First of all, I have to say that the beta work done on this story saved it.  SAVED IT.  The pacing, major plot points, everything that you may have enjoyed about this story really, was made possible by the betas that whipped this fic into shape.  Originally this story was half the length it ended up becoming.  That should tell you how much work I put into it post-beta.  So a big, big thank you to those five ladies is definitely in order.

Part One

It started with Greg trying to impress Nick. Football season had begun, and all Nick and Warrick talked about were teams and statistics and the Cowboys versus the Raiders. They had the same argument every season—a friendly rivalry that led to constant bantering and gloating. Greg admitted that Warrick’s friendly bond with Nick made his stomach ache with jealousy. So he did something stupid.

Greg didn’t know about football anymore than he knew about country music or Ornithology. As a kid he was always more interested in his surfing, his coin collection and his chemistry set than girls and organized sports.

While listening to the radio on the way to a scene a DJ commented on the Cowboys’ chances to make it into the play-offs that year. On a whim, while he and Nick processed a vic’s bedroom, Greg repeated what the DJ had said.

“I didn’t know you followed football,” Nick responded, sounding surprised.

Greg looked down at the dresser in front of him and answered as nonchalantly as possible, “I’m a man of hidden depths.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Nick responded. He gave Greg a speculative look and then said, “Hey, since you’re interested, want to come by my place after work on Monday to watch the Bears/Panthers game?”

“Bears/Panthers, huh? A real…uh…Clash of the Titans there,” Greg responded.

Nick snorted—Greg had no idea if it was in agreement or amusement—and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Sure, Monday. What time?” Because really, what else was he going to say to an invitation like that?

I don’t know.  There’s something I don’t like about this first scene, but I can’t figure out what it is.  I left it like this after much tooling around, but when I reread this story, I tend to skip this part.

**

His mind didn’t fully acknowledge how totally screwed he was until that morning when he slid into his car. He stopped by a Borders on the way home and picked up a copy of Football for Dummies.  This is an actual book.  I looked it up on Amazon, and apparently someone who read this story actually received this book as a gift from her boyfriend, so there you go.  It exists.  At his apartment, he surfed the Net and looked around on espn.com and the Chicago Bears’ and Carolina Panthers’ official websites. Then he hit the site for the Dallas Cowboys just to be safe.

He looked up stats and explanations of all the positions. He took detailed notes on his laptop, and used a highlighter and some Post-Its to mark important sections of the book. He said the phrase “wide receiver” until it stopped making him snicker.  Because he’s twelve years old.  Who wouldn’t find that funny?  Age doesn’t matter.

Greg realized, somewhere during the fourth hour, that he hadn’t studied this hard for anything since his Organic Chemistry final (I mention this final in several different stories.  It’s part of my personal Greg background canon.  He once had a really hard Organic Chemistry final that he waited until the day before to start studying for, and then stayed up all night.  He received a B+ on it.  He knows he could have done better if he had studied longer.  It still pisses him off to remember it) But you’re not working out your own college issues through your character – not at all.  senior year of college. That thought brought back memories of the good old days when he could seduce the undergrads with his considerable and esoteric knowledge of scientific facts and equations. He once got a blowjob for reciting the Periodic Table.  Yes, Greg had groupies. 

Unfortunately, Nick knew at least as much as he did about the various sciences, so Greg couldn’t impress him with party tricks. And since he would rather drive a screwdriver into his temple than listen to country music, and taking a sudden interest in the study of birds seemed way too obvious, football looked like his only choice.

Greg felt pathetic competing with Warrick for Nick’s attention, especially since Warrick didn’t even know about the competition, and was somehow still winning. He felt all the more pathetic Monday evening when it took him fifteen minutes to pick a shirt to wear. He chose a secondhand novelty shirt, dark blue and featuring a picture of Navy Pier and the slogan, “Sweet Home Chicago”. This shirt also exists and can be bought at Navy Pier, probably for like $25.  Never buy a shirt from Navy Pier.  Greg bought his at a thrift store in New York, of all places.  He figured that if anything, at least it was fitting, with the Bears playing.

Greg hoped that Nick didn’t try any Warrick-like, manly pissing contests with him that involved comparing scoring percentages, or citing games from twenty years ago as evidence that their team was better. At best, Greg could give the Bears’ current record and recognize their uniforms.  By which I mean, at best I could do those two things.

He parked on Nick’s street and made the walk to the house muttering under his breath, “Wide receiver, wide receiver, wide receiver.” Heh That will never *not* be funny.  When he arrived he smoothed a hand over his shirt and rang the doorbell.

Nick opened it almost immediately. He had damp hair, and wore a black shirt, black jeans, black socks and a bright grin to contrast his clothes. This is my second favorite image of Nick in this story.  And he thinks this is a date, by the way.  Greg’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides around the bag he held.

“Hey, G!” Nick greeted. He handed him a Coors (the first beer to be mentioned in this story.  The first of MANY.) and gestured for him to enter.

Greg accepted the beer and thrust his bag at Nick. “I brought pretzels.”

“Thanks!” Nick said. “I’m gonna grab another beer. Toss your jacket on the couch and make yourself at home.”

Greg walked through the hallway into the spacious living room and looked around. He’d never seen Nick’s house before. It was clean and organized, which Greg had expected, with minimal decorations. The huge flat screen television was the centerpiece of the room.

