid a hand to Greg’s lower back and ushered him through the crowd. “I think there’s a place up ahead,” he leaned in to speak against Greg’s ear and if Nick hadn’t been urging him forward Greg might have ended up face first on the fake cobblestones. He thought maybe he ought to step away, or at least ask Nick to warn him before he touched him like that. If he did it again it might get embarrassing.

He shut his mouth as firmly as Grethe had always wanted him to.

Nick’s hand slid away right as they reached a large tree, with a café built around the bottom of the trunk. He had to step up and then there was a bar and small tables covered in white linen.

Nick stopped for a moment as Greg sat down, a small hesitation, and then he was sitting too, asking a passing waitress for a beer.

“A beer,” Greg repeated, trying to remember the thick, bitter taste of British beer, and Nick froze, still trying to get comfortable in his wicker chair. It didn’t really seem to suit him, not that Greg knew what would have. Maybe something big and warm, like his couch that pulled out into a bed.

His face was probably turning pink at the thought, so he turned for a moment to stare out at all the people.

“You want a beer?” Nick asked after thanking the waitress and she went away, not even glancing once in Greg’s direction. He should have minded, but he didn’t. Greg sat up, looking around more obviously.

“Oh…yeah, I love beer. I have beer all the time.” He waved a hand dismissively and held Nick’s gaze this time, no matter how doubtful Nick looked, or what that patient, amused look did to his insides. It was like Nick wanted to say something, but wouldn’t, as though he was waiting for Greg to break first.

He had a long wait. No way was Greg ruining his chance, not even for concerned, polite, good-looking Americans who touched his back and whispered in his ear.

“You don’t seem like a drinker to me,” Nick said finally and Greg smiled in victory. Then he shrugged and decided to be generous.

“Maybe not all the time,” he admitted so Nick was smiling too. Nick didn’t continue to push either, just matching his shrug and leaning back into his creaking wicker chair, looking more relaxed as he studied Greg.

He had very good manners, Greg decided. Good enough to please his Nana.

“It was my Papa Olaf who taught me that…” he spoke out of nowhere, for some reason just needing Nick to know about his grandparents. “Som man reder, så ligger man,” he clarified at Nick’s mystified look and Nick nodded.

“You made your bed, now lie in it, right.” Nick scratched over one eyebrow, probably thinking back to that morning, and whatever it was that Greg had done under the influence of the drug. “He sounds like a wise man.”

“He was.” Greg sighed softly. “Things aren’t the same without someone like him around.” He let his voice grow quiet and stared at the table for a moment, jerking his head up abruptly when he realized he’d let the conversation lull. Nick still had that thoughtful, amused smile on his face, and Greg narrowed his eyes. “What exactly did I do last ni…” he started only to spring backward when another girl appeared next to him.

The first thing he noticed was her breasts. Then the tray pushing her breasts up. Then her breasts again, and even compared to some of the outfits he had seen the girls in the other casinos wear, her clothing seemed…inadequate. Or perhaps just adequate enough. Maybe it was her bra, performing some kind of miracle. Right below her generous display of cleavage was a box filled with cigars and packs of cigarettes and some matches. Below that were legs. Long, long legs in sparkling tights. He dragged his eyes up and caught Nick doing the same before Nick looked away.

“Cigarettes!” Greg announced abruptly, tossing a defiant look in Nick’s direction when Nick didn’t say anything, even if he did turn back to Greg and cough in a way that seemed pointed. “I’ll take a pack of…uh…those…” he pointed at red box and then remembered a moment later to dig around in his pocket for money.

When the cigarette girl left, he sat back in his chair, staring at the red box sitting on the table and the little book of matches she had left on top of it.

“Well?” Nick leaned back and crossed his arms. The posture seemed doubtful and challenging at the same time. “I thought you loved cigarettes.”

“I do.” He reached for the pack smoothly, only struggling briefly with the plastic wrapping as he tried not to look around him for Grethe’s watchful stare. He pulled one cigarette out, inhaling the tobacco for a moment before he stuck it in his mouth. Filter end in, he reminded himself, and tried to think about Sam Spade when he reached for a match.

It was crazy to notice how the spark reflected in Nick’s dark gaze as it flared up, so he focused on his cigarette, waving the fire under the tip and pulling in a deep breath.

“I may have made a mistake.” He would have said it if he could have spoken around the raging burn in his chest. But Nick was watching so Greg held still despite his watering eyes and then slowly let out a long stream of hot, horrible smoke, coughing once at the end of it. “Nothing to it,” he remarked, his voice not quite a croak.

“Oh yeah, I can see that.” Nick wasn’t smiling even if he sounded amused. “Aside from the lung cancer and the emphysema and the high blood pressure.” He was ticking off diseases on his fingers, shaking his head, but he didn’t reach for the pack still lying on the table between them, and he didn’t snatch the cigarette from Greg’s mouth. Greg beamed at him, letting out one small, last cough.

“You’re not going to take them away from me?” he wondered, taking his eyes away from the glowing red tip of his cigarette and studying Nick. Then he gulped and sat up because Nick didn’t know, and that was a stupid thing to have asked. “I mean, some people don’t like smokers and…” There were very militant Americans against smoking, or so he had heard.

“Oh no…” Nick’s lips were pursed together, but Greg couldn’t tell if he was disapproving or simply trying not to laugh. “You made your bed…” he remarked, straight-faced. He was so calm it took Greg a moment to get the joke.

Greg blinked. He could feel his lips curving up into a grin and saw Nick’s do the same.

“More than worth it.” He argued coolly a moment later, bringing the cigarette back for another long drag. This one didn’t burn nearly as much, and he tried blowing out a ring. It didn’t work, but he watched his smoke ribbons trail off above him, settling back to stare at Nick when he was done. He let the cigarette rest between his lips and saw the same bright flare in Nick’s eyes even though he wasn’t holding a match anymore. He took another drag, tightening his mouth and then licking at his lips where the paper had dried them.

“Two beers.” The friendly voice of the waitress nearly made him drop the cigarette into his lap. He caught it in a way he decided was fairly smooth, and decided to tap some of the ash from the end while Nick was distracted, almost unsurprised that Nick paid for his beer too. If he acknowledged it, Nick would get embarrassed; he’d learned that much.

Nick took a long drink of his beer. Greg grabbed his to do the same, almost closing his eyes at the dry, cold taste of it running down his throat. It was almost like water compared to English beer, but that didn’t matter because it was beer, and he was drinking it. He set down his half-empty glass and burped. Nick’s eyes were fastened on him again, so Greg smiled before deliberately lifting his cigarette to his lips.

Nick dropped his head to stare into his drink.

“I can’t figure you out.” Greg hiccupped as he heard himself say that out loud, and he picked up his glass, downing the rest of it in one swallow. His cheeks felt hot. “I uh…I mean why would you do this? Be so nice to me like this?”

“I’m not being nice.” Nick shook his head and took another drink. “I’m just…” He rubbed at his neck, something Greg remembered from that morning. He was beginning to see that it meant Nick thinking something that made him uncomfortable. “I just don’t want to see you get into trouble.” His brought his gaze up, and Greg forgot about his cigarette.

“You want to protect me?” The beer was warm in his veins, making him talk slowly, move slowly, a strange counterpoint to the fast beating of his heart. He felt like his heart had been beating too fast all day. But he didn’t care, because this is what he had read about, watched in others, as Nick’s mouth turned up in something more than just amusement, lights burning in his eyes.

“Maybe.” Nick agreed, shrugging indifferently when he didn’t break their shared gaze. Greg could barely breathe; he felt like he was high in the air, caught up in the roar on takeoff, and maybe he could see out the window as the ground shrank away beneath him.

“What if I don’t want protection?” he asked softly, holding still and watching the trails of gray smoke circle between them.

Nick blinked, and then he was frowning and turning away to finish his beer, too many motions for Greg’s eyes to follow as he plummeted back to earth. “Got a lot more of the city to see,” Nick reminded him when he turned back, and Greg knew he was blushing and scowled for it, more than a little confused. He leaned back in his chair and didn’t even look round for Grethe.

“So what’s next?” Nick wondered loudly, getting up and looking around them. Greg exhaled noisily and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, stabbing at the glass. But he grabbed the matches and the rest of the pack and stuck them in his coat pocket, then he lifted his head, his chin high on purpose.

“You promised me the Eiffel Tower,” he said, because in a way, Nick had said they could go there. But Nick absolutely froze, seeming to only remember to blink after a long moment, and his face had a ruddy glow to it that it hadn’t had before. Greg wanted to ask about that too, what it meant that in a town called Sin City, Nick could still blush like that, and what he was thinking about when he did it.

Of course, if he did know, he had a feeling he would be doing it all the time until Nick’s skin would be permanently rosy.

All the time. Greg wanted to drop his head, because all the time really just meant the next few hours. But he wasn’t thinking about that, and he definitely wasn’t going to miss out on a single thing, not even for his rescuer.

