Title :: You Don't Have To Promise More Than You Want To
Author :: kissingchaos9
Fandom :: CSI: Vegas
Rating :: PG
Pairing :: Nick/Greg
A/N :: Post-Grave Danger. Title taken from "Troubled Mind" by Catie Curtis. Thanks to beingothrwrldly and an_sceal for all their help in saving this one, which I lovingly refer to as "The Texas Fic of Doom."

***

The heat in Texas is oppressive, humidity at 100% and he misses the dry heat of the desert. It's raining today, huge drops that steam when they hit the concrete. He's barefoot, standing in the rain on the patio in a t-shirt and shorts. He's alone for the first time in weeks, and he's standing in the rain, hand out, watching the drops splashslide and collect in his palm.

The rain on his palms is Morse code but he can't decipher the message. He's out of practice, not since Boy Scouts, and he concentrates. He thinks he almost has it, but he loses the rhythm. He closes his eyes.

long long short

He remembers, pushing through doors in his memory. There's a book inside, he thinks, an old guide book on the shelf in the den, but he doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to move his hand. Doesn't want to lose the message. He concentrates.

long long short
short long short

The rain is warm, pooling in the cup where head, heart and love form parallel lines. He can feel the steam curling up around his legs, warm and soft. He opens his eyes, squinting around blurry spots where his eyelashes clump together. He concentrates.

long long short
short long short
short

It was a flash storm, no warning at all. He ran out the backdoor when he heard the first thunderclap, watched the drops as they soaked into the cotton. He thinks of baptism, being washed in sacrifice, becoming clean and whole again. There's a message here, he can feel it. He concentrates.

long long short
short long short
short
long long short

And he gets it. Message received, loud and clear, and he can't breathe.



+++




He's dialed the number once since he left, at a payphone downtown when he found two quarters in his pockets. He listened to the voicemail message and hung up, but the voice echoed in his brain, fifteen seconds becoming hours and days.

He wants to call, now. The rain wants him to call, and he's sitting on the couch with his feet under him, curled into a ball with the phone in his lap, and he wants to call. Now. He dials seven numbers and hangs up. He dials eight, nine, ten, and it's ringing and he can feel his heart in his throat. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to explain rainstorms and Morse code, and when it beeps all he can think is "Come. Here." and he says it.



+++




He doesn't look at his missed calls before checking his voicemail, and when he hears Nick's voice he stops mid-step. His heart is pounding and he can feel the blood in his ears and he presses one to repeat the message. It's Nick's voice, Nick's voice and it's two words and Greg tries to tell himself that he doesn't know where "here" is but he knows, he checked the prefix of the phone number and he figured Dallas anyway.

He listens again, and again, and a part of him wants to take the phone to Archie and have the message analyzed. He thinks he hears rain in the background, maybe thunder, and Nick's voice. "Come here," and Greg goes.

Grissom nods when Greg turns in the leave request, tells him to go, they'll cover, they'll figure something out, there's Catherine and Warrick and Sara and go go go and Greg goes. The next available flight leaves in six hours, and he packs in ten minutes so he sits, at the airport and drinks a Coke and worries, frets and stresses, and it's only after the plane has taken off that he realizes he doesn't know where he's going. He only knows why.



+++




"St-- Hello?"

"I'm here."

Nick puts down the bowl he's drying and leans against the counter. "Greg?"

"I'm here, Nick."

He runs a hand over his scalp and frowns. "What does that mean?"

"The Hyatt-Regency in the international airport. Room 862. I didn't-- You said to come. I'm here. I came."

Greg hangs up, or gets disconnected, but the phone is dead and Nick stares at it for ten, twenty seconds before clicking it closed and putting it back in his pocket. He didn't think. He hadn't wanted, except he had, and he's here, now, and it's still raining and Nick's sandals are soaked when he gets into his truck.



+++




He stands in the lobby with his finger over the elevator up button forever, dripping slightly and arguing with himself about the validity of stress-induced claustrophobia.

It's eight floors up and he thinks he can just take the stairs but that's silly, it's silly, and now there's a woman standing next to him waiting for him to press the button so he does, and when he gets in he stands in the back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Greg's room is the last room on the right, the one closest to the stairs, and Nick thinks, 'murder central,' and flinches as he looks out the window. He knocks once, softly, and there's a little part of him that's genuinely surprised when the door swings open and Greg is standing there in a T-shirt and jeans. Nick doesn't know what to say, really, or what to do so he stands, hands in his pockets, looking but not really looking. Greg watches him, frowning, then turns and walks into the room and Nick follows because he doesn't know what else to do.

Greg sits on the edge of the bed and looks out the window, through the small slit in the sheer curtains and Nick looks, too, and they watch an airplane take off and Nick wonders where it's going, who's on it and are they running from or to someone, something, and Greg looks over at him and frowns again.

"Is that what you're doing, Nick? Running away?" and Nick realizes he said it out loud and he sits in the chair at the desk opposite Greg and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.

"I didn't even know you were gone. Or where you went. I mean, I knew, because for Archie there's no such thing as an untraceable phone number, but you didn't even tell me. You didn't even leave a note." Greg's voice is low, even, but Nick can tell he's upset, angry or hurt or both, and he can see the muscles in Greg's arm flexing as Greg curls and uncurls his fists in his lap.