Greg unzipped his windbreaker and pulled it off, setting it on the arm of the couch. He leaned back, strumming his fingers against his thighs in an uneven rhythm. The television was on and showing some kind of pre-game show with two sportscasters arguing over a play that had occurred the week before.

Nick came back a moment later with his bottle of beer and the opened bag of pretzels. He settled on the other end of the couch and shot a sideways look at Greg. “So, death by penny slot, huh?”

Greg thought back to their latest case and grinned. “Gotta love Vegas.”

Nick snorted, Greg twisted the cap off of his beer, and after that, it was easy. Greg didn’t have to worry about his t-shirt, because it turned out Nick preferred the Bears to the Panthers anyway. So instead of the bickering, Greg only had to nod along to Nick’s declarations about the Bears’ chances and their record (“five and two!” Greg proclaimed, proud of himself, and eager to impart some of his new knowledge (this is totally meta.  At the time I wrote this story, that was the Bears’ record, and I wanted to stick it in the story somewhere to show off my knowledge)).

The guilt Greg felt for lying to Nick stayed in the back of his mind but was easy enough to ignore as the night wore on. I don’t think I emphasized this enough.  Greg feels like he’s taking advantage of Nick’s hospitality in order to have more time with him.  Greg is dumb.  Yes, in this final draft, Greg is dumb.  In the first draft, Nick isn’t as obvious as he likes to think.  The only mistake he made that night occurred when he called the referee an umpire—he’d always enjoyed baseball the best of all the big sports. Nick looked at him oddly until he corrected his mistake, and then they moved on.

At halftime they ordered a pizza (I had to work to come up with a different take out food for them to order in every scene.  Not as easy as it looks) and devoured it during the third and fourth quarters. When the game ended, Greg let himself stay through the post-game show, because Nick didn’t look like he minded, but then he stood, stretched his arms over his head and grabbed his windbreaker. Not letting his reluctance to leave show, he just smiled as Nick walked him to the door.

“Thanks for having me over, man,” he said. “It was fun.”

“The same time next week, Dolphins/Lions?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. Yes,” Greg agreed, before he could stop to think about it.

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

“Great,” Greg repeated.  Greg does not think this is great, in case you couldn’t tell.

**

The third Monday they spent together started with an argument.

“I don’t care if Moo Shu pork is made with manna from heaven, I still don’t like Chinese food,” Nick said.  Nick is a traditional pizza or chicken wings with his football kind of guy. 

“But egg rolls, won ton soup, General Tso’s chicken. These are all very good things.” Greg sat cross-legged on the couch, his cell phone dangling in his hand, five of seven numbers tapped in.

“I’ll take a pizza with the works any day.”

“How could you not want to eat at a place called ‘Wok on the Wild Side’ (This restaurant also exists here in Champaign)?” Greg asked, grinning at Nick’s wry expression.

“That’s a joke, right?” Nick questioned.

“You work with Grissom everyday, Nick. Do you still not appreciate a good pun?”  My roommate and I have a running joke about Grissom’s ridiculous puns.  My favorite: “He was hungry…for murder.”  Well, sometimes a Big Mac isn’t going to cut it and you have to kill the drive-thru guy.

Nick raised his hands. “Fine, you want Chinese food? We’ll get it. They have regular chicken, right? Does it go good with beer?”

“Everything goes good with beer,” Greg said. “Hmm…I bet you’ll like the sesame chicken, and we’ll share an order of beef fried rice. I’ve had a taste for moo goo gai pan all day. And egg rolls, of course. Do you like shrimp?”

Laughing, Nick commanded, “Slow down, Greg.”

“I can’t,” Greg replied, returning Nick’s grin. “This might be my only chance to sell you, I have to do it right. So, shrimp?”

“Shrimp’s fine,” Nick agreed.

“Great.” The man who took Greg’s order promised the food in thirty minutes, which coincided with the end of the second quarter.

“How much?” Nick asked when Greg hung up.

“$26.35,” Greg answered. He frowned when Nick reached into his back pocket to grab his wallet. “What are you doing? I’m paying.”  And thus begins what has been named the “money war” in comments.  I was surprised this was so popular.  I added it as an after thought to help with the pacing of the story, not thinking much of it.  The positive responses to it in the first part are what made me have Greg spend the $30 at the gas station during the peak of his pity party in part two.

“You bought the pizza last week. It’s my turn,” Nick argued.

“Yeah, but I’m making you eat Chinese under duress.”

“It’s not under duress, just with reservations.”

“You get it next time,” Greg declared, ending the conversation by changing the subject. “I can’t believe you’ve managed to live thirty-six years without trying Chinese food. Have you ever been to New York City?”

Nick shook his head and Greg said, “Oh man, we’re going some day. The best Chinese food this side of Beijing, I swear.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Nick assured him.

The food arrived five minutes early. Greg made it to the door before Nick could, and he paid the bill.

At the end of the night when he was walking to his car and reached into the pocket of his windbreaker for his keys, he felt a paper that he couldn’t identify. He tugged it out curiously and glanced down. Thirty dollars laid in his palm.

