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And here is my CSI holiday fic! *wipes forehead* Thanks so much to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fireelemental79 for beta-ing and constantly putting up with my fandoms. ^_^
Title: Everywhere They Are the Wisest
Author: me
Fandom/Pairing: CSI - Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's a good thing Greg is staying in Vegas, because Nick has plans for Christmas.
Disclaimer: CSI does not belong to me. It belongs to Bruckheimer and Co. I just play around with the boys. "Rock is Dead" song lyrics borrowed from the glorious Marilyn Manson, who rocks Greg's world. And last but not least, thanks to every fic writer who ever had Greg jump up to sit on a countertop. I love the image and had to borrow it. *laughs*
A/N: Minor spoilers for Daddy's Little Girl, Grave Danger, and Boom. This story is based very, very loosely on my favorite Christmas story, "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry, which is also where the title comes from. ♥
Also posted at AO3, WMtDB, and skyehawke.
...
Everywhere They Are the Wisest
It was only a mindset. Nick Stokes knew that. He was a scientist, after all. The dates of December 24th and December 25th were, technically, just another two days, the same as any other two days of the year. It stood to reason that if a person simply tried hard enough, he could remind himself of the mediocrity of those two days, and they would just pass on by without any of the brouhaha imposed upon them by humans enamored with certain religions.
But Nick wasn’t sure he wanted the mediocrity. Being reminded that he was alone on Christmas Eve was a small price to pay for the warm feeling in his gut during the coldest months of the year, the one underneath, because that feeling came from family, and Christmas was family.
He just… would have to catch them all the next time around.
And he took comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one waiting out Christmas sans relatives. Warrick had to work, and would be catching a red-eye early on the 25th to join Tina and her folks somewhere in Oregon. Grissom seemed almost proud to be eking it out from the inside of his buggy, specimen-y office. And Greg was sticking around. So there was no reason to feel out of sorts about it.
Except Nick did, and maybe that was because he’d finally come to a decision about what he wanted to be doing on Christmas, and on top of all that, he actually felt like he might go through with implementing it this time.
It was a good thing Greg was staying home, because Nick’s decision required the other man’s presence in Vegas, and not in the next state to the West.
Funny; Nick had felt very holly-jolly that morning, even though Christmas scheduling played hell with his equilibrium and stuck everyone who worked nights in the lab during the day instead, and vice versa, except for poor Archie, who’d managed to nab himself a double. Somehow. But he was in a good mood.
In fact, everyone was fairly cheery, even Ecklie, and that was just creepy.
“Should be a law against that,” Nick had said, peering over his shoulder at the departing assistant director’s back.
“I agree,” Greg answered. “Ecklies should not be allowed to whistle.”
Nick shook his head. “Gotta throw out all my CDs with Rudolph on them now.”
“Christmas will never be the same.”
And then later—
“Holidays are overrated.”
Greg grimaced and bagged a broken ornament. “Understatement. You’d have to be pretty whacked out to resort to this.”
Nick ducked under the base of the pine tree that was sticking out through the house’s bay window. “Seriously. Who launches a Christmas tree at their neighbor’s living room anyway?”
“Maybe Mom One pushed Mom Two down and stole her Elmo.”
And even later—
“Heading home?”
Nick shrugged into his coat. “Yeah. To my quiet house. To sleep. You?”
Greg tugged his locker open. “Thought I’d find an open bar, but sleep sounds like the best buzz right now. Have to be awake to catch Santa in the act tonight, after all.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.
Nick laughed outright. “Yeah, good luck with that, Greggo. So, you’re spending Christmas alone?”
Greg gave a forlorn sigh. “Just me and my tv. And cookies.”
“Hey.” Nick pointed a finger. “Nothing wrong with cookies. I don’t even have those.”
“Ah, the price of a career.” Greg nodded sagely.
“Get used to it,” Nick shot back.
“There’s always the 7-Eleven.” Greg waggled his eyebrows. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”
And bantering was all well and good because it kept Nick from thinking of his Decision until he was already halfway home and halfway through Carol of the Bells, and halfway toward thinking that maybe he really might not end this holiday alone this time.
Nick went home. Showered. Put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a fresh white t-shirt. Surveyed the absolute lack in his refrigerator. Not that there wasn’t food. But there certainly wasn’t a turkey or goose or other sizable bird, and there were no mashed potatoes or mince pies in sight. No stuffy living room full of laughter.