“Come on.” He stood up and walked ahead of Nick, stepping lightly down the stairs before he realized Nick hadn’t followed him yet. He turned back, looking up at Nick with his head back. “If you get scared again, I’ll let you hold my hand,” he offered slyly, shivering just a little despite Nick’s jacket when Nick’s eyes locked onto him.


~~~~~


“Have you been to Paris? The real one I mean.” Nick’s question was so quiet that Greg almost didn’t hear it; he was trying to figure out a way through the press of people trying to get into the elevator as they were just trying to leave. There were only so many times he could forgive getting stepped on. He turned back once the space cleared a little and watched enviously as Nick just steered through the crowd and headed toward him.

Nick barely even slowed, just grabbed him gently by one elbow and started leading him out to where the crowds were smaller. The direct approach. Greg studied the quiet competence for a moment, sighing a bit when they reach the sidewalk and Nick released him. “I bet this doesn’t compare,” Nick added with a last look back at the Tower, and Greg followed his gaze up.

A perfect half-size replica of the Eiffel Tower, high enough to let him see the town laid out at his feet. He could have jumped from casino to casino, and had thought about it too, until he had felt Nick scooting in closer against his back and had seen him gesture at another tower all the way down the Strip from them. “Don’t even think about it,” Nick had threatened him lightly, laughing almost silently as though something was funny and Greg had decided to ask about that other tower later.

“This is better,” Greg answered him seriously, and recalled himself enough to walk ahead before Nick would turn that questioning look on him. “I…didn’t get to see much of Paris. Business,” he explained shortly and slowed as Nick settled into a stroll at his side.

“I’ve never been there.” He could see Nick’s shrug, and breathed a little easier when Nick didn’t ask him more about his business. “I’ve barely been to this one,” Nick confessed a second later. “Well, once or twice but that was…business.”

Greg decided to ignore the look Nick tossed him after that, and Nick’s lips curved, but continued talking. Greg wondered if he was leading them somewhere, or if he was just walking, content with Greg choosing their direction. “My family made me come here once for dinner when they were visiting, brother, sisters, their husbands, kids, the whole works.”

Nick lived away from his family. And he obviously missed them, judging him his tone and the way he smiled and shook his head at a memory he didn’t share. Greg tried to imagine sitting down to a relaxed dinner with Christian and got to the first glass of wine being served before he thought Christian would get bored and leave. Then of course his mother would look at Greg sadly for drinking any wine at all, and his father would get called away to take care of whatever problem had sent Christian home in the first place.

“That sounds nice.” He tried not to sound too envious and he must have failed because Nick shot him a look.

“It is, even if I can’t imagine being back there with them all of the time anymore.” You should meet them, I think they’d like you. And it might take some of their attention off me.” It might have been a joke except Nick almost brought his hand to his neck only to jerk it away and point needlessly ahead of them. Greg frowned but followed him anyway, because they both had their secrets today. His eyes went wide to realize they were back to staring at the Bellagio. Across the street and above the noise of traffic he could still hear the strains of music, and he blinked when he realized it was Elvis Presley singing “Viva Las Vegas”.

The fountains sprang to life, high, traveling arcs sweeping across the water, and Greg put out a hand, wishing he could feel the cool fine spray on his face. Many around them stopped to watch as well and for two minutes it was almost quiet.

“Is water in the desert or the power of Elvis that makes people stop?” He wondered out loud as it ended and looked over to find Nick studying him with obvious pleasure.

“You like the King?” And Greg had answered “of course” before realizing that Nick had meant Elvis. But Nick just winked at him and dropped his voice to say, “Thank you, thank you very much,” before slowly moving on. It took Greg another moment to realize Nick had been imitating Presley, and he laughed softly to himself at Nick’s red cheeks.

“I just thought you wouldn’t, with the music you… You just don’t seem the type.” Nick finished quickly as though he thought Greg would be angry.

“I am a type?” Greg just asked, stepping so close to Nick that they were walking shoulder to shoulder. Nick did not move away, and Greg found himself smiling as Nick started more than one sentence of explanation only to wave his hands in a frustrated gesture.

“You know, young…experimental.” He put a hand over Greg’s hair, his fingers touching Greg’s ear as he dropped his hand back down. “Open to anything.” The way in which Nick’s voice flattened there could have meant many things, and Greg was not certain enough to answer. He was saved in any case at the approach of a girl about his age. She had hair as neon pink as many of the lights he had seen today, arranged in little knots around her head and there were silver studs from several piercings dotting her face. She wore a dress-shirt and a tie, as well as a short skirt and ripped stockings. She was hot. Greg grinned widely at her.

She asked for a light and after a moment Greg handed over his pack of matches. She was welcome to them, but only took one to light her cigarette before handing them back. Their hands touched and Greg found himself looking over to Nick. But Nick was standing silently, not looking at him, so he turned back.

“If you’re interested, there’s a party under the lights tonight,” she offered, and while Greg was wavering between a “Thank you” and a “No thank you” she glanced at Nick. “Your friend can come too.” Her lips twisted and Nick’s jaw tightened, but the girl simply stepped back, returning to the group of people with similar hair clustered around a small information booth.

Greg blinked a few times and then felt himself smiling. “Under the lights?”

“She means Fremont Street.” It was again unclear why Nick’s voice had gone flat. It could have been disapproval, but just as he had before, Nick didn’t tell Greg not to go. He took a step and then stopped, as though he was the one who wasn’t sure.

“She’s my type?” Greg asked him, glancing back to her and the boy she was with. His hair was green, and much, much higher than Greg’s. He also had on makeup, his eyes painted black. He had on tight, black jeans and a small t-shirt that revealed his arms. His brown skin seemed to absorb the sun.

“Sure.” Greg knew he was not imagining how tight Nick’s jaw was getting, or how Nick had stopped moving altogether. He was not meeting Greg’s eyes at all, which was perhaps why Greg took a deep breath and waved a hand toward the other group.

“What about him?” He felt Nick jerk his head up, glancing back and forth once before he heard Nick swallow.

“Sure,” Nick said after a pause, though Greg could not determine its significance, not without looking, and his heart was already racing. When Nick didn’t add anything to that, Greg pushed out a breath and searched for another distraction.

“I haven’t actually gambled yet,” he offered, even though it seemed like another lie with the way he couldn’t control his excitement. His skin was hot and it wasn’t from the sun. Nick turned back to him at last and his eyes were sparkling with something like a dare. He knew he was not expected to win.

Greg gulped down what he suddenly wanted to say and waited.

“What’s it going to be then? Roulette? Craps? How about poker? You seem like you could be pretty good in a bluff.” Nick’s face twisted after that last part. Greg tried to widen his eyes anyway. “We could go to…”

“How about there?” Greg skipped forward, barely stopping to wait for the traffic signals to change before heading across another street toward the garishly painted façade of the Casino Royale.

“Here?” Nick caught up with him, and was staring at him with outright disbelief. It was enough to make Greg wonder if he had erred. He looked around again, the fading paint and old lights, the mostly older groups of people heading inside. On one side was the restaurant called Denny’s. It was also packed with older people. Maybe it was a place where his type didn’t go.

But Nick’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter when he glanced back and despite Greg’s frown at being found amusing, Nick showed no signs of remorse.

“Come on then, 007, let’s get you some chips.” He murmured, leaving Greg to wonder how Nick had known he liked James Bond, and why he kept giving Greg nicknames.

It was, as always it seemed, icy cold inside the casino, and dark. It was disorienting, but Greg supposed it was meant to be. There were slot machines around him, and lots of people, wondering, stopping, sitting on cracked stools and losing money. Some were holding small glasses. Greg licked his lips again and followed blindly after Nick when Nick returned and tugged at his jacket.

“I’m thirsty,” he remarked and Nick snorted. But they stopped at the side of a long table where several people were watching another man throw a pair of dice and instantly another woman with a tray and very little clothing was at Nick’s side. She was close enough to him that Greg forgot about the game in front of him and stared at her. Nick didn’t seem at all bothered. He just leaned in close to whisper an order in her ear, because of the noise, Greg found himself hoping, but she smiled and hurried away to get Nick his order.

Greg would not have gotten service like that in his own palace. He glowered after her and then tried to quickly form a smile when Nick looked up at him.

“She’s…uh…hot,” he blurted out, his eyes growing round in horror at himself, but after barely any pause at all Nick raised an eyebrow and grinned. His face might have been darker, Greg couldn’t tell. “She likes you, man.” He wasn’t sure about the “man” but he couldn’t bring himself to try saying “dude” and anyway, Nick had said already it once or twice and his smile didn’t change.

“She does, huh?” Nick wondered quietly just before she came back. Greg watched her slide a book of matches to Nick with his beer, saw Nick take it and put it in the same pocket as his silenced cell phone. Greg closed his mouth tight when the waitress handed him his beer without even a look before she got called away.

“Did you get her number?” he wondered, wishing he had sounded more surprised and less…extremely irritated. He had only seen that happen in movies. Nick shrugged and tipped back his head to take a long drink, not taking his eyes from Greg as he did. His throat moved, tanned and faintly glistening with sweat, and Greg felt himself swallowing to match it. He imagined Nick’s skin would taste salty, but as clean and fresh as his pillows and towels had smelled. He could almost taste it on his tongue, and swallowed again, putting his glass to his mouth as an excuse.

“You in?” Nick’s voice dropped, sweet and warm like it had been that morning, making Greg look up too fast. Nick was gesturing at the table, confusing him, but he stepped up, leaning over to watch for a few minutes. It was simple enough in theory, a matter of odds and careful betting, and he followed it easily, not minding the way Nick leaned in at his side to add a point or two. It was just as Nick had done in the elevator of the Paris, but then Greg had thought it a matter of space, or Nick wanting to save him embarrassment.

His heart was racing once more, his skin tight and hot, and he set down his half-finished beer so he wouldn’t drop it. He thought he managed to appear calm when the dice were handed to him, thought his hands were supposed to shake. He moved, slightly, taking up a spot at the head of the table, glancing up once. But the eyes on him seemed more concerned with what was in his hands.

“Have you ever done this?” he asked in a whisper. He looked away from the stares and then shivered, hard, as Nick breathed out his answer, wet heat at the back of his neck.

“Nope.” Nick seemed to find something funny. Maybe it was how Greg jerked and released the dice in one awkward throw. Greg held his breath, watching them bounce around before coming to a stop.

“Eight!” someone called out and a few people cheered. Nick breathed another soft laugh. It must have been a good thing. People were smiling as the dice were pushed back toward him.

“You won.” Nick was amazed and pleased at the same time, his body close enough for his excitement to touch Greg as well. “What are you waiting for? Go on.”

Greg twisted around, looking through his lashes to find Nick angled at his side, nearly behind him. He held still for a moment at Greg’s look, but before Greg could try to think of why, he was grinning again and nodding, encouraging Greg to scoop up the dice and throw again.

Nick’s eyes were focused and shining black, Greg turned away from them with effort. The dice were solid in his palm, and when he moved to toss them, he brushed against the body at his back.

Eight again, a hard eight, and even with the statistical improbability of that, Greg felt his head swimming. He was dizzy, dizzier than he had been drunk all those years ago, unsteady on his feet. He laughed out loud, the sound drowned out by the others around him.

“I want to toss them again,” he exclaimed without thinking, not even caring where Nick had bet their few chips. He thought Nick might be laughing too, teasing him again.

“You’re a natural.” The gentle words made him shake more than was necessary, and not even the roll of a four could make him stop. There was no need for Nick to be so close, even with the small crowd pressing around them to watch. It was like being drunk at fifteen, happy and dizzy and burning up, but he didn’t move, and when he opened his mouth, he was grinning.

“Perhaps I just learn quickly,” he tossed out, and heard Nick’s indrawn breath even above the crowd’s approval at his roll. His movements felt slow, strange with his breath coming too fast, his heart like a drum in his ears. Another double perhaps, the numbers evenly matched on the dice heavy in his palm. “Or I’m getting a taste for it.”

The words were rich as the chocolate milkshake, fizzing in his blood like some unexpected chemical reaction about to overflow, and as he felt Nick’s pulse racing too he dropped the dice, his mouth falling open as he recognized the intoxicating truth of what he was doing, what he was getting away with.

Another eight. The crowd around was growing larger, a thousand eyes he shuddered away from, though they pushed him even closer to Nick. He wanted his beer again, settled for the scent of it in the air around Nick, his hands moving on the dice but his mind thinking of years of shower fantasies, the strange flavor on his tongue as he had awakened this morning, and what it might mean that Nick had not moved away.

“We are getting quite the crowd,” Nick warned in a low voice, and when Greg twisted to give him another look, dropped his eyebrows into something too heavy for anger.

“I don’t mind an audience,” he found himself saying, watching those dark eyes go wide for a second before he turned and threw the dice. It was a lie, it had to be, he was sick of being watched, but he hadn’t minded this.

Other people exclaimed in dismay at the seven, but Greg merely stood where he was, trembling slightly as most of the small crowd dissipated, taking with it their excuse to remain standing so close together.

It was Nick who moved first, gathering up a little pile of chips and pressing them into Greg’s hands without looking at his face. Greg studied Nick’s however, noticing the blush even in the dim light, the way Nick worked his jaw and glanced around them before he stepped back.

That look was enough to recall Greg to his senses. To make him realize he had been pushing himself back, almost rubbing himself against his only friend in this city not part of his retinue. He did not want to anger or alienate Nick, not for anything, not even the low, hungry burn left in his stomach now that the rest of him was cold.

“What’s next?” Nick seemed calm when he finally looked up; he was even smiling. He had a nice smile, Greg thought, staring at the corners of his eyes for a moment before making himself look away. He thought he might still be shaking. “It’s your day, remember?” Nick prodded him and Greg nodded, slowly.

“Whatever I want,” he reminded himself, too quietly for Nick to hear.

“I haven’t been there.” He pointed to the large driveway lined with shrubbery and statues, the columns of white stretching up. He had of course been to Rome, and though the view from the Coliseum was amazing, he had never seen anything called Caesar’s Palace.

He was still blinking at the adjustment of coming outside. He had put coin after coin into a slot machine for another hour or so before he had stopped getting coins back and decided to leave. Nick, for all his complaints about gambling, had sat next to him, won sixty dollars, and promptly quit.

“I know when to hang on to what I’ve got,” was all he had said, but when Greg had tried to stop playing too, Nick had insisted he keep on trying. With the craps game and the slot machines, they had come away with about two hundred dollars, which Greg had tried to offer back to Nick, but Nick had of course refused.

“You are not like the Americans on TV,” Greg commented, speaking over the traffic outside, nearly as loud as all the machines inside the casino. He supposed it could have been the two beers he had consumed while sitting at his machine. Free, Nick had said, to keep him playing. Greg thought it was a fabulous idea and would mention it to the Tourism Board of his country when he returned. He told Nick that too.

“Oh yeah?” Nick put a hand under his elbow and steered him a few steps away from the street.

“We will use our winnings for more food,” Greg declared next, startling a woman with a camera next to him. She had a t-shirt with a German slogan across it. “Ich bin traurig,” he excused himself and smiled at himself for remembering. Grethe would be pleased. “And beer,” he added when Nick’s eyebrows went up.

“I think you’ve had enough for the moment. Maybe I ought to feed you again first.”

“Are there restaurants in there?” He waved at Caesar’s Palace once more, then glanced down the street. It was close to the Bellagio. Seeing it made him straighten, and Nick’s hand fell away from his elbow as he turned back. Nick was looking at him in disbelief and then they both looked down as Greg’s stomach made a strange noise.

“And a restroom?” he asked, his face heating. Perhaps his stomach wasn’t as okay as he’d thought.

Greg spotted Nick the moment he left the large Caesar’s restroom some time later. Nick was sitting in a dark purple booth near a large fake ship with a large bust of Cleopatra as its figurehead. He had two waters in front of him, and Greg gulped one as he sat down.

“Regretting that milkshake?” Nick wondered smugly and no matter how wide his grin was, Greg couldn’t get annoyed. He shook his head and saw Nick blink.

“Are you kidding? I’ll have the rest of my life to get sick, but only one day for…” He caught himself just in time, sucking in a few pieces of ice to prevent himself from saying more. Nick focused sharply on him, then swallowed and looked away.

“You up for a walk around the Forum Shops?” he turned back a moment later, rubbing his hands together. He still seemed surprised when Greg sprang to his feet and looked around.

“Which way?” Nick drank his water and stood up at the question, letting out a slow breath as he did.

“Just feeling my age.” Nick’s lips curved, as if he were joking. Greg put out a hand then pulled it back before he touched the muscle of Nick’s bicep that his shirt did not cover. His gaze went to Nick’s eyes, the laugh lines, and he shook his head. That was the second time Nick had remarked on the fact that he was older, though Greg did not really see any difference, a few years at most.

“We don’t have to…”

“No. It’s whatever you want today, G,” Nick insisted fiercely, barely giving Greg time to process this new nickname. “I just missed some sleep is all.” He stood up, and suddenly Greg found himself at Nick’s side, nearly at his back, putting a hand to his elbow.

“Because of me?” he spoke quietly, but Nick twisted to give him a surprised look and shrugged.

“I found you here, you know.” Nick made a show of squinting at the signs and then heading off toward the Shops. Greg jumped, looking around more carefully this time. “Outside,” Nick answered his unspoken question, making Greg jump again.

“Weird.” Greg thought he sounded natural. “This isn’t my hotel. I wonder how I ended up here.”

“I imagine a lot of people are wondering that.” Greg narrowed his eyes, but Nick was walking ahead of him so Greg couldn’t see his face. He licked his dry lips but followed after him.

“Nick,” he called out after a moment, almost walking into Nick’s back when Nick immediately stopped to look at him. There was such careful curiosity on his face that Greg had to speak. “All day, you’ve done what I want… When you see something that you would like to do, tell me, and we’ll do it.”

Nick opened his mouth, probably to say something like he did about the money, that it didn’t matter. So Greg flashed a smile that was too big at him and waved a hand. “So just…let me know,” he finished, feeling stupid for having said it at all, and looked away until Nick continued walking.

After a moment he could hear noise ahead, and then the corridor abruptly gave way to a large hall with high ceilings, painted like a pale blue, cloudy sky. There were white columns, and, when he looked down, a tiled floor. He blinked and looked back to the signs and the reproductions of famous artwork, Greek artwork most of it, and Renaissance, and he blinked again.

“This is…not what I was expecting.”

“Yeah.” Nick exhaled, sharing a sympathetic look with him. “If you’re looking for something out of an old movie, you won’t get it here.” There were too many shops to count. They walked for a while and then the hall opened up even wider, with several avenues, larger and newer, glittering in a way Greg didn’t remember seeing in the real Rome.

It was just like the Paris, which might have been why neither of them felt the need to stop at any of the windows, though Greg could feel Nick glancing at him. Watches and jewelry didn’t interest him, and this time he had only a moment or two for the shoes. He tried to imagine himself as a tourist, spending his winnings, and couldn’t. Then he tried to imagine himself as Christian buying what clothes he wished here and the idea held a little more appeal. But of course, Greg had had his fill of suits, no matter how well-made.

It was easy to picture Nick in a suit however. If Greg had won more with the dice he would have liked to pay for that, to have Nick at his side, maybe go to one of those restaurants or cafés with tables with tables for only two. But that thought was best pushed to the side. He sighed.

“Must be nice, having that kind of money,” Nick steered them around another fountain and then giving an irritated flinch when the lights dimmed. He turned instantly to watch Greg, but Greg didn’t care, letting his mouth fall open and his eyes get wide when the statues of gods in the fountain began to move, lights in different colors splashing across the ceiling. They were speaking, but their mouths didn’t move, and occasionally their hands gave little spasms instead of actually moving.

It was like a nightmare come to life. He blinked, and saw families clapping and taking pictures. He turned back to Nick.

“Seriously?”

“Seeing that thing makes me want a drink. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a Chuck E. Cheese…” Nick was grinning no matter how low his voice. He put a hand to Greg’s shoulders and then slid it away before Greg had time to do more than enjoy the sudden warmth or ask about this Chuck Cheese. “C’mon.”

“My family has…some money,” Greg confessed, turning gratefully away from the display to their previous conversation. “But we do not spend it on these sorts of things.”

Even walking, Nick spared a moment to look down at Greg’s feet, and for a second they both stared at his shoes. They were obviously handmade. “Some things are worth the expense,” Greg decided loftily, even if he had hated these shoes yesterday. Yesterday he had not been wearing jeans. “I think your shirt suits me.” It was cotton and was nearly worn-through in some places.

Nick’s gaze flew up to his face and he stopped moving. He had the same look, the one he’d had before at the table with the dice, bright and hot, and Greg licked his lips, swallowing.

It made him think of gambling, of winning, and without thinking he heard himself speaking. “It’s very soft.” His hand, on its own, seemed to want to stroke against the material.

It was Nick’s turn to swallow and lick his dry lips, but the booming voices of the gods went silent and the lights came back up, and though it wasn’t anything like the sun outside, they both blinked at the glare and moved apart. Greg clenched his hands, watching intently as Nick rubbed the back of his neck and swept a hand through his short hair.

He looked frustrated, something Greg understood, even if he could only try to guess why. His mind immediately presented several possibilities, each more interesting than the last and worthy of further exploration, and somehow he shouldn’t have been surprised when he had always enjoyed mysteries so much.

“I don’t normally drink this much, but man am I thirsty.” Nick shook his head, smiling almost bashfully and ducking Greg’s stare. “Let’s go get something.”

He put his back to Greg and started to walk, which was possibly a good thing, because Greg couldn’t help letting out a sigh and dropping his shoulders as he followed after him.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to know if Nick was spending time with him today because he liked him, but it seemed as silly to ask that as to use the word “like” at all, and it was potentially dangerous as well. Even if Nick thought Greg was open to anything, it didn’t mean Nick was, and Greg didn’t want to ruin the day with a fight, or worse, getting rejected. Maybe he should limit his experimenting to dice and roller coasters.

Only after a moment’s reflection, Greg still didn’t want to limit anything. He stepped after Nick, speeding up until they were side by side again and let himself brush against Nick as he did. Nick let out his breath with a loud whoosh and shot him a look. Greg blinked innocently back at him. It had almost never worked with Grethe, but though Nick stared hard, he didn’t comment.

He didn’t move away either and Greg processed a new set of possibilities.

“So…” Nick slowed and finally stopped at the end of what Greg realized was a short line. Greg stopped thinking and looked up. He peered at the other end before nearly cracking his neck to stare at Nick. “…ever had a margarita?” Nick asked him, pointlessly, teasing him as though he knew Greg had to take a moment to even recall what a margarita was. But he wasn’t seeing anyone in line with a frosty, strangely-wide glass. Instead they were coming away with long plastic tubes, straws sticking out of the tops.

He tore his gaze from Nick and looked back to the sign above them all. Margaritas by the Yard. He did the conversion in his head and then did it again just to make sure.

“Not the best margaritas you’re going to get, but definitely part of the Vegas experience…unless you’d prefer a daiquiri or something like that.” The vaguely upset frown on Nick’s face seemed to indicate that a daiquiri, whatever that was, did not compare to three feet of a probably alcoholic beverage. “I just…I saw you eying those plastic Eiffel Towers and…”

“I would love one, thank you.” Greg fell back on etiquette because he felt himself warm and pink thinking about how Nick seemed to notice everything, and kept himself silent for all of thirty seconds. “What is it?” He was not suspicious, not at all. Not even when Nick’s grin got wider.

“Lime, salt, and…you’ll see.” They made it to the counter and Nick leaned over it to order, directing looks at Greg that put a nervous little flutter in Greg’s stomach, something completely different from the rising sickness before another press conference.

It was loud in the small bar and then Nick was handed a large blue bottle, no doubt exactly a yard long. It had one straw. “All for me?” His voice was shaking. But he held out his hands as they moved out of the way and received his freezing cold and surprisingly heavy gift.

“You scared?” Nick seemed to forgotten distance once again. Greg heard the tremble in his own voice as he leaned in and made a show of shivering at the coldness of the glass in his hands.

“Me?” He tried a rude, dismissive noise and then a wave, almost upsetting his margarita. He caught it and tried it again. “No. I’m experimental,” he reminded Nick, flashing the brightest smile he could muster. Of course, the effect would be dimmed when Nick remembered that Greg had not actually tried his drink yet.

“Didn’t think you were scared of anything.” Nick found a column and leaned against it, crossing his arms much as he had that morning. This time, Greg didn’t mind, or didn’t mind much. He had that same smile too, the one that said he knew more than he was letting on, but those looks were often tricks, as Papa Olaf had taught him.

He lifted his chin defiantly and then frowned down at the straw.

“Only of disappointing people.” He kept his answer quiet. “Or making a mistake.”

“Grissom—my boss—says mistakes help us learn.” The equally quiet answer should have been drowned out by the sounds of more margaritas being made. Greg jerked his head up and watched Nick straighten and come back to him. He bent his head, giving Greg a view of the fine hairs at the back of his neck, and took a long sip from the straw.

He licked at his lips as he looked up, not seeming to notice that Greg’s mouth had fallen open. “Besides, I can’t imagine you disappointing anybody for long.”

“Right.” Greg said it to say something. His face seemed to be on fire, strange when his hands were so cold. He took a deep breath and lifted the drink a bit. It wasn’t quite a toast and it wasn’t really elegant, but he did it anyway, even trying a joke, a joke that should have not made that rare light flare up in Nick’s eyes. “When in Rome…”

He put his mouth on the straw and took a long, long drink.

It was sugary-sweet and salty, sour at the edges, slippery and thick with crushed ice. He let it fill his mouth, considered, then swallowed before hollowing his cheeks to suck up more. It was delicious. It was possibly his favorite drink after coffee and milkshakes. But he thought the best part might have been the way that Nick seemed to stop breathing when he wrapped his lips around the straw.