**

The next week Greg discovered that he liked football. He even had a favorite team: the Chicago Bears, in honor of the first time they hung out. And because that’s the only team the author knows.  Turns out that was a good choice on his part. The team was doing well, much to Nick’s continued astonishment.

That week the Bucs played the Cowboys, and Nick was vibrating with tension. He went all out, and Greg walked into a living room fully stocked with bowls of chips, guacamole, popcorn and pretzels, a plate of potato skins, a giant pizza loaded with pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, onions and green peppers and two cases of beer—Coors for Nick and Heineken (beer number two.  And look, he purposely gets Greg’s favorite beer.  That is totally a guy version of flowers and candy) for Greg.

“Wow,” Greg said, stripping off his windbreaker. “Is it the Superbowl?”

“Second best thing: Cowboys game. Here.” Nick lobbed a beer that Greg caught easily.

“Thanks.”

When Nick ran to the kitchen for paper plates, Greg snuck the thirty dollars under his own coaster, and settled his Heineken on top of it.

Greg surprised himself with his enthusiasm for the game. The first time the Cowboys scored, he jumped out of his seat and cheered without taking his cue from Nick. For his efforts, he received a slap on the back and one of those shining, purely joyful smiles that made his stomach twist.

They fell back on the couch, thighs and knees touching, and Greg looked up at the ceiling and thought, ”Football’s not so bad.”

**

Sara probably thought Greg was crazy for grinning like a maniac the next day when she handed him thirty dollars and told him that Nick asked her to give it to Greg, because he owed him.

**

It wasn’t until the seventh week that Greg had to admit how much trouble he was in. A voice in his head asked him why he insisted on setting himself up for disappointment by nursing hopeless crushes on gorgeous, unattainable, straight men. Until that point, the voice was easier to ignore than the guilt had been, especially when Nick wrapped his arm around Greg’s shoulders. Especially when Nick talked to him about football as often as he talked to Warrick. Yes, Greg realized how futile and unreasonable his jealousy of Warrick was, considering the man was married to a successful nurse, and had Catherine Willows as option number two. No, he couldn’t stop feeling that way.

But on the seventh week, Nick greeted him at the door wearing a snug black sweater with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms. His dark blue jeans brushed the tops of pale bare feet. When Greg walked by him, Nick smelled clean and freshly showered.  Mmm…that is my favorite image, right there.  This is also the first mention of that black sweater Greg likes so much.  Nick’s doing his best to nudge Greg along here, and he’s noticed that when he wears this sweater, Greg spends a lot of time staring at his shoulders and neck, plus Nick does the forearm-baring thing.  He knows how to show off his assets.

Nick seemed to sit closer than usual, and Greg could feel the warm, tight shift of Nick's body against his side the whole night.  Dear Greg, Do I have to blow you right here for you to figure out that I like you?  Love, Nick

*
So in the original story, this whole conversation was glossed over, “Nick and Greg talked about the new lab tech.  Nick said that she had a crush on Greg…” without actually showing it.  That was just sloppy and lazy of me and the betas said as much.  Mare, in particular, was like, “Dude, show the flirting!  I want to see Nick being obvious!  I want this to be clear to everyone except Greg!”  So here is the final product.  Because it’s much more fun that way.  The reader gets to be as annoyed as Nick!  The reader gets to want to smack Greg over the head.  Fun times for all!

“She has a crush on you,” Nick proclaimed.

“She does not,” Greg answered. Truth be told, he never could tell when a woman was interested in him, and when, like Sara, it was just playful flirting. If the new DNA tech was interested in him then that certainly put all those conversations they’d had in a new light.

“You have to see it, G,” Nick continued. “She follows you around, swapping stories…”

“We’re both from San Francisco.”

“…and asking you questions.”

“I was a DNA tech! I told her I’d help her out when I could.”

“Come on, Greg.”

“I thought she liked Cath!” Greg exclaimed.  Oh no, she likes Cath.

Nick huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “I think she sensed Catherine’s authority and wanted to suck up. Anyway,” Nick drawled like a man about to reveal his trump card, “she asked me about you.”

“What? When?” Greg demanded, sitting up straight.

“Yesterday,” Nick responded. “She said that she knew we were friends, and asked me if you were interested in anyone.”

All the blood drained from Greg’s face and his heart beat in double time at the thought of Nick knowing the real answer to that question. “What did you say?”

“That I didn’t know. That she should ask you.” Nick tipped his head against the back of the couch and turned to look at Greg with a lazy smile. “I wonder what she sees in you.”

“My charm and stunning good looks?” Greg suggested.

“Mmm…” Nick agreed. “Or your hair.” Then he reached up and touched the hair that fell by Greg’s ear. The tip of his finger brushed the lobe softly and Greg repressed a shudder at the feeling.  OH MY GOD, GREG.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?  Seriously, though, Greg is telling himself that he’s imagining this, because Nick would never want him. 

That was the moment when the voice became too loud to ignore.

Nick pulled back and smiled. “It’s definitely not your taste in music, that’s for sure.”

Greg managed a weak grin in return, while the voice screamed at him so loud it was almost deafening.