Nick grabbed a bottle of water and settled on the couch to ponder his approaching apocalypse.
It was just a drive. Ten minutes, at most. And then a short stroll through a small apartment complex. And then words. They sounded so good in his head, the Merry Christmas and the no sense being by ourselves tonight and the come to my place. He knew they would sound good out loud, too.
It was just that he also knew Greg would see right through them, partly because Greg was a scientist too, and smart, but mostly because it was very plain what he was really asking.
“Nick Stokes,” he said, taking a swig of water, “Christmas is a time for change.”
It was a good mantra to have, because it sounded so very sure of itself, and that was the appearance Nick was going for. Still, it was another hour and a half before he finally got up, stretched, and looked around for his shoes and jacket. By the time he located his most comfortable work boots, he had changed into a navy blue t-shirt as well, with white stitching around all the important hems, and had discovered a black, weathered leather jacket that still fit hanging in the back of his closet. That was the nice thing about leather: once it was broken in, it clung like a second skin for the rest of a person’s natural life.
He twirled his keys on one finger all the way down the hall, grabbed up his cell – just in case – and locked himself out of his house with quite a bit more calm and finesse than he’d anticipated. It was like jumping off a cliff into a lagoon, he supposed: one never really felt the tug of fate until one was actually hanging in midair over the water, realizing that backtracking was no longer an option. Then there was screaming, but only then. And Nick had barely even reached the edge yet. No, that would come when he actually opened his mouth to speak.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he made his way through Vegas, hearing cheerful Christmas tunes and thinking that he wouldn’t be alone in his car when he made the return trip. Because he, Nick Stokes, had beaten the odds time and time again, he was a winner, and tonight was the first night of the rest of his life. And he was sick of going through it alone.
The inevitable what-if popped up about six minutes in, of course – what if I come back home and that front passenger seat is still empty? – but it seemed just a little too surreal, didn’t it? Greg couldn’t possibly say no. Right? Nick had spent too many hours pondering the meaning of life, the universe, and everything to let stupid exaggerations of the former lab tech’s possible anger get in the way. That was just idiotic: Greg was his friend, at the very least. There would be no cold door shutting, or tossing of himself out onto the stoop.
There might be awkwardness. There might even be embarrassment. But Greg would hear him out, if only out of curiosity. It was in his nature.
Nick smiled to himself and turned into Greg’s apartment complex, parked, and killed the engine. Chafed his hands together briskly and snapped his fingers. “Alright, you’re just asking him over. Nothing wrong with sharing a little cup of Christmas cheer.”
He’d just offer. It was mostly the fear of the look on Greg’s face that was twisting Nick’s stomach. He didn’t think he could deal with pity or disbelief there. Well, maybe at first. But not when it came right down to it.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, you want to come over tonight? Seeing as we’re both alone again. Hey, Merry Christmas, you want to…”
Easy. And then his part would be done and it would all be in Greg’s more-than-capable hands.
Nick jogged up the path with a spring in his step, past windows winking with colored lights, and took the stairs to Greg’s apartment two at a time. He could smell eggnog from somewhere, and wood-smoke. Hear Christmas carols. The air was still, that stillness that comes with freshly fallen snow, and Nick figured it was more a Christmas thing than a snow thing, because it sure as heck didn’t snow in Vegas. He cleared his throat, “Hey, Merry Christmas”ed to himself one more time, and rapped on the door with his knuckles.
Cupped his hands and blew into them, felt like maybe he was just about to make that leap over the cliff, and knocked again.
No answer.
It was only then that Nick realized just how dark the place was.
He stepped back, blinking at the door, at the silence of the windows, the lack of light through the peephole. Inside other apartments, he could hear laughter and the clink of dishes, but Greg’s home was quiet. All the lights off.
Greg wasn’t home.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.
Nick suddenly had to swallow. And then he swallowed again. But the clutch of his throat only cinched tighter, climbed higher. He turned and looked out at the parking lot, and then back to the closed front door.
For some reason, he’d never imagined a scenario wherein Greg didn’t open the door. It had been harrowing enough just thinking how he’d get past the first moment when Greg’s eyes settled on him, standing there on his front stoop. How to deal with surprise, shock, even… well, of course, outright rejection. But absence? It had never once factored in.
All it took was a shimmer of a thought – where Greg might be, if not at home – and Nick had to breathe hard, step backward and sit down on the first step.