~~~~~~


It felt good to get off his feet for a while. Visits to the gym a few times a week were somehow a lot different than walking the miles of the Vegas Strip in the Vegas sun, not to mention the miles of walking done inside the casinos to see everything. And of course they had to see everything, Nick would have insisted even if Greg hadn’t.

Greg. Nick wasn’t really sure when he had stopped calling him the prince in his head, but he knew it wasn’t a good sign that he couldn’t seem to care. He glanced around automatically, his gaze going straight to Greg, in line for coffee at a small café at the edge of the Venetian shops. Greg was staring up at the board of coffee choices with the same fascination that he had shown in that last store in the Forum Shops.

What right Caesar’s felt it had to put a store like that right next to a main exit and entrance Nick didn’t know. His face still stung from his blushes, his jaw sore from clenching tight to hear Greg asking so many questions, not even the smallest bit embarrassed at being in a shop with rhinestone-studded riding crops and black lace bras. And when he had seen Nick blushing it had only been worse, all that frank curiosity now aimed at him, his eyes studying him through his thick eyelashes, his mouth curved ever so slightly upward as though he knew exactly what he was doing to Nick, that his expression was, in Greg’s words, pure sex.

Nick couldn’t figure that part out, the honesty and the lies, the sheltered innocent who didn’t seem especially shocked by Vegas’ seedier side. He only knew that Greg’s eyes were asking him something and it was getting harder and harder to say no. He’d tried anger, he’d tried distraction, only to find himself backed into a corner when his mention of the things he had seen at work much worse than that place had led to more questions. About his work, about what kinds of things, and all the while, Greg’s expression growing more animated, more alive.

His voice nearly as high as his hair, he’d only stopped when they had completed a circle around the small shop and then calmly headed out the door, counting on Nick to follow him.

Which was another thing Nick wasn’t exactly sure about. But somehow they had crossed the street once again and ended up at the Venetian and Greg had led him right to the bank of tables at the small café and gotten him into a chair before dashing off for coffee.

His face was red, shiny from the margarita. Even if he had only had half, and Nick a little less than that, his stomach ought to be churning with all the liquid and no food. But somehow Greg wanted coffee, and he was steady on his feet in the line, stopping to let someone go ahead of him when he still couldn’t make up his mind.

Nick felt himself smiling, but rubbing at his cheeks didn’t do anything to stop it.

“This isn’t fair.” Sara’s voice broke into his thoughts and Nick didn’t even have time to jerk his head around to other side of the table before Sara sat down across from him, grinning. “We have all been working on extended shifts and you get the day off to lounge around the hotels.”

“Uh, hey, Sara,” was about all he could get out, trying real hard not to glance back to where Greg was in line. His heart rate felt like it went into triple digits.

“If I’d known that telling off that woman was a Get out of Stupid Assignments Free card, I would have told her to shut up too.” Only Sara could frown seriously and smile enough to show the gap in her teeth at the same time. But her words made Nick blink and sit up straighter.

“They’re saying I told her to shut up?” Nick had never told a woman to shut up in his life. He closed his mouth quick and shook his head.

“Hodges also has a version where she slaps you,” Sara added with obvious delight when Nick’s eyes narrowed.

“That little…”

“Don’t worry, nobody blames you.” Sara pursed her mouth and swept her hair out of her face, using her sunglasses as a headband. “Okay, so some people blame you,” meaning Ecklie, but she didn’t say it so Nick didn’t ask. She leaned in and Nick leaned over to match her. “But we’ve got cold cases, we’ve got new cases. I’ve got an unsolved homicide, and there’s been a series of home invasions in Henderson and yet we’re all stuck here, looking for some prince who snuck away from his handlers, probably to go visit some strip clubs, and…and get smashed and…it’s…just…ridiculous!” Sara’s hands flew up into the air with her frustration and she sat back in what could only be described as a huff.

“What do you mean, you all?” He knew from experience there was no point in trying to calm her down yet, so he asked what he needed an answer to first. He licked his lips, dropping his hands to his lap to wipe his palms on his jeans.

“I mean everyone. CSI, the traffic cops, cadets, detectives. Can you believe it?” Sara tossed her head restlessly. “Anyone not actively walking a beat is instructed to keep an eye out for a six foot, white male with no money and who doesn’t speak English, last seen in front of Caesar’s Palace. Not to mention how those private security goons have disappeared. And everyone has orders to be discreet, whatever that means.”

“He speaks English just fine,” Nick corrected her quietly and then put a hand over his mouth. He had about a hundred questions he couldn’t really ask and that comes out of his mouth. “Why Caesar’s?” he went on in a hurry.

“Catherine found a window washer who started his shift late, who didn’t finish up until about sunset, stopping right outside the prince’s penthouse.” Her smile was almost feral, full of pleasure at the hunt. And yeah maybe he did watch too much Animal Planet.

“He hitched a ride with a window washer?” Disbelief and—he couldn’t help it—pride rang out in his question and it was obvious enough to make Sara pause in her explanation and scowl.

“I know! Talk about a prison break. Traded a bottle of wine for it.” She snorted and gave Nick an odd look before going on. “Washer saw him stumble off in that direction—he was drugged by the way—so once Caesar’s gives the okay, which is tricky when we can’t tell them why we want it, Grissom’s going to have Archie on the security footage.”

“Shit.” The word slipped out and Nick barely even noticed. Sara’s brows went up. “Oh man.” Once they scoured inside the casino they’d look outside, or on the traffic cameras. He was so dead. “What does Grissom think?”

“Who ever knows what he’s thinking?” Her lips twisted almost bitterly and she looked to the side. Then she lifted her head and blinked, once.

Nick closed his eyes for a moment that seemed too short and then turned to follow her stare, not really surprised to see Greg approaching them. He had a small, white paper cup in one hand and was staring at Sara with a very serious frown.

It slipped back into a smile before he reached them, and with a dizzy feeling of déjà vu Nick recognized it as the one Greg had used in the news coverage of the press conference, polite and blank.

“You must be a friend of Nick’s.” Greg came to stop at the table extending his free hand to Sara. Sara’s gaze went from his hand up to his hair. She blinked again before meeting Greg’s eyes, and at any other time, Nick would have been busting up with laughter to see Sara this speechless. But all he could think for six solid, long seconds was that there went any chance of getting out of this without Sara recognizing Greg.

She stuck out her hand and then pulled it back, making a move as though she was going to stand up, only to plop herself back in her seat and frown and push her hand back out. Her eyes narrowed slightly at even the suggestion of an idea that she had thought about standing up or making some kind of curtsey.

Nick fought the urge to put his head in hands, or to jump up in between them, or to just start laughing until he cried. The margarita was not sitting well in his stomach. His skin was wet with cold sweat. He was so dead.

“How do you do?” Greg went on smoothly, diplomatically not acknowledging Sara’s strange motions, and seeing Greg fall into a more diplomatic role made Nick’s stomach knot even more. Somehow it was still surprising to see him so serious and…grown up.

He wondered if the same thoughts were running through Sara’s mind. He didn’t know what was running through Greg’s, though Greg had to have noticed that Sara was wearing her work vest, marked with both her last name and C.S.I. Luckily, like most people, he probably had no idea what that meant.

“Sara,” she introduced herself quietly and shut her mouth with an audible click when the prince she had been condemning a moment before answered with a simple, “Greg.” Her eyes narrowed even further.

“I’m happy to meet a friend of Nick’s,” he went on, sounding anything but, and Nick looked up at him at last, mustering a faint smile. “He doesn’t seem to ever go out, I was starting to wonder if he had any.”

“And yet here he is.” Sara’s smile was tight. Nick swallowed. “You two seeing the sights?” she wondered sweetly and even Greg seemed to be a little frightened of that. But he rolled his shoulders and swayed in place, still feeling the effects of the tequila, or maybe just his coffee.

“I don’t get out much, and Nick has been nice enough to show me around your city. I haven’t had this much fun since…forever.” Greg’s moments of honesty were like a slug to the shoulder, enough to knock even Sara off-balance. While she was clearly trying to adjust this prince with the version she had been imagining, Greg turned to Nick. “I almost got a cappuccino, but decided on a latte instead when I remembered your drink earlier. I got skim milk too, but I haven’t added sugar yet.” It was almost a question.

“You got what kind of coffee I like?” Nick wondered in a strangled voice, not even sure how Greg had noticed, he had been so distracted this morning.

“I’m a dork, not a…” he paused, then brightened, “…jerk.” When he got the word right, he gave Nick a look so warm that even in front of Sara Nick felt his cheeks getting red. He swallowed, and they both turned back to Sara at the same moment. Her eyes were round and dazed. “I appreciate someone who appreciates coffee,” Greg explained, trailing off. It might have had something to do with Sara’s expression. “Would you like me to get you some too? We have plenty of winnings.”

Sara blinked. “Nick…” she began, low, and Nick jerked.

“Sugar’s fine, G,” he tossed out, urging Greg back to the counter and cutting Sara off. Of course, he nearly bit off his tongue when he realized what he’d called him in front of her. But with another quick look between him and Sara, Greg ducked his head and turned around.

He took his time walking away, but at the counter Nick could see him sliding looks their way. Nick tore his eyes away and focused on Sara.

“Sara…”

“Nick.” She shook her head in one short jerk, and Nick thought maybe she knew Greg was watching them as well. “Does Grissom know?”

That was a surprise, but he’d barely shaken his head no when she went on, soft and fast and lethal. “Does he know you know?” she moved her head without breaking their gaze. When Nick had to look down, ashamed of himself for lying, she went on. “Did you know when you…?”

“No!” He was fiercer than he intended and fought to keep his voice low, his pose relaxed for watching eyes. He wondered faintly how Greg did it all the time. “No, I found him drugged up and sick outside Caesar’s, I’ve just…been taking care of him. I didn’t realize until later.” He brought his hands up, gesturing at nothing. “He was so…” He couldn’t think of the right words. Wide-eyed and happy, warm and trusting, smart, adventurous, shy, weird, bold, perfect. No, not perfect, but close to it. As close as any person could get, maybe, and getting better by the second.

“You have to tell Grissom. What do you think is going to happen? This is going to be so much worse than…” Sara stopped just short of putting her foot in her mouth, not that it mattered. Guilt made her cheeks pink.

“For what,” she skipped past the vague mention of Kristy and went on, trying to be tactful and failing, because she was Sara, “for a visit to some strip clubs and some coffee? Don’t tell me you guys went to Hooters.”

“Actually, he hasn’t asked to see any strip clubs.” Nick rubbed at his neck and sighed and shifted and refused to think about chicken wings. “I don’t they are especially uptight back in…where he’s from.” Considering his reaction to everything, that shop, the vendors, that one boy at the fountain, he seemed… Open. But he couldn’t say that out loud, just thinking the word made him shiver in ways Sara didn’t need to see. But it meant that Greg had no need for dark rooms and forbidden fantasies and it made Nick feel sharply grateful, not certain that he could sit by and watch Greg receive lap dances and visits to VIP rooms. “Look, Sara, his idea of a great time is walking unnoticed in a crowd and playing the slot machines. He doesn’t even get to choose his own meals there!”

He knew he was getting agitated and ran a hand over his head and pressed himself against his chair. It was hard to hold her gaze, to say what he knew was true. “I’m going to take him back.” Back to the Bellagio fountains, back to what they both knew he had to go back to. “Just…not yet.”

“You can’t save everyone, Nick,” Sara said softly, her face shadowed, her hands clasped in front of her. She had to say it, because they were in the truth business, because she was his friend, but Nick found himself scowling and defensive anyway. Only Greg sliding into his vision stopped him from snapping back.

With a pause that only trained observers would have noticed, Greg sat down at the table’s other empty chair and took a sip of his coffee. His noisy sigh of pleasure made even Sara’s mouth soften in consideration, and it had to be on purpose, because Greg fixed her with his under the lashes look and shot out a question.

“Do you and Nick work together? Nick doesn’t talk about his job much.”

Sara’s raised eyebrows were her only response to that for a while, then she inclined her head and smiled. “I’ll bet,” she answered at last, still soft, and gave Greg a look in return that made him shift and look down to his coffee. But Greg hadn’t been living with that Ms. Andersdatter for years and not learned anything. Nick felt the hum of pride once more to see Greg look back up and smile.

“It is difficult to get Nick to talk about himself,” he admitted with a sly glance at Nick and Nick blinked when Sara copied it. Her smile was conspiratorial.

“Yeah, Nick can be a royal pain,” she agreed and Nick pushed his foot hard into hers. It wasn’t really a kick, but Sara’s grimace and outraged glare said it might as well have been. She had been hanging out with Grissom too much if she thought jokes like that were funny.

“Exactly!” Greg continued, Nick hoped innocently. “He is too serious.”

“Hey, I’m right here guys.” Nick tried to but in and found two sets of brown eyes leveled imperiously at him. He knew about Greg; he didn’t want to know where Sara had picked up that look.

“He’s starting to take even less vacation time then I do,” Sara chimed in and then went quiet, her mouth shaping a circle of surprise. She had a look of discovery that made Nick nervous.

“You should have seen him on the roller coaster…” Greg babbled on, evidently warming to Sara. He leaned forward, gazing into her eyes and smiling when Sara gazed back. Her gap was undeniable as she beamed back at Greg, all her suspicions and worries apparently gone for the moment and that was somehow even more alarming.

“Greg?” Nick tried but Sara was reaching out to touch Greg’s hand on the paper cup. Greg let her. Nick frowned.

“Tell me about this coaster,” she ordered, and in a few seconds Greg had her laughing in disbelief. At Nick.

“I was not about to cry,” Nick argued without being heard. He waited a moment and then grabbed the paper cup, taking a sip of coffee so strong he could have been chewing on the beans. He pushed it back as he swallowed and watched Greg take another drink as though it was water.

“Beginner’s luck?” Sara pressed with another smile that was getting just a little too friendly. Nick realized that Greg was telling her about the craps game. “And I don’t see anything wrong with Denny’s. Everyone loves pancakes.”

“That’s what I have been trying to tell them…” Greg’s voice, raised high in excitement, suddenly dropped off. He pulled back and Sara did the same, though she looked at Nick and then pushed herself to her feet.

“Well, it’s time I was getting back to work,” she excused herself but her smile dropped away when she turned to Nick. “If I could just talk to Nick alone for a moment... Work.” She crooked her head in a question at Greg and Nick had to grin at how Greg inclined his head graciously at her.

“Of course.” He gave permission the same way he had on the bench at Caesar’s, pumped full of lorazepam. Maybe margaritas also brought out his inner monarch.

“If he wants to blend in he’s going to have to watch that.” Sara burst out the moment she and Nick had gotten up and moved a few feet away. “And is that tequila I smell on him?” The comments were both suspicious and protective. It took Nick a heartbeat to realize that meant that she had liked Greg despite herself and he didn’t waste time.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to lie.” Sara jutted out her chin and crossed her arms. Her mouth curved down. “And it’s still a monumental waste of energy for us to be looking for someone who not only doesn’t want to be found, but is right in front of me.”

He took a deep breath, recognizing the protests for what they were. “Sara…”

“He’s nice.” She cut him off with the grudging admission, and when Nick let out a long breath and grinned at her, she pursed her lips in a way that meant she was trying not to smile. He could have hugged her, except, she was Sara and prickly didn’t begin to describe her. “But I’m not stalling forever, no matter how much I like the idea of knowing something Ecklie doesn’t.” She uncrossed her arms to poke him in the chest, hard enough to hurt.

“I’m not asking you to.” He’d never do that. Sara just rolled her eyes like his sisters always did.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” Even in a whisper it was still an accusation.

“What?” He looked away from her, just checking on Greg, who was sitting at the table, sipping his latte and not even pretending he wasn’t watching them. He smiled when Nick glanced at him and Nick smiled back.

“Oh, Nick.” Something delicate and warm in Sara’s voice made Nick turn to her, because delicate was the last word most people used to describe Sara, but she avoided his eyes and waved at Greg. “Nice to meet you,” she called out with an awareness of proper manners that Nick had never seen from her before. Greg responded as he always seemed to, standing politely and wishing her well.

“I don’t think he needs saving,” Nick insisted quietly, watching Greg give Sara a smile, knowing how easily he had won her over too.

Sara popped her sunglasses down over her eyes and then faced him. “What about you, Nick?” she wondered, too gently for something that felt so heavy and hard on his chest. He tried to breathe and failed, but she didn’t stop him when he frowned and left her to head back to Greg.