**

On Superbowl Sunday Nick had a party and invited most of the graveyard shift. Greg acknowledged the part of him that was angry to have to share Nick with so many people on their last time hanging out together, but didn’t let it show. He went early with two dozen frozen burgers and even more chicken wings. While Nick poured ice into the cooler for the beer and soda, Greg went to the bathroom and slipped the now wrinkled ten and twenty dollar bills into Nick’s medicine cabinet underneath his toothpaste.  It was hard to think of interesting new ways to have them exchange this money.  I was afraid that the medicine cabinet was too private, like maybe Greg would be afraid that Nick would take offense to Greg rooting around in it.  In the end I decided to go with it, because I like the image of Nick, all bare-chested and sleepy in his navy and grey striped pajama pants opening the cabinet and seeing the money there.  He would brace his hands on the sink and smile down at it, his confidence restored after the hit it took when Greg took off early from the party.  Because Nick had PLANS for after that party and Greg just fucking LEFT.

The others started arriving soon after that, all high spirits and cheerful greetings. Catherine brought Lindsay and a huge bowl of potato salad. Warrick lugged in two cases of Miller Lite three! and wore a Raiders jersey that caused Nick to roll his eyes. Archie and Sara arrived at the same time. Archie brought surround sound speakers that he promised to assemble in ten minutes tops, and Sara had tortilla chips and some dip made with cream cheese and beans (mmm…this is delicious) that she heated up in Nick’s microwave. Bobby showed up last, without any contributions, because he’d come straight from work after pulling a double.

The game proved fun but uninteresting, with the Colts pulling an easy victory.

 

Interestingly, in the first draft I had picked the Seahawks at random to win the Superbowl, and one of my betas laughed at this idea, so I thought that the team sucked.  Then who ends up in the Superbowl this year?  That’s right, I feel vindicated.
*

At the new Victoria’s Secret commercial that played during one of the breaks, Archie released an embarrassing and half-stifled moan that made Catherine reach over and cover Lindsay’s ears. Sara, who sat next to Archie on the couch, cuffed him lightly across the head.

Archie swatted her hand away and gushed, “Oh man, I hate football, but I love the Superbowl.” Oh, Archie…I love you.

“You need a girlfriend, man,” Nick commented.

“I need an underwear model,” Archie corrected. “The rest is superfluous.”

While the others chuckled in good humor, Warrick leaned over and said to Lindsay, “Don’t listen to him. Most boys aren’t like that.”

Lindsay responded to his statement with a besotted expression that caused both Catherine and Warrick to shift awkwardly in their seats. Greg and Sara exchanged amused grins, and Greg had to bite his lip against outright laughter when Nick whispered in his ear, “Like mother, like daughter.”  Of course Lindsay would have a crush on Warrick.  He’s gorgeous and he’s always so nice to her.  Of course she would, and that fact is hysterical.  Is there anyone out there that *doesn’t* have a crush on Warrick?  I don’t even watch the show that much and I still love him.

*

Bobby’s voice rose above the loud shouts of laughter. “He said, ‘I need another package of swabs,’ and went walking towards the closet. I tried to stall him by asking him to look at the results I’d just received in Watts’ and Hendersen’s 419, but he didn’t bite. So he opened the door…” Here Bobby stopped to take a deep breath and stifle his laughter. “He opened the door and Judy just kind of came spilling out onto her back, blouse unbuttoned and legs akimbo. Matt tried to right himself, but his…pants were around his ankles. He couldn’t catch his balance, and he fell right on top of her!”  I thought this story was so funny, and I loved the idea of the whole gang (sans Grissom, who I can never imagine leaving his office) hanging out swapping funny work stories.

Sara was laughing so hard that a tear squeezed out of her eye. She wiped it away with her thumb. Nick rested all of his weight against Greg’s shoulder, seemingly laughing so hard that he couldn’t even hold himself up. (“Seemingly” being the operative word here.  Excuse for gratuitous touching on Nick’s part?  I think so.)

“Which…” Catherine snickered behind her hand. “Which one is Matt again?”

“The new fingerprint tech on days,” Bobby answered.

“Blonde hair, kind of stocky,” Sara elaborated.

“Oh right,” Catherine said. “With the glasses?”

“That’s him. So what did Ecklie do?” Sara asked.

“See, that’s the thing!” Bobby exclaimed. “There was this moment where everyone froze, and then all this movement. Matt’s frantically zipping his pants, and Judy’s doing up her blouse, but Ecklie just stood there, not saying a word, looking like he didn’t understand what was going on.”

“Let’s face it—Ecklie,” Greg replied. “He might not have.”  Seriously.

“Anyway, he watched them for a few seconds, said, ‘Get back to work,’ and turned back around like nothing happened! Didn’t say a word about it the rest of the day.”

“They got lucky,” Nick remarked.

Sara scoffed from her place on the loveseat. “Please, I’m not surprised that Ecklie’s a prude. The man has a stick up his…”

“Sara…” Catherine warned, sending a pointed look toward Lindsay.

“Mo-om!” Lindsay cried. “I’m almost thirteen years old!”

“God, don’t remind me,” Catherine moaned.

Lindsay folded her arms over her chest and stuck out her lower lip. “I’m not a baby!”

Nick shot Greg an amused grin that made his stomach jump. Abruptly, the fact that this was likely the last time Greg would ever hang out with Nick outside of work re-asserted itself to the front of Greg’s awareness.

Sliding off of the couch, he stood up and addressed everyone. “I’m gonna go.”

“So soon?” Nick asked.