God, he was too late. He’d taken too damn long. The burn in his eyes stole up and Nick shook his head, suddenly furious with himself.
“What in hell were you expecting?” he muttered, hating the weakness of his own voice. “For him to wait for you?”
Oh, this was so stupid. So perfectly, selfishly stupid. Nick pressed both hands over his face, appalled at the magnitude of his own reaction. How long had he been so attached to the idea? And it had only occurred to him now to do something about it, and now he was too fucking late.
It really was just like him, wasn’t it? There were a number of people who could attest to that: Kristy Hopkins, Kelly Gordon… Hell, everyone he’d left a message for on that horrible little recorder in that horrible plexi-glass coffin under that especially horrible anthill. Nicholas Stokes didn’t learn much after all, it seemed; always a few minutes too late to make any difference.
Nick blew into his hands again, stared at his palms for a few seconds, and then glanced up at the sparkling heavens. The ice crystals high in the atmosphere made the stars twinkle, but that was just so fittingly unromantic a description, wasn’t it? Ice crystals. Air density.
“Wonderful,” he muttered to himself. “Just wonderful.”
What was on the agenda now? Nick could count it all on one hand: an empty house, another Christmas by himself… and yet another chance, fallen by the wayside. The night’s chill ate through his jacket and into his jeans as he got slowly to his feet.
He didn’t feel like moving. Like going anywhere. Just sitting in the dark and… sitting. No one would know he was there, and Christmas would pass by sometime in the night and he could imagine that he hadn’t royally screwed things up. He didn’t even want to think about where Greg might be. The only thing that mattered was that Greg wasn’t here. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
So sorrowfully maddening, to think that his own inability to act had led him to this end.
“You should have just said something,” he berated himself weakly. “Maybe then—”
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Nick ground his teeth and yanked his jacket closed with a rough jerk. Forced the buttons home and descended the steps to the main walkway. There was no sense in sitting on Greg’s front stoop feeling sorry for himself. He’d never know what would’ve could’ve should’ve happened. He was an adult, not a kid. Adults didn’t mope their way through their mistakes. Adults went home. Adults fixed themselves some strongish eggnog and took a long, hot bath, and called their folks to wish them a happy holiday before going to bed. Adults smiled and opted for ‘you win some, you lose some, life goes on.’
But even that knowledge, that resolution to be adult about this, didn’t keep Nick from feeling sorry for himself.
The drive back was quiet, radioless and uneventful. Nick took the turns automatically, pressed the brake with his foot and shifted gears with his right hand, and found his way back into his own neighborhood eventually. His neighbors’ light displays glimmered cheerfully, blinkers, chasers, pearly white icicles, but the sight was raw and dull to his eyes. Just lights. Nothing behind them anymore. Nick pulled into his driveway with a sigh and shut off the engine. Thought about sleeping in the car and almost immediately decided that that was just dumb.
He got out, locked the doors with the press of a button, and thrust his hands into his pockets, heading up the walk.
It took him five or six steps to look up and notice that there was already someone on his front porch, in the process of turning away from his door and looking at his own tennis-shoes as he walked. Nick watched the other person come slowly down his walkway, and then his brain clicked on who it was, and he stopped in place.
Greg Sanders raised his head and saw him, and his lips parted even as his pace slowed. He came a few steps forward before just halting there, staring at Nick. He had on a pair of dark jeans and a tan t-shirt with a faded white logo peeking from beneath his denim jacket. As Nick watched, Greg’s cheeks flushed. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“Nick.” Both question and answer at once.
Nick finally got his body to obey and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I was just at… your place.”
Brilliant. No hello. No nothing.
Greg stared at him. “You were at my place,” he repeated dully. His brow wrinkled.
“Yeah.” Nick nodded, and then couldn’t figure out what else to say. He felt his cheeks reddening. Greg’s eyes swept his face in the dim light, and the younger man glanced down. Shrugged his shoulders fitfully.
“Great minds think alike, huh?” A belated laugh, barely there. Awkward.
Nick smiled a flimsy smile and then remembered that it was his doorstep they were dancing on, and that for all his Texas charm, he was currently being a lousy host.
It was just—he’d already stopped expecting to be a host tonight.
“I—uh. You wanna come inside?” He gestured vaguely with one hand, indicating his front door. “I’ve got beer. Or—Eggnog, if you want.”
Greg’s eyes flickered up to his. A nod of a slightly shaggy head. “Sure. I mean. If you’re offering.”