“Someone ought to wean you off that stuff,” he forced the joke out when Greg left the table to meet him halfway. It was no wonder he had stomach problems. Greg just stared at his coffee in bewilderment.

Nick grabbed it and took another swallow before tossing it in a nearby trashcan. He put his other hand out and touched Greg’s elbow, his hand sliding down his arm for a long, hot moment before he pulled it away and held it at his side. “C’mon,” he tried his widest smile, thickening his accent. “You want Denny’s, you get Denny’s. And we have a lot more to see.” And not much time left, but that part he kept to himself.

When they had emerged from Denny’s the sun had been setting, and though the light had flared up around them blindingly bright, the streets had been growing more crowded, voices becoming louder as thought everyone had come out in anticipation of the cooler night air.

They had stopped on the sidewalk their stomachs full of turkey clubs, which were good, even from Denny’s, Nick had said, and watched from across the street as the strange water volcano as the Mirage exploded in a burst of orange flame that made him shudder and turn away. From down the street in both directions Greg had heard music, the fountains once again and something terrible from the place with the pirate ships.

Greg hadn’t thought Denny’s was that bad, though of course crowded and smelly. And he’d seen people of every type there, despite what Nick had implied earlier, so it was fine with him, even without pancakes. Their coffee however… He didn’t understand how Nick had finished a whole cup.

His limbs had felt momentarily heavy, holding him in place, and even with so much to see he hadn’t minded stopping there, standing next to Nick without speaking and letting the colors in the fire spark when he closed his eyes. He thought maybe Nick hadn’t either; it made the fire last longer, lingering in his mind’s eye.

Of course, once the show had ended and the people around them had started moving once more, they had moved too, falling easily into a quick stroll that had brought them near enough to stare at the hotel with the pirate ships. That show had involved more nearly naked women writhing around, which, although Greg’s knowledge of pirates was mostly limited to Vikings, seemed a little strange. He hadn’t wanted to go in, and neither had Nick, which had left them with the choice of either walking back or down to the smaller, older casinos at the other end of the Strip, until the man with the ring through his nose had walked past them and Greg had remembered his invitation to the party under the lights.

One ride in a cab later and they were in possibly the most awesome place on earth.

“Fremont Street,” Nick sighed, as the cab pulled away from the curb.

It was…loud. Bright. Once the skies had darkened, Greg had thought this town couldn’t get any brighter, the flashing gold and red got almost overwhelming. But this place was something else. All the buildings were covered in the same blinking light bulbs and above them, even without being under it, Greg could see the large white canopy, reflecting the shadows and images projected onto it.

Hundreds, thousands of people were surging around them, heading for the lights, following the thumping bass inside. They bumped against him, hardly seeing him, maybe not seeing him at all, and he couldn’t help it, he grinned and turned to Nick.

Nick was watching him as though he’d known Greg would react like this, smiling faintly. “Go on,” he jerked his head after the crowds and out of nowhere, Greg felt himself laughing like some kind of crazy person as he joined the mass of people and Nick followed after him.

He stopped in the first building, another casino, just to discover that if he put a few quarters in the slot machines, this place brought him free drinks too. He asked for margaritas and said ‘thank you’ each time, knowing Grethe and his Nana would expect it of him. Nick told him that tips were also considered polite, so he did that too.

He looked at the tables, and though roulette looked interesting, he kept to the machines, liking being able to move, liking the pinging sounds they made, and the way the soft white lights made Nick seem to glow.

It was loud inside too, and they had to press close to talk. Each time he shuddered, clutching hard at his icy glass, licking lime from his mouth to whisper against Nick’s ear. Nick smelled of lime too, sipping more beer at first and then giving up and ordering tequila in a shot glass after Greg had yanked him close to see if the handle on the side of the machine worked or was only for show. He wasn’t sure why asking if Nick could pull his handle would give Nick the need for harder liquor, but watching Nick lick salt from his wrist and then suck on a wedge of fruit had made Greg decide not to ask.

If he asked Nick might not do it again.

They left that casino and found another one, and as the night grew darker the crowds pressed in more. Nick’s hand pressed gently on his lower back once, and then again, and Greg reached back when he didn’t need to, his hands brushing Nick’s arms, his side.

He was warm, even with the cooler air, sweating and flushed inside Nick’s jacket, a thousand voices buzzing in his ears but not saying anything at all. Nick was speaking too, a rumbling at his back, warning Greg of things, laughing when the machines awarded him more money.

With each casino he grew hotter, knew he was red-faced, because Nick was too. He wiped absently at the dots of sweat on his neck, slipping out of the last casino and back into the swirling mass of people. He wondered what time it was and looked up, blinking and gasping to see the canopy lit up with melting, exploding shapes and colors that streaked like lightening.

How had he not seen it before? It cast eerie, beautiful shadows on the faces around him, all of them gazing up as though they had found the Sistine Chapel in Las Vegas. It was not that, but it was still amazing, pulsing in time to the music that carried through the entire complex.

“Every hour on the hour,” he thought he heard Nick say behind him, but that was hardly going to stop him now. He worked his way past other tourists and couples, old and young, following the source of the music.

There were streets, alleys too narrow to be streets between the casinos sometimes, leading out to where people simply lived with this so close to them, people gathered there, resting, talking. Some had doors propped open so others could smoke cigarettes, different music sneaking out with them.

He stopped at the first strains of hard guitar, blinking to see more people of his type as Nick had called them, with shaped hair of many colors and jewelry in odd places. He had seemed disapproving, but how anyone could disapprove of the girls in their skirts worn low over their hips so he could see the jewels glittering at their navels, he didn’t know. It was totally hot.

“Hey,” a bored voice spoke at his ear and Greg felt Nick pull back as he turned to see the girl from earlier, the one who had invited him here. He smiled to see her and her pink hair again and offered her a cigarette since he had to do something with them. But she shook her head no, barely glancing over at Nick before looking back at Greg. “You want to dance?”

Which made him stare a little in astonishment, and then look around for a dance floor, realizing a moment later she must have meant inside.

“It must be a bar.” Nick explained shortly. “You should go, G.”

Greg closed his mouth finally, twisting his head to find Nick studying them, not smiling. He was about a yard away, a distance Greg could judge perfectly now. He frowned.

“You’ll come too, right?”

Nick’s eyebrows went up, but he nodded, and then the girl was taking his hand in both of hers and leading him inside.

What was noisy outside was deafening inside. It seemed to grab his heart and force its beat to match its rhythm. A man was singing from the small stage ahead of them, his voice low, and a haze seemed to hang in the air around them, lit up by the lights from the stage. Below that, in mostly shadows, dozens of people were twisting and jumping. His feet moved, carrying him forward only to stop at the edge when the first bodies pressed against him.

There was steady heat at his back, and he could breathe out when he thought of it. Open to anything, Nick had said, and Nick was still here.

He pushed into the mess, darkness and sweat, gasping when strong arms held him and then let go, closing his eyes when a small body wrapped around him too, forcing his hands around round hips if he wanted to stay on his feet. He was turned, then decided it didn’t matter, bouncing and lifting up his arms when those around him melted away and others replaced them. Someone came too close and he slipped away, as simply as that, and he had to laugh.

He couldn’t catch his breath and let his blood throb in his ears, laughing more to imagine Grethe’s face if she saw him now. This must be what his brother felt, this freedom, sweet inside of him like the chill of a margarita, burning like Nick’s mouth near his ear.

He could not stop laughing, barely noticing when one song ended and became another. Hands touched him everywhere, his back, his ass, and he reached out too, not sick at all at the danger, not even feeling any. He couldn’t see faces, not unless he turned from the stage and let his eyes adjust to the flashes of color, but he could feel the weight of eyes. It was a feeling he had known nearly his entire life, he laughed for it now, because he knew who was watching him and it made him want to keep dancing for a long, long time.

But there was an ache in his legs as though he had already been jumping around for a while, and he shivered at how wet he felt, how rough his throat was, as though he’d been singing, or shouting along with everyone else. He couldn’t see where the pink-haired girl had gone and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted and sweaty, unsteady on his feet though he couldn’t taste the lime in his mouth anymore. He wanted to ask Nick how long he had been dancing and opened his eyes, his heart jumping to realize he didn’t see Nick anywhere.

Warms hands slid around his waist from behind, slipping under Nick’s jacket to touch his chest and Greg turned instantly, frowning to see a figure too tall to be Nick.

He shifted, twisting away and moving on toward the edge of the dancers, the rush of cooler air making him stop. He hadn’t realized he was so hot. He must have been on the dance floor for hours.

“Had your fill of dancing, G?” Nick’s breath seemed to touch every part of him that was damp with perspiration, creating a body-long shudder that Greg didn’t try to hide. Nick was in front of him now, breathing evenly in a way that said he hadn’t been dancing, but before Greg could ask what Nick had been doing, Nick eyebrows dropped into something serious. He nearly glanced behind him to see why, but Nick’s eyes were burning hot and steady on him. He shivered and raised his arms, stretching needlessly, his body trembling, his hair wet when he trailed his fingers through it. Nick watched that too.

“I know what I want to do,” he said simply just as Greg finally remembered that Nick had asked a question, that he was supposed to speak and give an answer, and Nick’s mouth quirked up in a slight, rueful smile when it took Greg a second too long to make sense of that too. When Greg got his mouth open, Nick took his hand, sliding their fingers together as they walked out the same door they had come in.

Greg was too busy staring incredulously at Nick’s back and following him out the door to even look back or to think of what he’d been going to ask.

“This is crazy and stupid and also quite possibly dangerous.” Nick only stopped walking when they were under the center of the canopy, once again lit up for the start of another hour. He was talking quietly, and Greg wasn’t really sure Nick was talking to him since the music was really booming around them and Nick didn’t raise his voice.

He hadn’t let go of Greg’s hand, despite his strange words, but his hold changed as he stopped and let Greg walk around to face him. He stopped again, moving one hand in a jerky motion, and then waved it at himself, beckoning Greg forward.

Which would lead Greg to Nick’s chest. He frowned, blinking once or twice, and then turned his head, noticing for the first time that they were close to a stage and that people around them, on the fringe of the crowd, were dancing. Different than the dancing he had been doing, different then formal steps in a ballroom. These were mostly couples, pressed together and swaying slowly.

The band playing had a familiar sound, though Greg only knew a few of the more polite Spanish phrases and certainly not any Spanish language songs. But Nick seemed to. Greg looked back to see Nick’s cheeks darker but his mouth closed tight and stubborn.

“You want this?” Greg asked, quite possibly gaping again like the dork he was. Nick’s eyes narrowed, something uncomfortable passing over his face like he might change his mind. Greg jumped before he could get the chance.

They weren’t dancing but they were much, much closer. They had been this close before, walking, gambling, but never where Greg could see Nick’s face. Nick was blushing, glancing around them once before very carefully putting a hand at Greg’s waist. There had been hands all over him on that other dance floor, heavy and exciting, bodies grinding into his, but none of them had made him feel like this.

“I thought Americans didn’t do this. At least, not much.” His voice was getting high again, but Nick heard him over the music, so it didn’t seem to matter. His comment made Nick let out a long breath Greg hadn’t realized he was holding. He moved, and suddenly they were swaying softly from side to side like everyone else.

“Some people have a problem with it.” Nick didn’t pull Greg closer, and he was still frowning, but his fingers tightened, rubbing Greg’s—Nick’s—shirt and some of his skin. It was slick with sweat. Nick was warm, the outside air was cool, and it was all almost unbearably pleasant, as though every cell in his skin was straining to record every last sensation. He was bursting with need and fear and want and didn’t stop himself from inching closer. Nick didn’t stop him either, continuing to talk softly. “But it’s none of their business. Most people just want to be left alone.”

His eyes stopped wandering over those around them and focused on Greg, moving in as much as Nick would allow. “I get the feeling you understand that.” He let out another breath, then his hand slid slowly, carefully, to Greg’s back. “That, in there, wasn’t really my kind of dancing. You looked like you were having fun though.” Nick leaned his head to one side, calm enough to be almost teasing. As if his fingertips were not pressed to Greg’s spine and stroking gently upward.

“This is your kind of dancing?” Greg was thinking that he was definitely speaking too loudly and also definitely sounding out of breath. “I think I like it.” Not that he also wouldn’t have enjoyed Nick’s hands all over him, their bodies grinding together. This was making him think of that, of Nick’s thigh slipping between his to bring them closer, his hands sliding underneath the jacket, his shirt, without actually giving it to him. It was somehow much more exciting…and much, much worse.

“I kinda hoped you would.” The big, relieved smile Nick gave him after that was enough to remind him that he wasn’t the only dork here. But by then he already smiling back; his face should have hurt he was smiling so much.

“Though that other dancing was fun too,” he added thoughtfully, not really surprised when Nick snorted. His hand curled into Greg’s lower back, brushing against his spine, and it seemed natural to step forward and lean in so closely he could feel Nick’s breath on his cheek. It might have been too far, but with a choked laugh Nick pressed Greg even closer and ducked his head.

Forget that other dancing, Greg decided. This was his new favorite thing, ever. If there were a few startled Americans staring at them he didn’t care. Tourists.

If Nick was embarrassed Greg didn’t mind that either. He moved his hand to Nick’s side, and then his back, feeling muscle through his black t-shirt, impossibly hot. Nick shivered but let him, and Greg bent his head too, inhaling sweat and salt and the same aftershave lotion that Greg had used that morning.

He sighed against Nick’s throat, his eyes falling closed when Nick’s arms tightened around him.

“I…” He jerked backwards at the abrupt silence of the song ending. Nick’s hands dropped though neither of them moved away, and when the sound of the crowd clapping for the last song merged with the opening strains of a new one he finally brought his head up.

“You spent the whole day doing whatever I wanted,” he remarked softly. “Why?”

The lights above had finally darkened, and despite the casinos there were too many shadows for him to read what was in Nick’s eyes. But Nick didn’t look away, only breathing carefully, his mouth falling open the smallest bit.

“It…seemed the thing to do.” Nick looked startled, giving the smallest smile of apology when he didn’t add anything else.

Greg licked his lips, trying to think, trying to think of anything other than doing what he wanted.

“Nick,” he started to say and then felt himself buffeted forward by the movements of the crowd around him. He turned with it, almost had to there were so many heading into one of the casinos, and then tried to turn back.

A hand on his arm stopped him, and if the grip hadn’t nearly crushed the bones, he would have thought it was Nick. He caught a glimpse of a dark suit and glanced up and away, avoiding the sight of the massively broad shoulders of a bodyguard.

“No!” It was the first thing he could find to say, the only thing he wanted to say, and he said it again, shouting it in a rough voice and pulling feverishly at the hold on him. The crowd swirled and changed direction, moving around him but brushing past the other man with the same force Greg had felt earlier.

“I won’t go! Not yet!” Greg told the man fiercely, yanking harder and feeling Nick’s jacket give a little. It was enough to get him scrambling for the buttons. He slipped free of it and the bodyguard a second later and then slipped back into the mass of people, sliding between them.

He couldn’t see Nick anywhere, and now he had to explain the missing jacket. The two thoughts didn’t really make sense together, but Greg focused mostly on the first one, jumping up in an attempt to find Nick. He didn’t see him, but he saw his bodyguard only a few yards behind him.

He ducked and ran as best he could with so many people around him. There were voices raised behind him, angry voices, women protesting, and the crash of glass falling to the pavement.

“Now wait just a minute…” Nick’s voice, trying to reasonable with a man paid not to be reasonable. Greg stopped where he was and spun around, trying to peer through bodies that wouldn’t get out of his way.

“Just move already!” He snapped at them, completely abandoning every lesson Nana had ever taught him, but to his surprise they jumped and moved, shouting at him the whole time. He didn’t really care.

A few feet from him, his bodyguard was half-turned away, twisting to face Nick, who was trying to hold him back with one arm. His other was at his waist, like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there.

“Hey!” he called out and then gulped to feel them both looking at him. A cold lick of terror made him pause and then he was looking around, for something, anything, not a weapon but…

A green plastic replica of the Eiffel Tower got his attention. Without thinking he grabbed it, ignoring a girl’s shocked cursing next to them. He swung it, or tried to. It was too slippery and it shot forward like he’d thrown it, spinning in the air.

He had about half a second to think on how heavy it had been before all the liquid inside—and quite a lot of ice—hit both of the other men in the face and chest.

The bodyguard got the worst, but both he and Nick froze for a moment, staring at him with their mouths open, their hair and clothes dripping with something pale brown. If Greg had had the breath, he might have laughed, but the bodyguard was surprised enough to relax his hold on Nick and Greg shouted at him. “Come on!”

He waved Nick on and then ran back through the crowd, listening for Nick’s panting, impatient voice behind him.

“Cab!” Nick called out nearly at his side a few minutes later, and a gym treadmill had never made Greg’s heart pound like this. He glanced over at Nick, bursting inside for some reason to see Nick so serious despite being drenched in icy cold brown liquor.

They reached the street with the curb full of parked, waiting taxis at the same time, falling into the nearest one and Nick just telling the driver to get out of there.