“I have plans tomorrow morning,” Greg lied. He decided that he needed to end this as painlessly as possible, and sticking around longer than necessary would only prolong the process.

In his car, he berated himself for interpreting the look Nick sent him as disappointment.

But at home that didn’t stop him from jerking off to an image of Nicky on his knees in front of him murmuring, “Stay, stay,” and wrapping begging lips tight around Greg’s cock.  Hmm…maybe this is my favorite image of Nick…This image was so hot, as a matter of fact, that I decided to end on it. 

It’s sad that I don’t really get to talk about how damn good Greg looks in most of these scenes.  You’ll just have to take my word that he does look good, since he wouldn’t think to talk about it himself.  He does, though, and Nicky definitely notices. 

Part Two

Greg prepared himself for his relationship with Nick to go back to the status quo. He’d gotten used to the idea. He’d even almost accepted it. That explained why he was so surprised when, the following Sunday, Nick looked at Greg over his shoulder while dusting for prints on a hairbrush and asked, “Same time tomorrow?”

“But…” Greg stumbled, thrown. “Football season’s over.”

Nick shrugged and turned back to his work. “I know. I thought we’d rent a movie or something instead.”

“Um…sure. Okay. Same time.”

*

The first time they watched a movie together Greg drank too much beer.

Nick rented The Godfather and bought sub sandwiches. Haha, sub sandwiches.  I’m really stretching it here for viable take-out options.  The napkin he handed Greg had the thirty dollars tucked away inside of it. Greg pocketed the money silently, not looking at Nick.

He lost count of the number of Bud Lites four! he consumed after number three.

It was his fault for not noticing the way that everything turned fuzzy along the edges, and the way that his words started coming out deliberate and slow. Should have felt his grin—wide and too bright—stretching across his face. But he wasn’t sloppy, happy, out with his friends, too many cigarettes, finish-off-that-bottle-of-Jack drunk (this is almost always me, by the way), and he wasn’t train wreck, AM-I-TALKING-TOO-LOUD?, look at the pretty colors, knock him on his ass drunk. Instead he was mellow, lethargic, don’t-worry-I-feel-fine, fall asleep at the television drunk.  We all know about the different levels of intoxication.  Here I tried to put the various sensations into words.

The feeling crept up on him, slow and steady, almost unnoticeable until he stood to throw out his garbage after the movie ended and the world tilted around him.

“Whoa,” Nick said, reaching an arm out as if to right him.

“Wow. So I might be drunk,” Greg confessed.

“Yeah, maybe,” Nick replied. “How many have you had?”

“Not sure. Not…too sure.”

“No way are you driving home, G.”

“You’re right.” He’d seen enough pancake bodies (I’m absurdly pleased with this turn of phrase.  Pancake bodies.  I’d say it’s Ginsburgian in its incongruity, but then I’d sound like a pretentious fuck, so forget it.) scraped off the ground to be fully cognizant of the dangers of drinking and driving. “I’ll call a cab.”

“Stay here,” Nick said suddenly.

“What? No,” Greg answered, alarmed.

“You can have the couch. Sleep it off. I’ll wake you up at 11:00, and you can shower, and then I’ll drive you to your place to change clothes.”

“Um.” Everything shifted again, and Nick’s large hand snaked around his body and pressed into his lower back.

“Greg, come on. Just stay.”

“Okay,” Greg said, disoriented and just as drunk on the feeling of Nick’s warm skin as from the alcohol.

Nick gave him a pillow and blanket from the hall closet. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” They stared at each a moment, until Greg began feeling self-conscious.

He sat on the couch pointedly. “Well, see you in a few hours.”

Nick ducked his head and laughed under his breath at something Greg didn’t understand. “Yeah, see you.”  Oh yeah, Nick wanted to get laid, and he’s finally starting to realize that, hey, maybe we’re not on the same page here.

**

The next week, Greg brought over his Dazed and Confused DVD, a case of Heineken and some steak burritos.

On the screen, Matthew McConaughey said you had to keep “L-I-V-I-N,” (hehehe) and Greg tipped his head back and snickered.

“Shit!” Nick exclaimed beside him, and Greg whipped around to look at him.

Nick stood up off the couch, glanced from his wet shirt to his half-empty Heineken bottle.

“You spilled,” Greg said stupidly, staring at the dark, clinging patches of material, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

“No kidding,” Nick responded. “Damn, I’m a mess.” Then, in what Greg would have called an act of sadism from anyone but oblivious Nick (OH MY GOD, GREG!), he grasped the bottom of his shirt and peeled it away from his body, his chest muscles shifting and stretching with the movement.  Dear Greg, again, do I have to push you against the wall and have my way with you for you to realize that I like you?  Sexually Frustrated, Nick

Greg knew he was staring with an open-mouth, completely frozen. Nick slipped the short sleeves off of his arms, and then used the balled up shirt to wipe his skin.

“I’m sticky,” he complained, his Southern twang pulling and elongating the second word into something obscene.  OH MY GOD, GREG!

His hair was mussed from removing his shirt, and he dropped it on the couch in favor of running one big, square hand down the center of his smooth chest. Wait, no.  THIS is my favorite image.  Yes, the hand running down the chest.  Yes.  This story is like one long Nicky fantasy for me.  Greg couldn’t breathe.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he blurted, fervently hoping that Nick’s eyes didn’t drop down to his cock.