“Yeah.” Nick started forward, and Greg stepped aside – into his path – then moved to the other side with a duck of his head. At the same moment, Nick tried to reroute, and again found his way blocked. He stopped, Greg stopped, the younger man motioned with a fluttering hand, moved again, and Nick found the path to his door clear.
He blushed. Greg’s lips quirked into a sheepish smile.
“Sorry. Please. After you.” Greg made a showy bow, and Nick felt one façade of the tension crumble just a bit.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. Greg grinned at last.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Nick.”
Nick turned away before his throat closed up on him again and fumbled his keys out. By some Yuletide miracle, it only took him a few seconds to get the right key into the lock. He opened the door and flicked on the light switches, flooding the porch with a soft yellow glow. Nick stepped inside and toed off his boots, then held the door open. Greg came in, shoulders hunched a bit, hands still deep in his jacket pockets. He kicked his shoes off and nudged them toward the wall.
Looked up expectantly.
“Uh, kitchen’s this way,” Nick said, a little too quickly. But Greg only nodded and followed along behind as he made his way through his home. The familiar carpet felt soothing under his stockinged feet, and Nick let himself breathe for a moment. Getting all wound up over this wasn’t necessary. Technically… well, technically the evening had turned out just as he’d wanted, only it had gone about it differently. No reason to get bent out of shape. Greg was still here.
Greg was still here.
Nick swallowed the thing blocking his throat. “So, eggnog or beer?”
When Greg didn’t answer, Nick turned around and found the other man staring at him somewhat blankly—and yet not blankly at all. Fixedly. And blankly. Didn’t make much sense, even in Nick’s mind. “Greg?”
His co-worker shook himself and blinked, dark eyes focusing rather abruptly. Looked down. “Sorry. I… A beer. Sure.”
Nick nodded and busied himself with the fridge, and then with glasses, and then had to look at his visitor again. Greg looked back. Nick lifted his beer symbolically, a wordless toast. Greg did the same, and then there was a little bit of drinking.
“I just came from your place.” He stumbled over it, the first really coherent thing he’d said since the moment Greg had shown up. He gestured with his beer, trying to make up for the painful lack of intriguing conversation. “I thought I’d… go for a drive.”
Greg nodded quickly. Took a sip. His gaze found Nick’s. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
"Thought you'd gone out."
"Well... I did. To your place."
Nick nodded. More drinking. The refrigerator clicked on, filling the silence with a warm hum. Outside a dog barked. Nick wished they were in the living room, where at least they could talk about his Christmas tree if things really fell apart on them.
“I was going to invite you over. I mean, because we’re both by ourselves this Christmas. I figured…” He tilted his head, wishing the answer were there instead of lost somewhere within clumsy words. Greg glanced at him and looked away again almost as swiftly.
“Sure. I mean, what’s the use of spending it alone?” The younger man shrugged.
Damn it. Why was talking so hard? It was just his house. They talked all the time at work, but maybe there was some unspoken cosmic rule that made such comfort impossible within the walls of one’s own abode. Too much personality getting in the way, or too much Nick, or too much communal shock at actually being in the same room when they both seemed to have resigned themselves to finding abandoned houses instead of friendly homeowners.
For the first time, Nick wondered what Greg was doing here.
“Hey, you hungry? I mean…” Nick looked around for something to distract them both. “Did you eat yet?”
Greg shook his head. “I… No. I don’t really have anything over at my place. Forgot to go shopping, and then I thought about it, but the stores are all closed, or empty except for Spam, and I didn’t feel like Spam, and I was tired.”
But not too tired to drive to Nick’s. He looked at Greg awkwardly. And suddenly there was a feeling in the enclosed air of his kitchen, the feeling of another chance slipping through his grasp if he wasn’t more careful. Nick set his beer down.
“I haven’t eaten either,” he said, and then, because something seemed to be missing, “Usually I have Christmas dinner early.”
“Yeah.” Greg’s lip quirked into something very similar to a smile. He took another sip, then set his own glass down and rubbed his hands together. “So. What’s on the menu?”
Which… introduced the other problem.
“Actually,” Nick said at last, “I was sort of—” Expecting to find dinner at your place? But that implied planning, and Nick barely remembered in time that he’d only been heading over to Greg’s ‘by chance,’ according to his own story. His words slid into silence and he reached out, gripping the handle of the fridge with one hand.