Nick squelched against the seat when he moved to lean on the door. He didn’t try to dry himself off, only sitting there, catching his breath as Greg was doing.

It was good. It gave Greg time to try to think up a good explanation, to try not to think about what it meant that they were looking for him, and that one of them had found him. He twisted to look back at the lights of Fremont Street and shuddered.

He knew Nick was watching him, his gaze heavy, and slowly turned back to face him.

“Well,” Nick said, stopping to lick at the liquid shining across his lips. That would have distracted Greg into silence even if he hadn’t already been wondering what to say. Nick’s next words surprised even more. “I guess that showed him.”

Greg blinked. Nick just cracked a wide smile, his whole body seeming to lift. He arched one eyebrow and Greg sat up to match it, all the lights of this city inside of him, warm and bright and alive, too much for one person to even hope to contain.

“Did you see that?” Greg wondered in something like awe, throwing his hands out and brushing Nick’s shoulder. Warm and bright and alive, and he could not stop himself from speaking, from laughing, never looking away from Nick’s dark eyes. He leaned back recklessly to hear Nick begin to laugh too, the slow chuckle reluctant at first before his eyes crinkled and he started to laugh uncontrollably, shaking his head at the picture Greg undoubtedly made.

He did not even care about what Nick might be thinking, not in this moment, with everything in the world next to him, inside of him, building tight in his chest.

This is…he thought, then sucked in a breath at the realization.

“We better hope I don’t get pulled over.” Nick said for about the third time since they had left the cab and gone back to the Paris to get Nick’s truck. “They’ll never believe I haven’t had a drink in hours. I smell like a distillery.”

The truck was already saturated with the scent of the drink Greg had accidentally splashed on him. Greg thought about opening a window, but the smell was sweet but not unpleasant. However, he looked back over at Nick, had to look back over at Nick, could not stop looking over at Nick, and felt his mouth turn up into another smile.

“I look ridiculous, huh?” Nick’s short hair was flattened in some places, sticking out in others, trails of alcohol drying on his neck, under his shirt probably—if there was any room left between the fabric now plastered to his chest and his skin. He was still smiling, still flushed with embarrassment and victory, still incredible.

Greg pulled in a breath and shook his head.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have to go home to clean up…change…” There was less and less traffic as they left the city but Nick put his eyes back on the road and kept them there for a while. He cleared his throat.

“I don’t think anyone will stare too much if we don’t,” Greg offered just to get Nick to shoot him a dirty look, to look at him at all.

“I don’t think the guy not sitting here covered in…” Nick shook his head and brought his hand up to swipe at his cheek and then sucked on his fingers. Greg choked as they slid in and out of his mouth, but Nick didn’t seem to notice. “Oh man I think I’m wearing a Mai Tai.” His eyes widened and no matter how Greg was sneaking looks at Nick’s chest he still snickered, what people called joy waiting just beneath his skin, in his stomach, demanding he laugh or speak or simply move when he should not do either.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he spoke hurriedly to prevent other words from escaping, “but for a while you had what looked like a cherry stuck to your shoulder. I think it fell off.” It had, in truth, captured his attention for most of the ride back to Nick’s house, his mouth alternately dry and then wet to imagine the taste. He wondered what was in a Mai Tai.

“In my truck?” Nick glanced around the darkened interior for a moment, sounding alarmed. Then he shot Greg another look. “Oh ha ha.”

“I’m not making it up,” Greg answered with his eyebrows up and when Nick muttered under his breath and jerked his attention back to driving, started to laugh again. He knew it would not take long for Nick let out a tiny chuckle too, and he only smiled wider when Nick finally did. His whole body burned at the sound, making him glad it was dark inside the truck.

“The look on that guy’s face…” Nick trailed off, easing to a stop. Greg looked around with a start.

“You didn’t look too happy about it either,” he pointed out quickly as Nick turned off the truck. He looked over, found Nick staring at him but Nick looked away.

“That ice hurt,” he insisted lightly a moment later to the window as the interior lights dimmed. With a sigh, he opened his door and got out. Greg followed after him, without a sound until Nick stepped onto the step in front of his door and Greg got to see the thin trail of Mai Tai that had gone down Nick’s back. Greg’s hands curled on their own, already knowing that the fabric of Nick’s shirt would be soft, that his skin would be hot.

Nick must have known the stain was there. He turned around suddenly and actually tried to wiggle his eyebrows. “You should see the other guy.” He was smiling again as he slipped inside and started turning on lights and Greg couldn’t help it; he had to laugh with him, so hard his chest hurt and his cheeks felt sore with smile. Nick’s wink silenced him for a moment, left him startled and too curious, but Nick turned to close the door and then disappeared into the bedroom. “Just a sec.”

The couch-bed was still out, the sheets and blanket as Greg had left them. The television set was black in front of that, large for such a small room; Nick must watch a lot of television.

He could hear water running for minute and Nick’s hushed movements, but the house was quiet while Nick washed the liquor from his face and neck, probably removing his shirt to splash water on his chest.

Greg shut his eyes, then opened them when the image in his mind only got stronger. He walked straight to the television and pushed the button to turn it on. Advertisements blared at him but he left it where it was, looking around the rest of the room in the way he hadn’t been able to do that morning.

He counted the number of Texas-related articles decorating the room. Then the quiet, controlled voices that had echoed in his dreams last night began speaking and he turned back to the television.

“Those who hoped to get a glimpse of royalty at the week-long tech convention were disappointed today. The younger prince of Norway, His Royal Highness Gregory Sanderson, did not attend as scheduled, citing illness. There were no statements on whether or not he would be there tomorrow, but those in charge of the conference offered their best wishes for his good health.”

Greg blinked, his hand moving much too slowly to turn it off. The man and woman relaying the news paused. “Of course, in Las Vegas a sick day is just another way of saying a late night, right, Diane?”

“Perhaps the prince is more like his infamous older brother than anyone knew, Tom.” Her smile showed too much teeth before she changed her expression and moved on in that disturbing way reporters had. “In downtown Vegas today…”

He pushed the button at last, listening to heavy, uneven breathing in the silence that followed, straightening and turning around in one move when he realized it wasn’t his.

Nick was leaning against the wall in the doorway of the room, just as he had done that morning. This time Greg recognized the fierce concern in his expression for what it was.

“There was nothing on.” Was all Greg could manage for a moment but Nick just nodded his head once, slowly. He was still wearing his sticky t-shirt, though drops of water sparkled in his hair. He had a small hand towel in one hand, almost as though he’d hurried out of the bathroom.

“I…” Greg tried, clearing his throat when it tightened too much for him to speak. “I should probably return…to my group…when we go back into Las Vegas.” He wondered if his hands were shaking.

He dropped his eyes but could still see how stiff Nick was, unmoving for what felt like a long time. His hands were steady. Maybe he was only shaking on the inside, as dizzy and unsteady as he’d been leaving the dance floor.

“I guess people must be worried about you by now.” Nick agreed finally, leaving the wall to step into the room.

“Yes. Yeah,” he tried that word out, possibly his last time doing so. He licked his mouth, wishing for a drink of water. “It wasn’t considerate of me to run off as I did.”

“Hey. Everybody deserves a sick day,” Nick declared, his voice rough. Greg glanced up sharply, but Nick was looking at him the same he always had, as though Greg was nobody special, and then somehow as though he was very special after all. It made his body give another long, obvious shiver. Nick noticed everything; he would notice that.

“I’m sorry about your coat.” It was not the missing jacket making him shake. He put a hand to his stomach, felt it tight and humming under his palm the way Nick’s skin had felt through his t-shirt as they’d danced.

He opened his mouth and tried to calm down.

“Sacrificed for a good cause.” Nick dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “…As long as you had fun today.” Once again, Greg looked over and found Nick looking away, studying the damp towel in his hands. He twisted it so that a few drops fell to the floor. Nick didn’t seem to notice. “Did you get to do everything you wanted to do?”

That question was worse than the thought of a dozen press conferences. In less than a second Greg was trembling, his skin too hot and his throat constricted, trying to stop the need from rising, trying to keep him from saying the words on his tongue. He had no right to ask. He did not deserve it. But he wanted. He breathed out, shuddering.

“Greg?” Nick let the towel drop and came closer. Without looking, Greg could imagine the frown of concern, his hands reaching out to smooth over his shoulders as though Nick needed to touch to reassure himself. Nick’s hands moved up with sudden urgency, sliding through Greg’s hair. Nick’s gaze followed them, traveled over Greg’s face when Greg let his eyes drift closed. His skin felt alive, on fire and sensitive, his blood roaring in his ears like the cars of a rollercoaster climbing higher.

Nick’s fingers glanced across his collar, warm through his shirt, and Greg brought his head up.

“No,” he dared, knowing Nick would not understand his whole meaning.

“This is…” Nick’s grip tightened, not enough to be painful, and Greg brought his hands up, holding them over Nick’s chest, already aware that this was not wise.

He bent his head and moved his lips to kiss Nick’s startled, opened mouth. He tasted water on Nick’s lips, inhaled breath that wasn’t his own, and trembled at the swell of heat and light behind his eyes before he pulled away. He ran a finger over his lips once, unable to believe himself.

He thought about trying a smile, another laugh, but opened his eyes and did nothing at Nick’s silence.

“G?” Nick said at last, surprise in his voice. Greg kept his head up, shifting once, his body demanding that he move even when he knew he should be still. He had wanted that kiss, and he wanted to do it again, and all of that was probably clear on his face anyway, so there was no point in hiding it anymore.

He ran his tongue along his lips, trembling, and Nick’s fingers swept up to his neck, moved along his jaw. They were shaking too, but Nick’s lips were firm, murmuring warm reassurances against Greg’s mouth when Greg gasped. It’s all right, G, the voice of his dreams whispered into his mouth, on his cheek, and he could feel it in the careful slide of Nick’s hands on his back and chest.

He should not. For a moment he could still recall enough to know that he should not be kissing Nick But he was, it was his mouth now, pressing quick kisses along Nick’s jaw, his ear, working slowly back to Nick’s mouth, murmuring words in return when Nick’s hands seemed to bring out the glow he had felt earlier, made all him burn and gasp and demand more.

Nick’s hands. Nick’s mouth. The shops, the dice, the icy drinks and yellow sun, they hadn’t even come close to making him feel this mindless, delirious and hot and free.

Greg groaned suddenly, leaning back, leaning in, plunging his tongue into Nick’s mouth, swallowing the heavy, aroused sounds that Nick made when he did, so much better than margaritas and chocolate ice cream.

Fumbling hands at fifteen had been nothing like this. He was aching and on fire in seconds, yanking Nick closer to him and gasping between kisses. He slid his hands down over sticky fabric, sliding beneath it to find hot skin. His palms felt hungry for it, his fingers curling to scratch with his short, smooth nails at something that could not be real.

But Nick was real, pushing against him, letting his hands roam where he wanted. They trailed down his spine, along the waistline of his jeans, at his ribs and over the hard peaks of his nipples until Greg realized he wanted everything.

They fell back, the couch-bed catching them, though Greg had to tear his mouth away to breathe. Only a moment, but he was shuddering and seeking out Nick’s mouth blindly in the next second, sliding back and stretching out to feel Nick’s legs on either side of him. He was moving, grinding like the bodies on the dance floor, rough against the denim of Nick’s blue jeans, hard just where he wanted it.

His hands did not stop, peeling the sticky shirt from Nick’s stomach and over his chest, pausing only to let Nick pull it from his shoulders and toss it away. He stared for a moment, thinking that half of Nick naked above him would do for a start. Then he grabbed Nick’s hips and urged him down, sprawling out underneath him, hot to the touch at how eager he was.

But it was so good, he told himself, squirming under Nick’s fierce, open-mouthed kisses. All of it, impossibly good, unbelievably good. He could hear himself saying things when his mouth was not busy exploring the taste of Nick’s skin, didn’t care when Nick was biting softly along his neck. Nick’s skin was salty and clean where it was not sugared and fragrant with Mai Tai, smooth around his shoulders but with hair leading down from his flat stomach.

And Nick answered him, warm honey and porridge now, rumbling in his throat when Greg licked there, breathless and twanging when Greg tried a bite as well.

The bed creaked with their weight, their motions, and he couldn’t find the breath to laugh when they both scrambled at Nick’s belt buckle, when Greg couldn’t sit up to remove his shirt and left it bunched under his arms while Nick licked and sucked across his chest, through the shirt when he could not stop to get it out of the way. Greg pushed up into that too, not bothering to be still, smoothing his palms over the small of Nick’s back. It was soft, warm with good health, damp with sweat.

“Please,” he started babbling, murmuring it over and over when Nick’s mouth stayed at his nipples for too long, the pressure sharp and exquisite, making him need something else, anything else, as long as it was hard and fast. He felt as though he was pushing down, his hands straining with the effort, only stopping when Nick let out a small chuckle.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nick spoke sarcastically, but that was all Greg registered the moment Nick’s breath was wet on his stomach. He struggled to look down, to focus, his chest locking when he saw Nick’s dark eyes glancing up at him.

Greg’s hands moved, his fingers straying into the hair he had imagined was sleek to the touch. He found that it was a little coarser than that, but that it still brushed against his palms. Nick’s neck was redder than the rest of his body, darkened from the sun, making him curl his fingers there, the markings only making him curious to see more.

He wondered if Nick minded it that Greg was a little too thin even if he had muscle, what Nick really thought of his new hair. But he could not ask; his mouth releasing only strangled gasps when Nick crawled lower and ducked his head.

His body was strung tight, arching up for Nick’s every move, hot because of Nick’s tongue, his mouth taking him in. Too hot. Too perfect. He took his hands from Nick and buried them in the blanket, holding on as tight as he could. He closed his eyes, fighting it because this could not end. But Nick’s hands were large and heavy on his hips, holding him down, giving himself the freedom to drive Greg crazy, to make him open his eyes and whisper things he shouldn’t. Nick’s name, pleading and whiny, Nick’s name, demanding. He ached for being still, for not touching, and brought his hands back up, clinging to the slick skin of Nick’s back when it was too much.

He shook as he came, trying to keep his eyes open, failing when the heat pooled in his blood and made it heavy.

He opened his eyes to stare at the same white pillow he had first seen that morning, the dark blue fabric of the couch, not at all sure how much time had passed. He twisted slowly away from the pillow that was not Nick, rolling sleepily to the side and staring at the handsome, blushing face of his rescuer.

His own blushes should have set the blanket on fire.

“I didn’t think…” Nick started and stopped. Nick was kneeling next to him on the mattress. Greg blinked, wondering just how much time he had wasted, lying there mindlessly, nearly laughed to imagine Grethe trying to schedule this for him, five to ten minutes for His Royal Highness to recover from orgasm, except when he thought it over it really wasn’t that funny.

“Thank you.” He smiled at Nick, aware it was the same ridiculous grin from before, the one that came from deep inside and escaped with no warning, not caring, not with Nick smiling back. His smile started whole new fires burning in his stomach, lighting him up from his toes to his fingertips and Greg moved to sit up, to start again with Nick beneath him, but Nick’s smile dropped from his face and he looked away.

“You might want to clean up, before you…before we head back.”

Oh, Greg thought, his mouth for once remaining shut. He flattened his smile, his body growing cooler.

He lowered his gaze to the faint traces of his hold on Nick in the patterns on his skin, traces he could have examined for hours longer. He did not know yet if Nick always kissed like that, if he tasted the same all over, how long it would take him to recover if Greg made him come with his mouth.

Like so many things, it wasn’t fair. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He remembered gripping the blankets, the mattress, holding on as though he might fall. His stomach hurt with the silence, the light turning to acid and leaving him sick.

“You’re covered in Mai Tai,” he responded at last in a small voice, trying for politeness. “And it’s your house. You should go first.”

He half-expected an argument, the way Nick argued over money and opening doors. But with a noisy exhalation and a careful look to the side, Nick got up and left the room. The couch-bed creaked, and his footsteps were nearly silent on the floor, down the hall to his bedroom once again. Greg tracked each sound before realizing that he had closed his eyes.

After a minute he heard the rush of water as Nick turned on the shower. He tried not to hear it, tried not to picture Nick in there, though that was exactly what he had done that morning and now he had so much more to fantasize about.

His skin felt too sensitive, most of him naked and laid out on the uncomfortable mattress of Nick’s guest bed. Despite what he had just done his body gave a throb at the memory of Nick’s mouth. His lips felt dry and cracked, his hands empty no matter how he pulled at the blanket.

He thought of Papa Olaf, of what he would say about that no matter what the circumstances, and ran his tongue over his lips.

He got to his feet before he could think better of it, his heart thumping the moment he was moving, telling him he was wasting time.

He was shaking as he dropped his t-shirt on the floor behind him and walked down the hall.

Nick had not closed the bathroom door, and Greg stepped in carefully, peering through the steam and the fogged glass doors of the shower. Nick was standing under the spray without moving, shivering despite the obvious heat.

Nick who went without sleep for him, who spent his money and free time with a stranger to make him happy, who did not take his vacations from work. Nick was naked and trembling and still aroused under the water of his shower. Greg felt weak to see him there.