Nick slanted his head to the side and gave him a contemplative look that made Greg fidget in his seat, and then shrugged. “You know where it is.”

“Right,” Greg agreed, and moved as quickly as he could without seeming suspicious.

He closed the bathroom door and didn’t hesitate before ripping his jeans open and pushing them down his thighs. Spitting in his right hand and biting down on the knuckles of his left one, he fisted his hand around his cock, jerking in long, tight pulls, fast and frantic. His hips rocked in counter-rhythm to his hand, and his head rolled lethargically against the door. There was a long, painfully good second where every muscle and tendon went taut and straining and then he came hard against his stomach.  And if this story was from another POV, I could explain how incredibly gorgeous Greg looked the second before he came, back arching and eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.  But alas.

His shuddery breath released in quiet pants as he grasped for control. He returned to reality with a crash, the enormity of what he had done hitting him like a blow. To masturbate to thoughts of Nick in the privacy of his bedroom was one thing. Doing it in Nick’s bathroom, with Nick right outside, was something else altogether.

That was when Greg realized he’d let it go too far. God, his pants were around his calves, and he had semen trailing down his stomach in a wet pool that made his skin crawl. Carefully, he cleaned himself up in the sink and flushed the toilet for realism. With one last glance in the mirror, he left the bathroom.

Nick sat in the middle of the couch wearing a new shirt. The movie was paused and he held the remote, waiting for Greg. Greg moved as far as he could from Nick and watched the rest the movie in awkward silence. When it ended he hopped off of the couch and removed his DVD from the player.

“I’m gonna go,” he declared, making a beeline for the front door.

Nick caught up with him as he opened it. “Same time next week?” he asked, the way he always did. “Have you ever seen…”

“I can’t,” Greg interrupted, not meeting Nick’s eyes.

“What?”

“I can’t next week, I’m busy.”

There was a momentary pause, and then Nick answered easily, (OH MY GOD, GREG!  HOW ARE YOU THIS BLIND?) “Oh, okay. I’ll see you at work then.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

*

When Greg declined Nick’s invitation the next week, he received narrowed eyes and a pointed, if bemused, stare. By the third week, he’d taken to avoiding Nick and the hurt, confused expression he wore on his face when he saw Greg. His actions may have seemed out of the character and even rude, but Greg tempered his guilt by reminding himself that Nick would thank him if he knew the reason for his distant behavior. (OH MY GOD, GREG!)

Either through sheer luck or Grissom sensing the tension in their relationship, Grissom assigned Greg to a case with Nick only once during that time, and Catherine was there to act as a buffer between them.

“Everything okay, guys?” she asked when they’d all arrived on the scene.

“I don’t know,” Nick responded as he grabbed his kit. “Why don’t you ask Greg?”

They both turned toward Greg, and he felt his neck heat up. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “I’ll take the perimeter.”

On the way home from work that night, Greg stopped at a gas station, topped off his half full tank and bought a bag of Doritos, two king-sized Snickers bars, a six pack, some gum and a Slurpee. He paid with Nick’s thirty dollars. This is the scene I referred to in the beginning.  The money war wasn’t really going to have a pay off before I saw the responses to it.

*

By the middle of the third week, Greg knew Nick wouldn’t put up with his avoidance much longer. He understood that any personal feelings he had shouldn’t affect his work in the way they were. He tried to invent an excuse explaining his cool behavior for the inevitable confrontation but found himself completely unprepared when it happened.

He was halfway to his car, lost in thought, when he saw Nick leaning against the driver’s side door. Greg stopped in his tracks a moment before pushing forward resolutely. He glanced around the parking lot and saw that at least there was no one else around to witness their fight.

When he reached the car, Nick straightened and crossed his arms, blocking the door with his body.

“Hey,” Greg tried.

“What’s going on?” Nick demanded, not in the mood for pleasantries.

“I don’t know what you’re…”

“Greg…”

“Look, don’t worry about it, ok?” Greg said. “You’re better off not knowing, trust me.”

Nick shook his head. “You’re pissed at me, and I want to know why.” 

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not mad at you, Nick.”

“No?” Nick asked, his voice biting. “Sure seems that way to me. You haven’t said two words to me since the last time you were at my place, and you’re avoiding me like the plague.”

“It’s not…I can’t explain it. You just have to trust…”

“Stop asking me to trust you,” Nick exclaimed, “and tell me what the hell is going on!”

“I can’t,” Greg said, hearing his own desperation.

“I thought we were friends, G,” Nick replied. He uncrossed his arms and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking oddly vulnerable. Oh, Nicky.  Greg felt his heart catch and his throat burn. “I want to know what I did wrong. I won’t bother you anymore, but you could at least tell me that.”

“Listen, you didn’t do anything wrong. This isn’t about something you did. It’s about me being an asshole,” Greg explained awkwardly.

“You’re not an asshole,” Nick argued. “Or you weren’t before.”

Greg laughed mirthlessly. “You have no idea…”

“Then tell me.”

“I’m gay,” Greg blurted, and felt his eyes grow wide. He really hadn’t meant to say that, but he couldn’t help it when Nick looked so earnest. “I’m gay and I’m attracted…to you.”