"So, we don't have anything to eat." Greg looked down at the clean countertop, and then back up at him.
Nick shrugged and felt his cheeks heat alarmingly. He gestured at the cupboards. "I have mac and cheese. Somewhere."
Greg's eyes found his for an instant. He nodded. Shrugged one shoulder beneath his worn jacket. "Sounds good."
Nick hesitated, waiting to see if the other man was joking. When Greg just continued looking interestedly around the kitchen, Nick slung the cupboard door open and took down a box of macaroni, then grabbed the first clean saucepan he could see from the dish drainer and filled it with water. "It's Annie's. Parmesan Peace Pasta." He shook the box inelegantly and the dry noodles rattled around inside. "You know, bunnies."
A smile lit Greg's face. "I know that stuff. My mom has it when I go home. I go through an entire case of it in a weekend."
Nick grinned, feeling comfort steal back over him at last. "Good to know I can feed you adequately, Greggo."
"Watch it." Greg waggled a finger, looking at him sternly. "Might just have to make myself at home."
Not such a bad idea. Nick turned back to adjust the range before the redness climbing into his cheeks could broadcast itself properly.
"So." Greg's tone was amiable. "Is this standard Stokesian fare for the holidays?"
Nick laughed. "Absolutely. We buy out the whole store. We don't go in for that ham-and-pie nonsense in Texas."
He could tell from the change in the air that the other man was grinning back. "Figures. I never could find any Annie's at Christmastime." His tone turned forlorn. "It was all I ever wanted."
"Well, now you know where to go."
"And don't think I won't come around with my tin cup." Greg walked up behind him holding the sauce pan's lid. "Here."
Nick took it.
A few minutes later, the water was boiling, the bunnies had been dumped tragically into the pot, and Nick and his houseguest had moved on past comparing the different brands of pasta and arguing about the beauties of homemade macaroni.
"You wouldn't believe the stuff that Hodges brought in today for lunch. Covered with melted cheddar." Greg hoisted himself up onto the counter, but somehow stopped midway, arms cocked, feet dangling off the ground. He raised his brows at Nick. "This okay?"
Nick nodded. Greg finished pulling himself onto the countertop and went on, legs kicking lightly. "I mean, who does that? Who melts cheddar over their macaroni? It's like... noodle-nachos."
"Maybe he ran out of Velveeta."
Greg nodded sagely. "Or maybe he's just Hodges."
"I think that's a good deal more likely," Nick managed with a straight face, but Greg's answering snort broke his complacency and he leaned against the counter chuckling to himself.
“You know, he made it a point to tell me I couldn’t have any. As if I’d even asked for some.” Greg hopped down off the counter again, shaking his head, and there was that easy smile that Nick liked so much. He’d been afraid it wouldn’t make an appearance that night, what with all the uneasiness and fumbling around and such. It was a good start, a very good start for so inauspicious and fateful a beginning. Nick had been half afraid that he was both meant and not meant to be with Greg tonight. Only a series of chances had brought them together, and certainly that had to mean something. But then again, if they were so far in need of help from fate, then what was there really to connect?
And now he was waxing all metaphysical. A sign he was hungry. Nick rubbed his stomach furtively and pointed to the cupboard behind Greg. “Bowls up there. Forks down there.”
Greg turned with a flourish and set about rummaging through the pristine cabinetry, pulling down several white bowls and selecting two that obviously passed some sort of secret Sanders-test that Nick couldn’t fathom. Greg slid the silverware drawer open with a flick of his fingers. Nick found himself poised over the saucepan of drained noodles, pouring a packet of parmesan cheese and staring at the way Greg’s fingers moved and curled as he picked out two forks. His friend looked up just in time to catch his gaze, and Nick straightened.
“Something wrong with my dishes?” he asked in a semi-stern voice, raising an eyebrow for good measure.
Greg lifted his own brow right back. “It’s Christmas dinner. Nothing but the best will be tolerated.”
Nick couldn’t help his own smile.
He grabbed a serving spoon from the dish rack and ladled steaming macaroni bunnies and parmesan into the bowls Greg held. For a moment, the other man looked a bit lost, standing there with twin dinners in his grip, and Nick pointed toward the door a little unsteadily. “We can eat out there. More Christmasy in my living room.”
Greg led the way, setting the bowls down on the coffee table without sitting on the couch. Nick could see that his friend’s attention had already departed from the state of his empty belly. Greg wandered over to the tree in the corner of the room with all its dazzling lights. He reached out and touched a glimmering golden ornament with one finger. “Hearst Castle?”