He shook his head, reaching out and seeing his hands slow and clumsy as though he had been drugged again. It was only for a moment, and then he was sliding his hands quickly over the wet glass.

He opened the door and stepped inside, not really caring what the water was going to do to his hair, that he still had socks on. Nick looked up in surprise, taking a step back and ending up against a tiled wall. He didn’t speak until Greg stood in front of him and closed the door behind him.

“You don’t have to…”

“What I want…” the words spilled from Greg without thought, steam stinging along his skin. He frowned, for some reason annoyed that he would have to tell Nick that he wanted this, his stomach flipping with an uncontrollable fear even as he touched Nick and felt his skin spark. He bent his head, feeling Nick push out a breath when his lips connected to his skin. Greg put his arms around him. He wanted to smile, to seem calm, but when he looked up and saw Nick looking so serious, he had to lean in, kiss him again. He wanted so much than that, wanted it so much it hurt, and Nick spoke softly into his mouth, like he knew that.

His mouth was warm and wet, hungry but careful until Greg pressed for more. He didn’t say anything else when Greg licked his throat and kissed his ear, or when Greg slipped a hand between them.

Nick’s hand gripped his forearm, just a moment, tight and warm, sliding away only when Greg looked up and began stroking slowly. He could be just as careful. He needed Nick to know it, needed to put his other hand into Nick’s and lean against him.

He loved Nick’s mouth, he discovered again, his hands exploring Nick’s body this time to find where Nick liked to be touched most, lingering there. His hip, his thigh, a sensitive spot by his ribs. His fingers mapped out courses, following the clues in Nick’s rough sighs, the push and pull of Nick’s hands against him. Greg liked that too, his head swimming. He wondered if everyone felt this need to laugh, to kiss, to wrap himself so tightly around Nick that he could feel everything he felt.

He smiled, still slowly, still careful, breathlessly aroused when he made Nick bite his lip and grunt softly, when he squeezed his eyes closed and put his head back to the wall.

Nick put one hand to the small of Greg’s back and swayed. His other hand digging into Greg’s hip, close to hurting. Greg pushed into him, his hand slipping, growing faster. He could not breathe with the knowledge that Nick wanted inside of him, the realization that he would allow it, that he wanted it too.

He could not even imagine being inside of Nick, his body tight and tense at only the thought. He leaned forward, sliding his tongue between Nick’s lips. He put a hand to the wall, hot from Nick’s body heat, and tried to remember why he had come here, what Nick needed. He knew Nick had been thinking of that on the couch before, and he could give him no less.

Nick growled low in his throat when Greg pulled away, opening his eyes wide just as Greg fell carefully to his knees. He put his hands on Nick’s hips before Nick could say anything, then licked a new taste from Nick’s skin.

He discovered that he liked the weight on his tongue and then that he loved it when Nick shivered and shook with each tightening of his lips. Greg knew he was too slow, then too fast, that he could have been better, but Nick only sighed his name, Greg, as he filled Greg’s mouth, and ran his hands over and over again through the dripping strands of Greg’s hair.

He didn’t demand anything when he should have, and Greg thought he would remember that most of all.

They hit every red light on the way back into town. Nick wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for that.

It was too quiet in the truck, but after hearing that little bit of the news in the TV, there was no way he was going to turn on the radio. That left talk, and even though his throat was thick with words, Nick couldn’t find the right ones. Maybe there weren’t any. Maybe he was the wrong guy for this. Maybe the right guy would have taken a nearly-unconscious guy he found on a bench to a hospital or into the hotel and left it at that. He definitely wouldn’t have played along with an innocent prince’s fantasy just to avoid getting into trouble at work.

That wasn’t fair, Nick argued silently with himself, with Grissom, and bit down hard to keep from saying any of it out loud.

That was only the start of it, and now because of what he’d done, it was going to be the end of it too. That was all this was, a fantasy, a dream.

The truth didn’t sit easy. Just like his lies. He wanted to be sick, wanted to stand under the streaming water in his shower for a week and he was never going to be able to do that again without thinking of Greg.

If he hadn’t been driving, he would have closed his eyes. His hands closed on the steering wheel anyway, wanting more of Greg’s skin, flushed and warm, freckled in the oddest places. The rest of him had been smooth, pale but still with a hint of almond, as though it would only take the smallest bit of sunlight for Greg to tan. And then, across his shoulders, on one hip, a sprinkling of freckles, and though Nick had tried, he hadn’t had enough time to find them all.

Greg had laughed when he had realized Nick had been trying to count them, falling silent after a while with a pleased, bright smile. Half-dressed after another raid on Nick’s closet, Greg had met Nick’s gaze and laughed, finishing changing slowly in front of him, not even a little embarrassed.

He had laughed more at Nick’s scowl and blush, though Nick should have guessed that Greg would be shameless now, Greg who had followed him into his shower, had hinted that he wouldn’t mind Nick for an audience all the way back in that small, awful casino.

“You should always wear my clothes.” He felt stupid the moment he said it, freezing only to find Greg grinning over at him.

“I seem to.”

Maybe his family had kept their eye on him for a good reason after all. That smile could make Sara Sidle quiet and take a man’s breath away. That smile could do anything, and somewhere out there, someone was going to try to take it from him.

Nick glared at the oncoming headlights and slowed down for yet another light.

He wasn’t ready for this. He had thought he was, but… He glanced at the digital clock in the dashboard, then out at the dark night sky. The red changed to green, and he pushed out a short breath and put his foot on the gas.

He looked over; the first time he’d allowed himself to do so since getting into the truck. Greg was in the passenger seat, just like he had done the first time he’d sat there, but way too awake and aware for all that he was quiet.

He had on one of Nick’s shirts again. Something plain and black, one of the ones Nick wore to work. It was tight in the shoulders, especially when Greg suddenly straightened and sat up, then the stretched cotton pulled against his collarbone. Greg’s skin seemed too pale next to the black no matter how much Nick tried not to think of it warm and pink, of what it had looked like, seeing Greg yank up his shirt to expose that much skin, how it had tasted…

He closed his mouth, then opened it again, breathing heavily.

The trust in Greg’s eyes, he hadn’t been able to face that. Greg’s lies were nothing, understandable, but Nick hadn’t been able to see him roll over like that, tired and happy and satisfied, beaming that ridiculously bright smile at Nick. He’d been beautiful, and Nick had had no right to do any of this to him.

He’d left and Greg had followed him, brave and determined, and Nick might have told him that, should have, pulling Greg up to him afterward, kissing his mouth and his wet face, threading his fingers through clean, dripping hair.

Nick looked over again, to the hair that had dried only to stick out in several directions, remembering how Greg had ran his hands regretfully through it and made a joke about the effort it took to keep it flat. Nick had almost kissed him again then, needing to run his hands through the silky soft, crazy Bird of Paradise hair, taking a step and only stopping at the sight of Greg once again dressed. Dressed and ready to leave.

“Don’t worry about getting the clothes back to me.” He spoke suddenly and Greg jumped, shooting him a look before sitting back up with perfect posture. His hands came up and then fell back to his sides. His fingers toyed with the button that controlled the window, but he didn’t lower it.

“I already have so much to thank you for.” Greg’s voice was even, as level as his gaze, straight ahead on the road.

Nick swallowed, already too familiar with the polite, press conference voice of the prince. His heart kicked painfully against his ribs, fast and hard. His mouth felt dry, his skin damp with something like panic.

“Not yet,” he said out loud, earning him another look from Greg. He shut his mouth and brought up a hand to rub at his mouth, his eyes, nearly knocking off his glasses.

After a day in air-conditioned casinos, his contacts had gone beyond uncomfortable, but he had still felt strange, walking out of his bathroom and seeing Greg stop to study him.

Nick always felt older and slightly nerdy with his glasses on, felt it even more with Greg sitting in his kitchen, wearing his clothes and running his hands through his wayward hair to dry it. But Greg had smiled.

“You wear glasses!” was all he had said, as though secretly pleased, his grin widening for a moment at Nick’s slight blush. Only a moment after that he’d gone still and moved his gaze away, remembering what was right before Nick had.

Except it didn’t feel right. It couldn’t be right. Not with someone like Greg forced to be so still and quiet, to say only what was polite and correct when he had so much more to offer than that. No matter what the reason, it wasn’t right.

Nick slowed down though the road was mostly clear. He squeezed hard on the steering wheel and then jerked his head up.

“You should smile more,” he announced, wincing at how stupid he sounded, giving an order like that. But Greg twisted to stare at him, his mouth falling open in obvious surprise.

There were too many lights ahead. Vegas, getting closer by the second, and here he was saying things he shouldn’t be saying, or at least, not what he should be saying right now when there was so much else to say. But he licked his lips and cleared his throat and went on.

“You should do whatever it takes to let you smile more. No matter…whatever else you have to do, life isn’t all about the job, okay?”

Greg opened his mouth wider, obviously with the intent to speak and Nick cut him off with a frustrated gesture, slicing his hand through the air. “I know what Sara told you about me, but I want you to know, today was, today…” His throat, his chest, so tight he couldn’t breathe until he shook his head and moved away from that subject. “You reminded me today how important it is not to let the job be everything. To do what you want sometimes. Okay?”

He breathed out, long and shaky, heard Greg swallow.

“Should I say the same to you?” Greg asked after a pause, bringing Nick’s head around. Greg had his lips curved up in a teasing, soft sort of grin, his eyebrows up as though Sara had somehow told Greg more about Nick than Nick had thought.

He frowned and turned back to the road before the corner of his mouth turned up. He had a feeling Greg saw it anyway. Only his sisters and Catherine ever teased him like that, and thinking of them now just made him want to smile more. He thought that maybe Greg would like them, that they’d like Greg, even if that would be more than a little awkward, bringing Greg home for a family barbeque.

And Catherine…Greg would love Catherine. It was hard for anybody not to love Catherine. Warrick might find him a little weird at first, but Grissom wouldn’t. Grissom would hear Greg asking a thousand questions and lift one eyebrow before encouraging him to go on. He’d probably even invite Greg into one of his experiments.

It was so easy to imagine it that Nick blinked, trying to shove away thoughts of what was never going to happen.

“We’re almost there,” Greg remarked, as though Nick needed another reminder, as though the city weren’t looming in front of them, the light from the Luxor pyramid shining like the North Star. But maybe Greg was eager to leave, maybe he’d had fun but was ready to go home. Just because Nick felt strung out and furious, because he wanted to be sick and close his eyes and pretend he was anywhere else, it didn’t mean Greg felt the same. Greg was calm, his hand on the door as he stared out the window and didn’t look at Nick. “You can drop me off where you did before.”

Nick nodded, his voice gone.

The tech convention was going on for a week, according to that news show, and Nick tried to imagine himself asking if Greg was going to be in town for the whole thing, if they could meet up later, like this had been some ordinary date, some one night stand, and they’d get together for coffee afterward.

It was about as dumb as imagining taking Greg back to Texas, stupid for so many reasons. There was no time in Greg’s life for someone like him, even if that Mrs. Andersdatter would let him close enough, even if Greg wanted her to. And then, Greg would know that Nick had known all along, and why wouldn’t matter. Nick was not going to be the one who took today from Greg, no one would if he could help it.

They were on the Strip now, passing the New York, New York, but he couldn’t make himself look. Greg was on his side, swinging around to look at the Paris as they passed that too. He had to stop at a light and make a turn to get to the Bellagio. He hit the turn signal and then clenched his jaw at the measured sound filling the space between them.

Nick didn’t have a lot of one night stands and he had never had a day like this. Whatever he was supposed to say here, he didn’t want to say it.

He tried a smile, the kind of horrible, fake smile he used on suspects, and shivered before he let it fall away.

The traffic was light for Vegas after three am; he changed lanes and pulled into the right lane, ignoring it when people honked. There were already a few taxis stopped alongside the curb to let out drunk tourists getting back to their hotel. Despite the honking, most cars just went around them like they weren’t even there.

He put the truck into park but left the motor running, easing back against the seat and pulling his hands from the wheel.

Greg stayed where he was, sitting straight with his hand on the door.

“Thank you again for today,” he said in the polite tone Nick was starting to hate and took a deep breath. He dropped his other hand to his seat belt and it slid back to the seat, the sound jarring as the metal hit the door. He was going to leave. But he didn’t, he stopped and looked over, quiet and unsure in a way a guy like Greg should never be.

Nick moved.

The cabin of the truck was big, even with the cup holders and the emergency brake in the middle of the seats. His hands found Greg’s sides immediately, his fingers traced the lines of his ribs, only visible because those people needed to make sure he ate properly, then slid up to the broad shoulders covered by Nick’s t-shirt, familiar muscles that Nick had kissed, had soaped down in his shower, his fingertips tracing over lines of freckles. He couldn’t see them now and shouldn’t be thinking of them, because he was never going to see them again.

Greg shuddered, and Nick felt hands on his back, arms warm and tight around him, pulling them close. Greg’s fingers worked up his spine, along his jeans, moved around to stay resting over his heart. He put his face against Greg’s neck and listened to Greg’s fast breathing, just as uneven and frightened as his own.

“I’ve seen you, and there’s nothing you can’t handle.” He could barely hear himself, his voice gravelly and low, but Greg nodded jerkily into his shoulder. He was still breathing too hard, and Nick raised his hands to stroke through his hair, cupping the back of his neck until his breath slowed. “Hey now, there’s nothing to worry about,” he spoke soothingly, shivering despite the heat of Greg wrapped around him, rubbing his lips into Greg’s skin. “As long as there’s a Mai Tai around, you can take on anything.” He even smiled at the memory.

Greg coughed into his shoulder, the sound almost a laugh.

“I am open to anything,” he agreed quietly a moment later, coughing out another almost-laugh. He shook as he let out a long breath then gulped down another one.

“I have total faith in you.” Nick closed his eyes, opened them. His palms were alive with Greg’s skin, the imagined feel of it through his clothes and his fingers curled into fists as he made himself let go. Greg’s hands tightened around his shirt, slid away as Greg lifted his head to look at him. His eyes were round and dark in the dim light, so serious it was hard to believe it was the same man who had first looked at him so brightly.

“But if you ever need anything, you know where I am.” He meant it, felt it trembling in his gut with a hundred other things that were just as true. Greg’s full lips quirked up, something different from any of his other smiles, and he ducked his head in a nod.

He pulled away first, facing the passenger door and curling his fingers over the handle. The door popped open an inch, letting in the sounds of traffic more clearly, the distant bustle of the casinos, talking billboards, porn vendors.

Nick looked down at his lap, at fisted hands, curled around the lingering heat from Greg’s body, then jerked his head up at the sudden slide of motion over the seats.

Greg’s hands seized his face and Nick caught a glimpse of the wild determination in his eyes before he pressed his mouth hard against Nick’s, before Nick pressed back, hard enough to bruise, to leave them both trembling and hot.

He tore away to breathe, stopping for a second to breathe, a second of aching and waiting, of not being able to look away, knowing too much, and then Greg was kissing him again, and again, quick and rough, hesitating between each one, speaking softly in a language Nick didn’t understand. He thought he heard his name, wondered if this was a thank you, opened his mouth anyway, letting Greg tilt his head back for more. Need was sharp and hot in his bloodstream as he imagined the salty taste of blood on his swollen, sore lips, knowing Greg’s lips were sweet.

“Please don’t follow me,” Greg spoke in English again as he abruptly yanked himself back, leaving Nick to shiver and struggle to breathe. Greg put his hands at his sides, and his face was pale. He stared at Nick and then closed his eyes before sliding back and out the door. He closed it before he opened them again, setting his shoulders and walking quickly down the sidewalk.