Nick didn’t respond, just stared at Greg in disbelief.  Thinking, obviously, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me.  He thinks I don’t know?”  Greg swallowed and rushed to reassure him. “Don’t freak out, though. It’s not going to get in the way of our work, and I’m not going to bother you or anything. I’ve gone five years without…” Oh, god.

“Five years?” Nick asked, looking thunderstruck.  He’s also flattered and vaguely turned on, despite their argument.  It had only been three years for Nick, and only serious interest for about two.

“It’s not…I mean, don’t make a big deal out of this. It doesn’t matter. I just…I can’t hang out with you anymore. Not without wanting to…well, not without feeling uncomfortable. So that’s it. I’m sorry that I’ve acted like a dick to you lately. It really isn’t anything that you did. And now that I’ve completely humiliated myself, I’m going to go home.”

Nick moved out of the way so that Greg could unlock the door and slide into the car. He started the engine and took off as fast as possible, speeding out of the parking lot. He raced home, coming close to running two red lights, and made it back to his apartment in less than ten minutes.

On the last of the three flights of stairs he had to walk up, his cell phone rang, the sound of Rage Against the Machine echoing in the stairwell. You know that Greg has Rage as his ringtone.  He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and scowled when he saw Nick’s name on the caller ID. No way was he talking to Nick again that night.

Once inside his apartment, he fell back against his couch and switched on the television, noting a rerun of Gilligan’s Island. The second time his cell phone rang he turned it to silent and lobbed it across the room to land near the kitchen.

Knowing Nick, Greg should have expected the banging on his door that came twenty minutes later during an episode of Golden Girls. He must not have been thinking clearly, because the first hard knock scared him enough that the remote control flew out of his hand.

“Greg, I know you’re there!” Nick yelled.

Greg put his head in his hands and took a moment to collect himself before pushing off the couch and opening the door.

He placed a hand on the doorframe so Nick couldn’t enter, hoping to make the conversation they were obviously going to have as short as possible.

“Look Nick, I know what I told you is a lot to take in, but do you think we could do this tomorrow, because right now….”

“Can I come in?” Nick asked. Greg gaped as polite, gentlemanly Nick disregarded Greg’s arm and barged into the apartment. For the first time it occurred to Greg that Nick might really have a problem with him and what he had admitted.  OH MY GOD, GREG!  This line might almost be too much, actually.  I mean, how oblivious could he realistically be?

“I think there’s been a miscommunication between us,” Nick said once he had entered and Greg reluctantly shut the door.

“To say the least,” Greg scoffed.

“Right,” Nick answered. Greg didn’t know what it was, but something in Nick’s expression made him uneasy. “So I’m going to kiss you.”

Greg sputtered and took a step backward, sure he’d heard Nick incorrectly. “Wait, what?”

“We got our wires crossed somewhere. I’m going to kiss you now to clear up any confusion.”

“I think that would…” Nick closed the distance between them. “Actually confuse me…” Nick’s hands came up to frame his face. “More.”

Nick’s mouth hovered a breath away from his, lips tilted up into a grin. “Yeah?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, but uh…don’t let that stop you.”

Nick leaned forward and pressed cool, dry, still upturned lips against Greg’s. There were, like, thirteen adjectives stringed on that sentence at one point.  I just REALLY wanted to tell you exactly what Nick’s lips felt like, I guess.  Greg shut his eyes and kissed back, letting his hands rest tentatively on the strong jut of Nick’s hipbones. Nick parted his lips, and the inside of his mouth was the opposite of the outside—hot, wet and slick, with a clever tongue that glided along Greg’s own, teasing and tasting. Greg moaned softly and pressed his hands hard into Nick’s skin.

After a few moments, Nick pulled away until their lips barely touched, a tickle of sensation. “Get it?” he asked.

“So…you’re gay too?” Greg guessed, the words coming out in panted breaths.

Nick snickered and laid his head on Greg’s shoulder. “Something like that.”  He’s bi.  Dead hooker, anyone?

“That’s really all I’ve got so far,” Greg admitted.

“G, come on. You hate football.”

Greg felt his face flush and his mouth fell open. “I like it now!” he defended. Nick gave a small smirk in response. “How did you know that?”

“The first time I asked you about it, you said that football appealed to the lowest common denominator, and that anyone with more than a high school education would actively lose brain cells if they attempted to watch it, never mind play it.”

“Since when does anyone listen to what I say?” Greg cried.  That cracks me up every time.

“I listen,” Nick said. “I’ve just learned to filter out the unimportant stuff.”

“So that whole time, you thought…”

“I thought, you know, that you were making a move.”

Greg groaned. “For months, I went over to your house and watched football. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Nick shrugged, looking abashed. “You never mentioned it. I didn’t want to be the first one to bring it up in case I was wrong.”

“I slept on your couch!” Greg wailed.

“Yeah, that was kind of disappointing.”  Even moreso because Nick spent the whole time that Greg slept jerking off madly with the knowledge that Greg was so close, and using the many fantasies about what he wanted to do with Greg in his bed all loose and pliant with alcohol, smiling that delicious lopsided grin, to fuel his arousal.  Nice of Nick not to mention this here and rub it in.  He mentions it later, of course, because teasing Greg is so much fun.

“Oh, just kill me.”