Nick smiled. “My parents.” He gestured at the tree. “Anniversary trip. They bought us each an ornament.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. His finger again stroked the delicate gold metalwork. “Nice.”
Nick wondered if Greg was going to peruse his entire tree asking after the life story of each ornament – and Nick didn’t really want to get into the frosted green pickles hanging up near the top if he could help it – but Greg merely let his eyes rove for a moment more, and then came back and sat down next to him on the couch. He picked up his bowl and stirred his macaroni.
“Here’s to Annie and her bunnies,” Nick said. Greg’s mouth twisted in a doomed effort not to grin.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nick savored the taste of parmesan and realized that he’d forgotten to get them drinks. He was about to get up when Greg's fork clinked in his bowl.
"Why did you go to my place?" Greg asked solemnly.
Nick blinked. Straightened on the couch, and wondered where all that previous easiness and companionship had disappeared to. Decided to turn it around. "Why did you come here?"
"I was lonely," Greg said, a little too quickly.
"Oh."
"I mean..." Greg's shoulders hitched. "Well, you said you were staying in, and... I was staying in... And it's Christmas." The younger man's cheeks flushed. He narrowed his eyes at Nick, mouth thinning into a determined line. "Answer my question."
Nick shrugged. Looked away and busied himself with stirring his bunnies. "Same. I just figured—" And wasn't it time for his practiced mantra, or something similar? Nick glanced at Greg. "It’s Christmas. And we’re both by ourselves.”
Brown eyes tracked across his face. Greg's tongue came out and moistened his lower lip. Nick watched the movement. Greg sat back suddenly. His hand clenched and unclenched against his thigh.
"Sorry. I didn't really want to be at my place," he muttered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I don't know. I don't like being alone."
Nick studied him, finally allowing himself to memorize Greg's profile, his lowered lashes. Pursed lips. "I know the feeling," he answered softly.
"Yeah." Greg nodded, a little jerkily. His hand clenched and released over his thigh again. He seemed to mentally shake himself. "But hey. You were going to ask me over anyway."
And there was just something in the light of Greg's eyes, suddenly, something unearthly and bright, and far too quick. Nick's throat closed up for the umpteenth time that evening and he fought not to clear it. Greg was sitting so close, just within arm's reach, actually he was closer than that, and why hadn't Nick noticed earlier how close Greg was sitting? It was where he’d been sitting the entire time. His leg was almost touching Nick's own.
He realized that he didn't know what Greg expected out of this at all. If he needed a friend – and Nick knew what it was like to need a friend so desperately he could barely think or breathe or see – then this... this wasn't a good idea. It wasn't appropriate, even if what Nick needed was more than a friend. Especially then. He leaned forward, needing to move, and set his bowl slowly down on the coffee table. He could feel Greg watching him.
"Well," Nick said, searching for some way to continue the sentence, break through the silence he could feel lowering down on him. "It's not right to spend Christmas alone."
Lame. Very lame. Had he already resorted to repetition? It was still early, in what was sure to be a long evening.
Greg's bowl clinked down next to his. Nick could see the tanned skin of the other man's wrist peeking from under his jacket sleeve, the slender wiriness of his fingers. It suddenly felt completely unfair that he wouldn't be touching those fingers tonight, grabbing them or caressing the soft flesh over the back of that hand.
"You make good mac and cheese," Greg said, and his voice sounded just a tiny bit stilted, a tiny bit higher than usual. Nick smiled weakly, still looking at his bowl and wondering why this night had ever seemed simple to him.
"I usually try to make more traditional food."
Greg shifted slightly beside him. "This is fine. Comfort food."
Nick looked up, startled by the weird pitch to Greg's voice, and at the same moment, Greg spoke again, "I needed it," raised his eyes, and was just inches away from him, the entire room, the entire couch, and Greg was very close, lips parted to let breath in and out. Nick's own breathing began to quicken. He could smell Greg's aftershave, faint with the late hour.
He swayed forward without thinking, and words came. "Good to know."
"You usually aren't alone for Christmas," Greg murmured, and it sounded both loud and soft in Nick's ear, weighted with unspoken questions. Maybe they were his own unspoken questions. Maybe they were the questions he wanted to answer the most, but his body told him the answer didn't lie in words, and if this wasn't what Greg wanted—
"Usually back home," was all he could think to say.