He didn’t look back, and it only took moments for him to disappear inside the hotel.

~~~



It had been easy to walk to the front desk of the hotel and ask to put through to his suite, even easier to say, when the woman employee had asked who was calling, that he was Prince Gregory Sandersson of Norway. His voice had not shaken and his eyes had not looked away.

Perhaps it was because her expression had been almost comical, and he found himself turning to share a look with Nick. Perhaps it was because he felt torn in half by the ache in his body to realize that Nick was not there, could not be there. That he had left Nick in his truck and had come back to this. That all of that was already gone.

He wondered how he looked to her, in his ill-fitting clothes, Nick’s t-shirt too tight around his shoulders, if he was white-faced and shaking. But once her brief phone call was over she had only regarded him with a polite smile and walked him to an elevator.

“I’ll ride alone,” he had murmured without a glance at her when she had made to follow him into the car, and barely noticed when she had instantly nodded, and stepped aside.

Inside the car was silent, disorienting to see his reflection in the burnished metal without any large figures blocking the view. He stood up straight, letting Nick’s shirt rub along his shoulders, as warm and soft as Nick’s hands.

The memory had him trembling until he pushed it away, focusing on what lay ahead.

The doors opened into a familiar white foyer and he had scarcely stepped out of the elevator when Grethe appeared, seemingly in the same suit she had last been wearing, not even slightly wrinkled.

Greg’s chin came up as her gaze raked over him, lingering on jeans, on his hair, and then he was gaping, frozen in place when she walked quickly to him and put her arms around him. She seemed small, suddenly, smaller than he had ever thought she was, somehow never noticing that in fact she barely reached his shoulder.

“Your Royal Highness is well?” she spoke stiffly into his collarbone, and while Greg was awkwardly lifting his arms to rest his hands at her back, she made a sound a lot like a sniffle. His throat tightened and he swallowed. He could feel her concern in every not-quite-steady breath she took, even if she hadn’t proved it with this uncharacteristic embrace.

His throat closed once again, his eyes dry and stinging. He wanted to hug her back and tell her what had happened, to confess everything about his day, about Nick. He couldn’t, not yet, too much still locked in his throat. So he sighed, reaching up to pat gently at her back.

“I am sorry I worried you, Grethe,” he whispered instead and heard the sound of another hidden sniffle.

“As you should be,” he was reminded instantly and let his hands fall away as Grethe stepped back to her normal, respectful distance. The skin around her nose was pink, but her face showed no other signs that she had just hugged him, that she had worried for Greg and not just Prince Gregory.

Despite everything he felt almost grateful for the sudden distance, trying for the same calm, the same silence that had always been between them even if he was nearly shivering with cold. Because he wanted to hold her again, he thought, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He wanted to call his parents, to run back to Nick…but he only stayed where he was, standing straight under Grethe’s close scrutiny.

“You have returned.” Grethe swallowed and spoke, her voice clipped. “There are people I must speak to.”

“I can do it,” Greg shot back without thinking, watching her careful pause and slight frown. But she nodded, the barest possible dip of her head, and then turned to lead him into the next room.

In the other room there were people, most unfamiliar. He saw the large, looming presence of two bodyguards, with no sign of the one he had drenched in Mai Tai. Korsvald was waiting in one corner, his gaze jumping right to Greg before he smiled nervously.

Greg took his gaze away without smiling back, observing the men in suits gathered around one couch. One had a star pinned to his coat pocket and a face lined with worry despite his strangely twinkling eyes. Next to him was a man with a grey beard, wearing a vest much like the one Sara had had on. That drew Greg’s attention, but he had a feeling he would have been staring at that man even without it. He completely ignored the taller, balding man smiling at him and looked on. Behind them, against another wall, were a beautiful older woman with red hair and a tall, handsome black man, both wearing dark blue jumpers and carrying black cases.

He did not think they were doctors.

“So this is the missing prince?” the man wearing the star spoke softly, seeming amused. “He looks okay to me.”

“Jim,” tsked the redhead against the wall, pursing her lips and grinning at the same time. She looked right at Greg and winked. “The city doesn’t seem to have treated him that badly.”

“Yeah, let’s get out of here, if y’all don’t mind,” the black man added. If he cared that there was royalty in the room with him there wasn’t any sign in his voice. Greg’s head came up, his eye wide.

“That will be all,” the balding man spoke suddenly, his voice flat and commanding. The two against the wall just shrugged and walked out, still holding their cases. The redhead shot Greg another wink, somehow encouraging, and he felt his mouth curve up in polite acknowledgment. Any other night but tonight and a grin like that would have had him babbling in an effort to make her do it again. That was the kind of smile a man felt in his hip pocket.

“These are the men who have been searching for you,” Grethe stepped forward and gestured graceful introductions, completely unnecessary introductions that she would never have performed before. These were, after all, not people Prince Gregory should be talking to.

He swallowed and stepped forward, nodding his head without speaking at each name. Conrad Ecklie of CSI, Captain Jim Brass of the LVPD. The bearded man, it seemed, did not warrant an introduction just like the other two who had just left. But the same curiosity was on each face.

Greg kept his mouth closed.

“We’ll get out of your hair for now, but first we just need to make some things clear,” Captain Brass took the lead, barely glancing up at the top of Greg’s head as he said it. But the bearded man looked amused anyway, as though the two men had worked together long enough to understand even unspoken jokes. “You weren’t taken out of here? …I need to hear from his lips,” he put a hand up when Grethe made to speak and, shockingly, she kept quiet.

“I left of my own free will,” Greg replied instantly. “I am sorry if I inconvenienced you,” He met the twinkling gaze and saw one eyebrow go up. But the man nodded and, even more shockingly, continued to address Greg. Another time and Greg would have flushed with excitement to be taken seriously; he breathed out, and offered another small smile. Captain Brass seemed to take that for an answer, and Greg found himself grateful once again for the sensitivity of the Americans he had met today, at odds with everything he had ever been told of them.

“We’ll have more questions in the morning, but for now why don’t you and your people get some rest.”

“On behalf of the Las Vegas Crime Lab I want to say again how glad we were to be of service,” the balding man, Ecklie, added. Greg almost turned to Grethe at that, questions about the past twenty-four hours streaming through his mind. But he nodded and though Ecklie’s smile dimmed when he didn’t speak, he nodded back and followed Captain Brass to the door.

“There is nothing like returning to a place which remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” Greg’s attention fell back on the bearded man at the soft remark. He blinked, recognizing the understanding on his face as the same look Nick had once given him, still not knowing what he had done to deserve it. His face grew hot and he swallowed, wishing fiercely to be alone.

“Gil…” Ecklie warned and Greg would swear the man’s eyes twinkled as much as Brass’ had.

“I’m sorry,” Greg burst out, his words coming out in the fast, anxious way they had when he had first started doing public appearances, far beyond his control. “But do you know a woman named Sara?” he asked, dropping his voice when he realized that for whatever reason he did not want others to know. He gestured at the vest the man was wearing, though pencils and pens and a pair of large lab goggles in one pocket obscured his name.

He snapped his mouth closed to realize how desperate he sounded, knowing he could not communicate with Sara... or with anyone that Sara knew. He smiled a familiar, cool smile and stepped backward. “Never mind.” He shook his head in a vague farewell when Gil’s mouth formed a surprised, thoughtful line and aimed his gaze elsewhere when Gil chose not to say anything about that and simply followed the others out of the room.

The elevator doors chimed. Greg imagined them sliding closed, taking the last of the American strangers out of his life. He glanced down at his feet and then swept his gaze back up.

He was tired, his body shaking with the events of the day, nerves that would have had him throwing up just yesterday. Only a few feet away was his bedroom, where he could finally be alone if only to sleep.

He took a step and felt the nearly silent motion behind him.

“You may stay here,” he flicked a look to the bodyguards, saw them exchange a look. Without turning he knew Grethe paused, knew she signaled the men to remain behind even if she didn’t speak. He also knew she disapproved. He just couldn’t seem to care.

“Korsvald will bring your water.” Grethe spoke softly at his back as he moved, but he didn’t realize how close she was until he stopped and turned, forcing her to take a step back.

“No. No water,” he said, more forcefully than he meant to. His voice was rough, it took effort to calm himself.

Grethe’s eyebrows went up, a line appearing between them. Korsvald made a noise, choked, almost hurt, and Greg looked to him. They had wanted what was best, but they hadn’t known what was best for him. He had to tell them, to ask for what he wanted. He inhaled and nearly gasped at the lingering scent of Nick on his clothes.

“And… and I’ll take coffee in the morning,” he told them quietly and turned back to go on to his room.

There were spots of black smudge on the window to his balcony, though the rest of the room looked spotless, no doubt recently cleaned. The grey suits were no longer on the edge of his bedroom and he nodded to see them gone.

He stared after them for a moment longer anyway and then spun slowly on his heel to look at Grethe and Korsvald, both hovering near the doorway, staring at him carefully. He didn’t think they would give him drugs again, but they were watching him, concern and unease on their features.

Greg licked his lips, brought a hand up to run it through his hair, hot all over at the instant memory of how Nick had done the same.

“I can make an appointment for your hair tomorrow,” Grethe jumped in, her hands curling around themselves, making Greg realize with a start that she didn’t have her Blackberry.

“No!” The order was louder than he’d intended, making Korsvald flinch. Greg put his hand down and set his shoulders. “Sorry, but no, the hair stays. And…” he swallowed, sliding his palms over the warm denim of Nick’s jeans. “I’d like to go shopping for some new clothes.”

“Those are not what your family wishes…”

“They are what I wish, and so they’re what I will wear!” His heart was hammering as he interrupted her, his voice getting loud and hoarse. “If they are a mistake then they are my mistake and I’ll deal with it. If I’m going to do this then it has to be how I want.”

“If?” Grethe sucked in a harsh, shocked breath as though Greg had struck her. “It is your duty…”

“Do not…just do no talk to me about my duty!” Greg cut her off, just as harsh. “Not right now, not ever.” He made a swift gesture with one hand and put his shoulders back. “I’m the one who has to stand out there alone everyday, I’m the one who will face this for the rest of his life, for the good of my family and my country, instead of doing what I want.” He would not think of Fremont Street, or Denny’s, or margaritas, or the taste of Mai Tai. He would not think about cheeseburgers, or horrible moving statues, or how fun it was to bring a blush to Nick’s face, or that he would never get to do that again. But his voice became uneven, his words spilling out too fast because he was thinking of them anyway. “If I didn’t know exactly what my duty was, I wouldn’t have come back here tonight. In fact I…I probably wouldn’t have come back here again,” he couldn’t breathe. “…ever.”

His pronouncement was so final that he almost flinched. He’d move if he could, pull away, try to soften the words though he meant them, every single painful word. But he kept quiet, breathing hard in the silence, hearing the others do the same. He did not know it could hurt so much to simply speak, that it could leave him with the same shaking sickness as a rollercoaster. He had lied to Nick; he had been terrified of that ride.

But he did not take back his words.

“Tomorrow you must…” Grethe started, then stopped, gazing at him with her mouth a taut bow. She twitched and went on, smoothly with no sign whatsoever that she had ever stopped, that she had seen Greg’s slight wince at her words. “Tomorrow we should schedule time to speak with the American police, and see if it is possible to still attend part of the conference.”

Greg blinked at the abrupt change in subject, remembering to nod only after several long moments.

“Would you like to speak to your parents now?” she went on to inquire politely, distantly, and Greg closed his eyes. After a moment he shook his head. He did not quite trust his voice, not for a few minutes more. He could not talk to his mother like this, she would worry.

“Tomorrow, but you may tell them I’m fine tonight,” he spoke at last. “I am tired and would like to go to sleep now.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness. Korsvald.” Grethe ducked her head low, her face expressionless until Korsvald stepped from the room. Then a strange light appeared in her eyes. She inclined her head again, slow and gracious, something he remembered people doing for his Papa Olaf. Greg shot her a look, then quickly turned away. “Good night,” she wished him simply and closed the door behind her.

Greg stood where he was, shaking obviously now that he was alone. He bent his head, his shoulders falling.

He licked his lips and slid a hand down to the pocket of his jeans. His fingers closed over the small, almost forgotten piece of paper and he closed his eyes as he pulled it out.

He felt the rough scratch of the torn piece of paper napkin, felt the lines of Nick’s handwriting, the numbers and letters that spelled out the address of Nick Stokes. He had not taken the napkin from his pocket once all day. He didn’t remember the address, not the way he remembered first seeing Nick’s dark eyes watching him, that wide, unbelieving smile when Greg had sat up in bed and greeted him.

He had forgotten to ask why Nick had found that so amusing, or for more details of how they had met. He supposed it didn’t matter, when he had had so much more to talk to Nick about, when there had been other things to share between them. But he frowned for the questions anyway, wanting to glare at the silly little fragment of paper, torn and already shredded from a day in his pocket.

He opened his eyes, looked at the address he could follow right now, this very moment. He had said he would stay, but the guards were dismissed, Grethe gone, he could do as he pleased, as he wanted.

“I have total faith in you,” Nick had said, his voice no longer smooth like it had been in his dreams, like it had hurt him to speak at all. Greg nodded, just as he had then, knowing what Nick meant. It was why he had come back to kiss him again when he shouldn’t have, and probably why Nick had let him.

He held his hand out and watched the small piece of paper flutter into a small, discreet trash bin.

Then he turned his head to stare out the window, at the constant, glowing lights of Las Vegas.

The call had come sooner than Nick had expected.

He had driven home and undressed, pulling down the blackout curtains in his bedroom as though it was just another morning after a long shift. He had turned on his cell phone and set it with his glasses on the nightstand. He may have even slept, he wasn’t really sure.

But the ring hadn’t startled him, and seeing Sara on the Caller ID had only made him pause for a second.

“Nick.” He could remember Sara’s voice easily, hesitant and unusually gentle. “Grissom wants you to report in tonight, but come in at nine.” She’d waited a second before going on. “In his office.”

Nick looked up. From his chair in front of Grissom’s desk he could see all of Grissom’s experiments, past and current. Yesterday he had been worried he was going to end up like that dead pig floating in a jar, now he was just staring at how the fluorescent lights hit the glass, imagining Greg’s reaction to it. He’d probably think it was gross for all of a second and then start in with the questions on how and why it got there.

Then as his thoughts seemed to always circle back, he wondered if Greg was all right, which was stupid and a waste of time, not that it had kept him from wondering for the past few hours. He’d been right about that when he had told Sara that Greg didn’t need saving. It had taken Greg less than a day to conquer Nick, Sara, hell…the whole damn city.

Greg had been, what, a one night stand? And it was foolish of Nick to still be thinking about him, hoping he had stood up that woman, and his parents, hoping there wouldn’t be any serious repercussions, when Nick was the one whose job was in jeopardy.

By now they would have at least seen Nick inside of Caesar’s the other night, even if they hadn’t seen him with Greg—with the prince—and there was still the matter of how he had acted toward a witness, and such an important witness.

He should have known then. He closed his eyes only to open them again when the door opened.

Sara stepped into view, her jaw working as she sat down in the chair next to him.

“Sara?” he asked anyway. Her cheeks were flushed, which with her tight jaw, meant she was worked up over something, but she managed a smile.

“Would you rather it was Ecklie?” she teased him, sounding as merciless as ever, but her eyes were all melted chocolate.

Nick swallowed, then shook his head.

“They called us all back just before dawn,” she remarked, dropping her voice until she was whispering and Nick looked away, not wanting to know what he looked like to make Sara speak like that. Her hand landed carefully on his knee, drawing his attention back.

“Was…?”

“Oh good, you’re both here,” Grissom spoke merrily from the doorway and Sara jerked to attention, pulling her hand back. Nick straightened up, already wincing to hear the soft note of pleasure in Grissom’s voice that meant he was about to stick another T-pin in whatever he was dissecting. Then he closed the door behind him, which was never a sign of anything good.

He walked to his seat behind the desk and took his time getting settled, leaving Sara to fidget and Nick to watch silently. When he evidently felt they had waited long enough, he looked up, looked each of them in the eye with the blank face that, according to Warrick, had won more than its share of poker games.

His gaze flicked to Sara once or twice then fixed on Nick. Nick stared back for a moment then he felt himself frowning, gritting his teeth to keep himself from shouting for Grissom to get it over with. He was fired, he was suspended, he was transferred to Days, whatever it was he just wanted to hear it and go home.

“Nick, you can report in for your shift tonight, in fact, you’ll be covering Warrick since, due to recent events, he has had to work two doubles back to back. I told him he could have the evening off.” Grissom’s tone with mild, maybe even amused, and Nick blinked. He jerked his chin up and tried not to look at Sara.

“Sadly, and also due to recent events, this is the case with many of the team, so all available CSIs are needed in the field.” It was the Grissom version of a slap to the face, a reminder of just how hard everyone had been working.

It stole his breath for a moment and Nick glanced down. “What about Ecklie?” he asked when he looked back up. At that, Grissom’s lips twisted.

“Conrad is…busy at the moment…and likely to remain that way for the next several hours. I doubt he’ll remember about you until later in the week.”

“Something to look forward to,” Sara joked and Nick shot her a grateful look. Grissom focused on her too, and her smile faded. Grissom’s never left his face. Nick didn’t blame Sara at all for shifting in her seat.

“I get the feeling you both have something to tell me,” Grissom remarked mildly and Nick felt his mouth fall open. He pulled in a deep breath, cold in his dry, rough throat, and then raised his chin.

“Yeah,” he agreed, as steady as he could manage and Grissom’s smile widened.