Nick nods, because it's true and he still doesn't know what to do, and with the rain in his palm everything seemed so simple but now he's confused and frustrated and lost. He holds out his palm in front of him and closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and when the press of Greg's palm against his makes him open his eyes, Greg is kneeling in front of him with wet cheeks and wet eyes and when Nick reaches out and pulls him closer he can feel the moisture on his neck. Nick never wants to be dry again.

***

The first thing he notices when he wakes up, before he even opens his eyes, is that he can smell Nick. It doesn't make sense, because he bought new sheets and washed them with a different brand of detergent the night that Nick left, bought new pillows, even, because the smell made his heart ache. So there's no reason his sheets should smell like Nick.

Except these aren't his sheets, because his sheets are sateen and soft, and these are cotton and not exactly soft, and there's an arm draped around his waist. The room is pitch black when he opens his eyes, but he rolls over and Nick is there. Sleeping. Nick is there, and Greg remembers, now, that he's in Texas. Nick said jump, and Greg said how high. It's how it's always been.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. Nick had been pretty much incoherent, mumbling things about the rain and Morse code between sobs, until Greg convinced him to take his Xanax and breathe. Greg moved them to the bed, wrapping his arms around Nick and trying to convince himself that this would be enough, for now. There would be time, later, for questions and answer and explanations, but for now he could be content just to hold Nick.

But he hadn't slept in days, it seemed, and the clock on the nightstand reads one-fifteen. The doubles and triples since Nick left have wreaked havoc with his sleep schedule, and he's pretty sure his body has completely given up.

He tries to focus on Nick's face but it's too dark, and finally he rolls over and turns on the lamp. It's too bright, really, but at least now he can see Nick. Nick, sleeping. Nick, curled into his side, breathing softly. Nick, here. It's been weeks. Twenty-seven days, actually, and Greg could probably calculate the seconds if he took the time, but he's torn between dwelling on how long it's been and trying to figure out how long he has.

He reaches out and traces the lines in Nick's forehead, trailing his fingertip along the curve of Nick's cheek. Beautiful, even with the ghost of death behind his eyes, and Greg's heart cracks again.

Nick's eyelids flutter softly and Greg ghosts his thumb over each one. Nick opens his eyes slowly, registering Greg with a look of confusion. Greg smiles and leans forward and kisses Nick on the forehead.

"Hey."

"I thought it was a dream."

Greg shakes his head, lying back down with few inches between them. "Nope. You said to come. I came."

Nick touches Greg's neck, his shoulders, his side. "The rain told me to call you." When Greg frowns, Nick tries to smile. "I feel like I'm losing my mind, Greg. I can't seem to get a hold on anything. I can see it, I can see myself standing out there, just out of reach, but I can't touch it." Nick closes his eyes, breathing deeply, and Greg wonders what he's missed in the last twenty-seven days.

When Nick opens his eyes, they're glistening. "I woke up one morning and I didn't know what to do. I didn't...I couldn't figure out to get out of bed. There're so many pills and I'm so fucking empty and full at the same time. And then my mom called, and she said come home, and I didn't understand what she was saying but I wanted to go home. And then I got here, and this isn't home anymore. This is...this is what used to be, and I don't want that. But I can't find what is. I don't know what is anymore."

"Did you ask your therapist? About changing your meds, or doing something different?"

When Nick winces and closes his eyes again, Greg knows the answer before he speaks. He stays quiet, though, giving Nick the time to find his words.

"My parents told me if I got away from Vegas, I'd be fine. They said without the memories, I'd be okay. But the memories aren't in Vegas, Greg, they're in me. They're inside my head and my heart, and I don't want them anymore but I don't know what to do with them. Everything's just crazy. I'm crazy."

A tear slides across the bridge of Nick's nose and bleeds into the pillow, and for a moment Greg is unable to move. It's something he doesn't know how to process, watching strong, amazing Nick Stokes cry into a pillow and talk like he has lost his mind. He takes a deep breath and closes the inches between them

"Nicky, I can't...I can't fix you. But I know what's real. I know that I'm real, and that I love you. And I know that our home is real, and that our life is real and it's imperfect, but it's ours. I know that I want you to come home." Nick opens his eyes, running his hand up to Greg's face, and Greg leans into it. "I'm home, Nicky. We're home for each other, and neither of us has been home in a long time. But we're going to go home, and we're going to get you back into the therapist and we're going to get your meds right and we're going to get you back."

He realizes, then, that pulling Nick from the ground wasn't saving him. He had thought, they had all thought, that once they got him back, he would be just that. Back. He never stopped to think that maybe Nick had left part of himself down there, that it would take time and patience to get it back. Any residual anger from Nick's leaving melted away, leaving him feeling slightly guilty.

He leans down and kisses Nick.

"You're not crazy, baby. You just... you got a little lost. But I found you, and I know where you are. And you can follow me, okay?" Greg cradles Nick's face in his hands. "You can follow me, and we'll go home."


+++



The airport is buzzing with people, and Greg holds Nick's hand tightly and guides him to their gate. They sit silently, hands clasped tightly, watching people come and go. Greg points out a couple with a little girl in pigtails, and when Nick looks over, she catches his eyes and smiles, watching him until one of her dads pulls her away gently.

Nick glances at Greg, who's grinning widely, and he feels a piece of his heart slide back into place.

***