Greg's hand rose slowly in the corner of his vision, and Nick could feel it hovering. Fingertips brushed his cheek. Greg's face was very close, right there, a breath away. "Is there..." Touch of lips, or maybe it was just the brush of an exhalation. "...anyone else?"
"No one," Nick breathed.
"Oh, thank god," Greg hissed, and clasped the back of Nick's head, threading through his hair and pulling him into the deepest, most desperate kiss Nick had ever shared with anyone. Greg groaned softly. His lips teased, parted, and Nick felt Greg's tongue touch his mouth, and he tilted his head and returned the touch, stroking, tasting. Greg's mouth fell open and his tongue was hot, his teeth sharp, and his lips chapped and needy. Before Nick knew it, he had pressed Greg's body back into the couch and was kissing him for all he was worth, and the contented noise Greg made, the stirring of his body beneath his, was the most beautiful sensation Nick had felt in years.
They kissed slowly, then languorously. Painstakingly; Nick drew away until it was nothing but tiny pecks against Greg's lips, until Greg's mouth opened helplessly, until Greg let out a pained sound and surged up, claiming the deeper, sensuous kiss Nick had been holding back. The slow slide of tongues went fiery for an instant, then became almost timid, and Nick ached with it, down in his heart between beats, and he held Greg's face carefully in both hands, trying to stem the hurt.
"You know, I never really expected to get this far," Greg panted against his lips. A hand touched his face, the warmth of a palm, the stroke of a thumb over his brow. Nick kissed the corner of Greg's mouth in answer, and Greg tugged him down, both hands suddenly fisted in Nick's shirt. Greg still had his jacket on, but somehow that made it feel even more sensual, to slide his hands underneath, gripping bunched shirt fabric and feeling the promising heat of skin beneath. Greg smelled like coconut, very faint.
"Should've heard my radio blaring on the way over." Greg licked his lips, lips Nick had just finished kissing, and his head began to bob to a beat in his head. "All simple monkeys with alien babies, amphetamines for boys and—"
Nick cut Greg off with a squeeze of his hand around his wrist. "Doesn't sound like a Christmas song."
"Oh, it's not," Greg started, but Nick just kissed him again. Greg's breath left him in a rush and his body rose sinuously against Nick's on the couch. Nick could feel the tenseness of the other man's muscles under his hands. He slid his arms beneath Greg and clung to him, suddenly unable to do anything but kiss him, work his mouth and tongue, and taste the inside, share his breath. He came away whispering Greg's name.
"Sorry," Greg whispered back, voice barely there. "Sorry, Nick. I'm kind of going on nerves here."
Nick touched his cheek, feeling himself sinking under the liquid brown of Greg's eyes. "Me too, G."
* * *
Nick’s left side felt cold, and just a little bit stiff. Blue jeans were never made to sleep in; something he’d known well enough to avoid once upon a time. His right side was pleasantly warm, however, from ankle to shoulder, and there was an arm tucked snugly against his ribs, pulsing gentle, constant heat into his body. Greg gave a soft whimper, almost disconsolate, and Nick breathed in deeply through his nose, scenting the tang of his cedar tree and the simple freshness of another person nearby.
Christmas morning, his brain offered sleepily.
His legs were a mass of warmth, tangled between Greg’s. Ankles hooked over ankles. He could feel the silky skin of a bare foot against his own. A knee was settled between his. It felt drowsily good.
Greg stretched, long and sinuous, and Nick suddenly felt the other man’s body shift violently away and downward. Instinctively he locked his arms around Greg’s middle, and heard the breathless hiss in his ear. Nick pulled Greg’s body back up onto the safety of the couch.
“Saved your life,” he murmured.
Greg let out a startled chuckle. His fingers closed lightly around Nick’s upper arm. Nick opened his eyes at the sensation, abruptly more awake than he’d realized, and found Greg looking at him, and it really… really hit him.
Greg.
Nick blinked twice and thought thoughts about pulling his arms away, scooting upright. Trying to explain away something he hadn’t thought he would have to explain. Greg’s eyes darted over his face. Nick saw his throat work, and witnessed the subtle shadow building there in the other man’s face. Greg looked like such a child, devoid of certainty. As if he were waiting for a moment where he wouldn’t have to keep such a tight grip on his breathing.
“Merry Christmas.” The words were out before Nick thought of them properly.
“Hi,” Greg returned, then winced. “I mean… Merry Christmas.”