“Good. Unfortunately I don’t have time to hear the whole story right now. There’s an… event that requires my presence. Yours too, Nick.” His gaze transferred to Sara. “And yours.”

“I…what?” Sara’s eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously.

“You’ve been specifically invited, Nick, but even if you weren’t, I’m sure Ecklie would say the Lab demands it.”

“Invited where?” His heart was finally starting to slow down, but Nick couldn’t help leaning forward, scowling at the thought of some office party or official gathering. He wasn’t in the mood for something like that. He didn’t even like crowds; he would never have even gone to Fremont Street if it hadn’t been for Greg.

There was a place with magic programmed every hour on the hour and Greg had made it somehow seem real. That he knew it all fake and planned didn’t matter, not the way Greg had simply seized the moment, seized Nick as though he was a part of it too, as though Greg didn’t realize that he was the one making it so special.

Nick lowered his head and stared at the edge of Grissom’s desk, trying to wipe thoughts of Greg from his mind, at least until he was out of this room. But Grissom was Grissom, and made him jump with only five simple words.

“The prince returned this morning,” Grissom tossed out and Nick didn’t care if Grissom was his boss, and a good one, or if he was possibly the most brilliant forensics analyst inside or outside of Quantico, he snapped his head up and stared hard at him.

Grissom stared back, too damn calm, too goddamn knowing. Nick inhaled through his nose and clenched his jaw, not giving one good goddamn about what his mother would think about all his swearing.

“He’s all right?” he asked at last, breathing heavily.

“Nick…” Sara whispered just his name, as though hearing it didn’t make him think of the way Greg had said it, like he was happy just to be saying it.

“He’s fine,” Grissom assured him softly and abruptly leaned back in his chair. He let out a sigh and lifted his glasses to rub at his eyes. Sara twitched. “He’s more than fine. I suspect…” he left that thought unfinished, trailing off before he focused on Nick again.

If Warrick had been working doubles back to back, then probably so had Grissom, and Nick fought the urge to duck his head and apologize. It only got worse when Grissom went on.

“Shortly before dawn this morning he walked into the Bellagio under his own recognizance, slightly changed in appearance,” Grissom’s eyebrow went back up and Nick raised his hands briefly without thought, proclaiming his innocence on that one, “…but none the worse for wear.”

“That’s…” Nick took a moment. “That’s good.”

“That’s what his assistant—you remember Ms. Andersdatter, Nick?” Nick barely felt that jab but Sara’s snort said she got it. Nick just closed his eyes and nodded. “That’s what she thought as well. After a brief interview last night, and another longer one this morning, the LVPD has decided to close the case, such as it was, and to cease any and all further investigation about where His Royal Highness was from sunset two nights ago to dawn this morning.”

Nick’s eyes opened. Sara pulled in a loud breath.

“How did that happen?”

“Both His Royal Highness and Ms. Andersdatter were insistent that no more of our department’s resources should be wasted on what was, in their words, a harmless, impulsive adventure.”

Nick’s lips tightened. Her words more likely. Sara jerked forward and waved a hand.

“And that’s it? All our time spent looking for him and we get a thanks and don’t let the door hit you on your…!”

“…Sara!” Nick interrupted her no matter how rude it was, and she blinked, her indignation slipping away once she realized what she was saying.

“As it happens, the Royal Family would like to express it’s gratitude to the department…” Grissom hadn’t even once raised his voice to counter Sara’s.

“…For our discretion…” Sara grumbled, but quietly. Grissom ignored her, which only made her grumble more.

“A sizable donation was made to the Officer’s Retirement Fund…”

“Hush mon…”

“Sara, shut up.” He’d be begging for the chance to apologize later, but now Nick just did not want to hear it. He sat forward and put his face in his hands for a moment, knowing he was likely imagining the look Sara and Grissom exchanged. His thoughts were racing, skipping back around to Greg when he tried to focus. He didn’t understand any of this; Grissom probably knew all of it anyway, he’d hinted as much.

“In addition, His Royal Highness’ people thought it would smooth things over if he made a goodwill tour of the department and the labs, met a few of the people who had looked for him.” Nick jerked his head up, blood rushing in his ears, his stomach knotted so tightly he could puke his guts out, and Grissom—Grissom, turned away from his stare. For about half a second, Grissom looked uncomfortable. “Ecklie is walking him through the building now.”

Greg was there. There, at PD, in the labs, within reach.

Nick’s eyes felt too dry, his hands aching from holding tight to the sides of the chair.

He wouldn’t be hard to find, his outrageous hair in a sea of close-cut conservative hair and blue uniforms and white lab coats. He would be surrounded by them, all of them, all of them gawking at the visiting royalty and probably not caring what visits like this would take out of someone like Greg, the energy it took to keep going, to maintain the polite appearance. They wouldn’t even know that he was being polite, they’d be too excited to ask about him, what he liked, what he wanted, what he dreamed of.

If Nick went out there, if Greg saw him, he would light up, glow like neon until he realized exactly what it was Nick did here, how Nick had lied, and there was no way Nick could reassure him, not with so many others around. Greg would hate him. And even if he didn’t, it wasn’t like Nick could just smile at him and pretend it was all okay when he let him go again. He had already done that last night; Grissom couldn’t expect him to do it again.

“I can’t go out there,” he ground out, ready to confess if that’s what it took.

“You can and you will.” Grissom cracked down suddenly, standing up and pulling off his work vest to reveal a clean, white dress shirt. He seemed at a loss without the vest, giving it a puzzled frown before laying it across his desk. It made him somehow un-Grissom-like, like he was suddenly the kind of considerate man who would give Nick a moment or two to absorb all this information without peering at him.

But Nick wasn’t just his employee, he liked to think they were also sort of friends. His eyes burned, his throat suddenly thick, because that was exactly what Grissom was doing.

“Why?” Nick’s voice broke on the one word. He could feel the embarrassment stealing across his cheeks but didn’t try to hide it.

“Ms. Andersdatter has specifically requested the member of our crime lab who found the drugged, nearly-unconscious prince in the street and kept him from harm in his time outside her care be here, so she could tender her thanks in person. Evidently she’s more attached to the prince than she lets on.”

“She did?” Sara asked what Nick couldn’t, her disbelief obvious. Grissom shrugged, still making a show of straightening up, cleaning his glasses.

“If her timeline differs from the one Catherine and I worked out, it doesn’t matter, the case was closed.” For the first time in several minutes, Grissom’s merry, wicked smile returned. “And as for you, Sara, I thought you might like a chance to say goodbye to a friend.”

Grissom studied his watch while Sara tried to keep herself from gaping. She looked over at Nick then dropped her gaze, spinning in her chair as Grissom walked around from the desk and headed to the door.

“You know, I found him very interesting,” Grissom talked like he was having a conversation with Brass, the words washing over Nick’s neck and back when he didn’t turn around. “It’s not my place to judge the need, if any, for placing emphasis on one human being over another simply due to birth and bullies for ancestors, but I think the world could use more leaders as curious and bright as this one seems to be. I think,” Grissom paused at the door to muse, “I think this one might make us proud someday, if we trust him enough.”

“They should be in the waiting room taking pictures right about now,” Grissom changed the subject with his parting words, then disappeared, the door shutting with a click.

“Do you think I should clean up?” Sara spoke into the silence and Nick actually took a moment to look at her, his eyebrows up. She grinned, a kind, playful grin that made him smile back, just a little. But he didn’t move when she got up.

“After all, it’s not everyday a prince visits the lab,” she offered wiping her hands over her jeans, hesitating before leaving her work vest on. Her slight, sudden frown meant that she was going to demand the full story from Grissom after all of this was over. Nick wondered how long it would be before he would be able to ask her to tell him what Grissom said. He knew he couldn’t today, that he wouldn’t tomorrow either.

“Nick…” she tried again when he didn’t move.

“Don’t, Sara,” he warned in the lowest, safest voice he could manage. He looked upward, and something flickered across her face. She licked her lips and flipped her hair up into a loose knot at the back of her head. She didn’t seem to notice the lab glasses around her neck, that there was a smudge across her cheek.

She nodded once, firmly, and left him alone in the room.

There was a lot of noise outside, a lot of voices, a lot of shoes squeaking, scuffing the floors as people left Booking and the Interrogation rooms and the many labs to come stare at their visitor.

Nick turned his head to listen, wondering just how deserted the labs were now, how Greg could stand it, being surrounded by so many people demanding something of him all the time.

Did he peer over their heads, looking for something calming and familiar, or just block it out and put that MP3 player in his ears and crank it up as loud as he could to forget it all? It was the only space he’d had for himself, before; there was probably no reason to think it would be any different for him now.

Nick’s hand was on the doorknob before he even knew he had gotten up, and then he was out in the hall, following the figures in the white coats down another hall, past Reception and Brass’ office, to the sudden crush of people circling the waiting room, not even trying to pretend they weren’t there to watch him.

The walls were glass. Even at this distance Nick saw him, his hair still defiantly up in all directions, brown and gold and shining under the flickering lights. He had on patterned dress shirt in a pale blue that Ms. Andersdatter would never have chosen, loose over dress pants, unbuttoned at the top to reveal a black t-shirt that could have been stolen from Nick’s closet.

That it probably had been only made Nick move closer, issuing distracted apologies to the people he displaced as he did. He was breathing too hard, his mind stuck on the fact that Greg was still wearing his shirt.

There was no tie, only a suit jacket to match his pants, also unbuttoned. He looked comfortable, elegant in the rumpled way that rich people always managed, as casually beautiful as Nick could never be. He also looked tired, shadows beneath his eyes no matter how much he smiled, and Nick stopped outside one glass door, taking his eyes away for a moment to locate the security guards, Ms. Andersdatter, Ecklie and Brass, the Under-Sheriff, the Sheriff too, with Grissom somewhere nearby.

Someone, a few people, were taking pictures, mostly on their cell phones, and the occasional flash made Nick blink, though Greg didn’t seem to care. He kept on smiling, nodding at whatever boring crap Ecklie was probably telling him. It was his polite smile, and Nick realized that he hated it.

He was probably the only person in this room to even know Greg had a different smile, and though they had no right to see it, Nick wanted them to, to know he was something more than just a stupid title.

They would never think he was a guy who loved chocolate milkshakes and babbled about chemistry the way other guys talked about girls, a guy who had shyly dropped to his knees in a shower to suck Nick off, and then whispered with a hot face pressed to Nick’s throat that he wished Nick would fuck him. That he had freckles and had gripped Nick’s hand just as tightly on that damn coaster as Nick had gripped his, that he had pretended to smoke just so Nick would think he was experienced. As though Nick hadn’t seen him choke on his first lungful.

He shook his head at the memory, grinning despite himself, not saying a word when Sara appeared at his side.

Somewhere ahead was Catherine’s flaming red hair, bobbing as she introduced herself to Greg no matter how much Ecklie scowled. Greg liked her just like Nick had known he would; it was subtle how his face changed, how he leaned in, let his eyebrows arch up in real interest.

Nick had never felt jealous of Catherine before. But all of the things knocking the breath from him and leaving him tight and punch drunk today, that was nothing. He watched as she gestured around, to Grissom, then to the Lab itself, twisting around with a slight frown until she saw Sara.

“Sara Sidle,” he heard even with so many talking around them, and Greg lifted his head sharply, focusing on Sara in an instant. His wide, pleased smile was easily the brightest thing in the room. Nick breathed out, holding still as Greg’s gaze swept over Sara, his smile dimming after a moment as his mind worked out the connections, her vest, Grissom’s, what it meant, what it meant that he had met Sara before, not-so-innocently over coffee.

Sara held just as still, and then, almost helplessly, turned her head to look at Nick.

Greg’s throat moved as he swallowed, some of the color leaving his face as he looked over too.

His eyes were dark and frightened, confused when he saw Nick in the same vest, saw the white stripe that said “Stokes” clear as day. Nick only stared back, studying the high cheekbones as they flushed pink, the full lips as they firmed.

“Greg.” His mouth shaped the name, but he couldn’t tell if he said it out loud. Greg’s eyebrows dropped together and he looked away, directing a look at Ms. Andersdatter, then at Catherine when that didn’t seem to answer his questions.

Greg’s eyes came back up, like he couldn’t help himself, and Nick couldn’t put a hand out, couldn’t do anything more than try to smile, thinking of anything that would let him.

There had been a cherry on the floor of his truck he had noticed on the way into work. He hadn’t picked it up, even though it was going to rot in there in the sun and leave a stain on the carpeting.

He shook his head, slightly and Greg glanced at Sara, blinking.

“His Royal Highness is actually quite tired, so if you all will excuse us,” Ecklie announced over the noise of the crowd and giving no sign that he saw Catherine’s annoyed glare.

Greg yanked his attention away, directing a quiet, feverish remark at Ms. Andersdatter, who, to Nick’s amazement, turned her disapproving look on Ecklie. But the people around them had quieted down at Ecklie’s words, all of them still staring at Greg, and Nick wondered if they expected him to give some kind of speech.

“He doesn’t look like he’s ready to go,” Sara commented, loud enough to be heard in the parking lot. More than a few people turned to look at her and her grin only got wider for the attention.

Greg stared at her, momentarily captivated, and then he let out a breath so deep Nick could see his shoulders relax. His lips curved up, and he swept a look over the room, stopping at Nick. Nick shook his head the tiniest bit and felt his smile widen as Greg’s eyes immediately brightened.

“You have a remarkable city.” He bowed his head in momentary acknowledgement and somehow the whole room was silent, waiting for him to speak. “I…I’ve had more fun in Las Vegas than I have ever had…than I have ever had anywhere else…” Greg paused, his long lashes fluttering as he blinked a few times, and he jerked his head away to look out over the crowd. His lips formed a smile, the smile, the grin that made something warm bloom in Nick’s chest, made his heart pound and his stomach flip over, his skin hot where he had last felt Greg touch him. He was smiling, and knew that every reclusive lab rat, every tired lawyer, every hardened beat cop and detective in the room was smiling too. It was smile or move forward and grab Greg and babble out every word suddenly rising in his throat.

Greg only inclined his head once more, as though he owed them, and then his eyes found Nick again. “I wanted to thank you for allowing me to visit it safely,” he told him, “I will never forget the way this city has treated me, no matter where I might go.” His throat moved, forcing down just as many unspoken words. Nick put a hand out, but Greg’s head came up, his expression polite and distant. “You should be very proud,” he finished quietly, his eyes going wide when some people began to clap. His face and neck darkened with a familiar color and when he glanced at Nick he gave a pleased, slightly challenging little grin.

Ms. Andersdatter pulled discreetly at his sleeve after a moment, whispering something in his ear. Ecklie and the Under-Sheriff were at his other side, forcing Cat out of the way, and suddenly there was Grissom. Nick blinked at all the bodies in motion, the resumed talk, the excitement, standing up straight to see better.

“I understand your background was in science, perhaps you’d like to see our Crime Lab,” Grissom offered clearly and Nick knew Greg was nodding and sucked in a breath before he even heard the answer.

“I’d love to see your lab,” Greg assured him, already looking ahead. “Maybe I could meet some of your…criminalists,” he hardly paused over the new word, already pushing through the crowd like someone who had lived in Vegas for years.

He got held up by a giggling, blushing Jacqui and then a sour-faced Hodges, who looked pissed even as he shoved Bobby out of the way to introduce himself. The DNA tech, Wendy, gave Greg a once-over and Nick’s eyes narrowed as they shared a grin. But in seconds Greg was pulling away from her, surging forward to Nick only to stop awkwardly once he was a few feet away.

He looked at Nick, then at Sara. Sara put out her hand.

“It is so very nice to meet you.” Nick could hear the mischief in her voice; there was no way Ecklie was going to miss it.

“You have no idea how pleased I am to meet you as well,” Greg responded formally. He took Sara’s hand in both of his and shook it slowly. They grinned at each other like old friends for a moment, and then Greg’s mouth opened as he pulled in a breath.

He set his shoulders back, his brows dropping in a slight frown.

Then he looked over at Nick.

Nick put out a hand he knew was shaking and let Greg take it. Greg’s fingers curled around his, warm and strong, gripping tightly as though he could feel the roar around them too.

His eyes would not leave his face and Nick dragged his gaze over Greg’s cheeks and jaw, his silly hair and the soft lips.

“How do you do?” he tried out and watched Greg’s mouth fall slightly open.

“How do you do?” Greg answered as he was supposed to while his eyes lit up like bonfires. It would have been impossible to not love him.

Nick tried to say that even if he couldn’t, even if there hadn’t been the eyes of the entire PD on them, if it had even possible to drag Greg to a room somewhere private and hold him for a while longer, even if everyone here wasn’t starting to see just how special Greg was now that he was leaving. And they were, every one wanting Greg to look at them, but this, this was his, and he tried to say all of that, finally closing his mouth and just giving a small nod.

Greg let out a breath, just as small, just as careful, his gaze setting Nick on fire too, and then his hand was sliding free of Nick’s as he was urged on for more of the tour. He met Archie somewhere behind him. His voice sounded subdued, dazed as he said hello. A beat cop got him after that, and then Detective O’Malley, and then Nick couldn’t hear anymore.

He stayed where he was as the crowd followed him out, closing his eyes as Greg turned the corner and vanished for the last time.

It was quieter without him, just whispers and the occasional footstep as the cops who had remained behind tossed their heads and got back to work. Sara was still beside him, her body twisted as though she had seen Greg leave, had waited to see if he would turn back when they both knew he couldn’t. He wouldn’t; Nick let out a breath.

“Nick…” Sara tried, after a long moment, and Nick shook his head and opened his eyes to offer her a smile before he had to look away from what was on her face.

He cleared his throat and kept his smile where it was as he started to walk in the other direction, knowing he had work waiting for him in Grissom’s office. Sara was still behind him, watching him like she knew everything, and she didn’t. She never could.

“You know how the slogan goes, Sara,” he called out, and the rest of his words echoed off the shining walls of the station around them.



And then...maybe...an little something for those who wish the ending were different. Secret Ending

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