“What I don’t understand is why you suddenly stopped coming over.”

Greg covered his eyes with his hand. “Oh, man.”

“What? Greg, what?”

“This is so embarrassing, especially considering what you just told me.”

Nick squeezed the soft flesh of Greg’s side, making him huff out a laugh. “What was it?”

Without uncovering his eyes, Greg answered in stops and starts, “The last day…while we watched the movie you spilled beer on your shirt, and then you…took it off. I had to rush to the bathroom…well…I think you get what I’m saying. At least you better, because I’m not elaborating any further.”

I swear, I didn’t know until I had written this line that Nick had planned that whole half-naked interlude.  Once I figured that out, I had to go back and retool the whole story.  Up until then, I had it in my head that Nick was interested but in no way urging Greg on.  I had been taken in by the Stokes good manners and boyish charm, but I soon figured out his game.  Seriously, no idea at all until I wrote Greg’s explanation, and then everything clicked into place.  I went back and added those more obvious scenes of Nick flirting—touching Greg when they talk about the new lab tech’s crush, the forearm thing with the sweater, waiting that extra beat before leaving Greg to sleep on the couch, running his hand over his naked chest—because he’d been doing it on PURPOSE the whole TIME. 

He waited for the mocking to start, but when Nick remained silent for several seconds, Greg removed his hand from his eyes. Nick stood in front of him, the expression on his face a cross between sheepishness and mischief.

Greg’s mouth dropped open in realization. “Oh my god! You did that on purpose! You knew!”

“I was getting impatient!” Nick sounded defensive. “I thought maybe I could speed things along. You were wearing those damn jeans (another thing we don’t know about because we are not getting the story from Nick’s perspective)  and I just couldn’t wait anymore. But then afterwards, you started acting weird. I figured you were mad that I pushed things.”

Greg felt like he needed to sit down. “Nick Stokes tried to seduce me and instead I ended up sleeping on his couch and jerking off in his bathroom,” (Oh, Greg…) he clarified, mostly to himself.

“While Greg Sanders jerked off in my bathroom I stood outside the door listening, so which one of us is more pathetic?” Nick asked.

Greg’s cock grew half-hard at Nick’s admission. “Fuck, you were listening the whole time? That’s so hot.” He leaned in to claim that grinning mouth, and then stopped. “Wait, which jeans are you talking about?” In my first draft, this is where the story ended.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I couldn’t find a good stopping point, but that’s no excuse for the abruptness of this ending.  All of my betas agreed and gave me responses in various levels of, “Bwuh?” in their comments.  I’m all for open-ended endings with dialogue, but this would’ve just been bizarre…

Fingers dipped to trace lightly across the skin beneath the waistband of his boxers. “These are looking pretty good right now.”

“Yeah?” Greg asked. The top button of his jeans unsnapped, and he sighed as the zipper lowered to relieve the pressure on his cock.

“Mmhmm,” Nick hummed in agreement. “Nice style…color…”

Greg laughed breathlessly as hands parted his open fly and reached in to wrap around his boxer-clad erection. “Stop while you’re ahead.”

“Good advice.” He tightened his hold and began sliding the damp material over Greg’s trapped cock.  This image is unbelievably sexy to me.

Closing his eyes, Greg gripped Nick’s shoulder to steady himself. “I have wisdom in… many things.” A pause. “And if we’re revealing secrets, then…god…then you should know that you have this black…uhn (so is this sound)…this black…”

“Sweater,” Nick prompted, still stroking him in slow, patient movements.

“Yeah, sweater…wait, how did you know?”

“G,” Nick replied, a smile in his voice, “you’re not exactly subtle.”

Greg started and snapped his head back down to gape at Nick’s grin. The longer he stared, the wider it became. Finally, Greg buried his burning face into Nick’s neck and groaned.

“It is not possible for me to feel more humiliated than I do at this moment,” he declared.

Laughing, Nick sped up his strokes. “I’m sorry,” he responded, not sounding sorry at all.

Greg nearly took offense to that, in the part of his brain that hadn’t shut down at the pressure and rhythm of Nick’s hand on his cock—because god, so embarrassing. How many people knew? Did they talk about it? Insult him behind his back?  (No, Nick’s the only one that notices, for the most part.)—until Nick continued, “Let me make it up to you,” removed his hand and dropped to his knees.

Greg’s legs shook and Nick grabbed his hips, keeping him steady. Then he carefully took off Greg’s shoes. The jeans and soaked boxers came next. Lacing one hand through Nick’s dark hair and gripping his shoulder with the other, Greg wet his lips, shut his eyes and hung on.

 

Ok, so here was supposed to be the crazy amounts of “yes, we’re together!” sex.  I begged out on it in the end, mostly out of laziness.  What a bum I am.  I mean, the sex isn’t necessary to the story, which is why I felt ok leaving it out, but it would have been nice.

*

Later, as Nick slept half on top of him, heavy and solid and perfect, Greg slipped out from under him. He crept back into the living room, found his pants and removed his wallet. Picking out crisp, new ten and twenty dollar bills, he returned to his bedroom and slipped them into Nick’s shirt pocket.

Ahh…and here the money war comes in handy again, providing me with a decent stopping point.  Thanks for reading!  Hope you didn’t mind my babbling. 

CSI fic