Nick licked his lips. Greg’s eyes were still hazy from sleep, but warm and deep and brown. He stared into them. “Sleep alright?”
Greg shrugged. Rolled his shoulders experimentally. “I have no idea. Don’t really remember the sleeping part.”
And there it was. Leave it to Greg Sanders to bring the real subject right to the fore. Nick squeezed his hand gently over Greg’s side, and felt the intake of air as the other man inhaled. Greg’s foot shifted against his, all warmth and arch.
“What time is it?” Nick asked at last, looking around dazedly for the nearest clock. Greg lifted his head, his shoulders, and blinked as light flooded over the back of the couch from the window and into his eyes.
He squinted in the direction of the kitchen clock. “It’s… maybe 9:30?”
Nick rubbed a hand over his face. “Too early. Too early for Christmas morning.”
“Oh, you’re one of those kids,” Greg murmured. His hands slid up Nick’s sides and buried themselves in the warmth between his body and the couch. “Mmm, not me. My folks hated me on Christmas morning. Early was never early enough.”
Nick nodded and found himself rubbing Greg’s back in long, steady sweeps. The jean jacket had never quite made it off the night before. Nick waited for the blush to flood his cheeks – he hadn’t had someone over who didn’t make it to his bed right away in a long while – but it remained conspicuously absent. Hell, the fact that he’d had anyone over at all should have sent the heat into his face. It wasn’t something Nick indulged in often. Work and all that jazz. Very little time for a social life.
Then again, Greg Sanders bridged ‘work’ and ‘social life,’ it seemed.
Now was the defining moment. He’d experienced lots of them, and he knew the feel of their approach. He could ease Greg off of him, laugh it off. Go back to… well, not anonymity, obviously, but strictly friendship. Except he wasn’t inclined to move Greg anywhere, now or later. It might be the easier option. Definitely the less complicated of the two. And Greg was certainly starting to tense up, as if he expected to be pushed away. He looked down and found the younger man looking back, eyes not so wide, but clear. Focused. Waiting, for just about anything.
Nick knew he’d be the world’s biggest fool to let go of what was already in his arms.
“Know any places that are open for breakfast?” he asked softly.
Something in Greg’s face shivered. His eyelids dipped, and Nick could feel him turning the question over in his mind. “There’s always Denny’s.”
“You buying?”
Greg snorted. “At Denny’s? I think my paycheck can handle that.”
Nick grinned. His spirits had risen straight through the roof, and they hadn’t really been all that low to begin with. After all, he’d woken up that morning, and Greg was still there.
“Your couch is pretty comfortable,” Greg murmured sleepily, shutting his eyes again. Nick lifted a hand, nearly stroked the other man’s forehead. His fingers hovered.
“You didn’t sleep on my couch,” he said in a very low voice.
Greg’s eyes opened. A single nod. Nick let his hand drop, let his fingers touch. Greg watched him unblinkingly the entire time.
“Then you’re comfortable,” was the quiet answer when it finally came.
Nick didn’t know what to say. Luckily, a response didn’t appear to be required. He rested his hand in Greg’s hair for another moment, and then shifted restlessly and gave the other man’s leg a light slap. “Come on. Breakfast.”
It was a fine task, extricating themselves from the couch. Nick sat up stiffly, rolling his neck, and watched as Greg shifted to sit on the edge of the couch, jeaned legs asplay, hand scruffing through his tangled hair. Nick drew a breath and stood, stretching his arms overhead. He heard the pop of his own back. When he came to himself again, Greg was standing beside him, adjusting his shirt. One slim hand rose, tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket. Nick could already tell it was a useless endeavor.
“Should go home and change,” Greg said. A lopsided smile that had something else beneath it, but it was gone too quickly for Nick to pinpoint it. “My mom calls early in the mornings on holidays.”
“Payback?”
“Depends on the holiday.” Greg’s smile had reappeared.
“You know,” Nick said conversationally as he hunted for his own jacket and discovered his discarded socks in a pile with Greg’s on the floor next to the couch instead, “I don’t think the Denny’s people will care if your shirt is wrinkled.”
“Just thinking of your reputation, Nick,” Greg fired back. The easy, somewhat mischievous tone had edged back into his words, the tone Nick was most comfortable with. He pulled his socks on and went off after his jacket again.
When he finally located it on a chair in the kitchen and returned to the living room, shrugging it over his shoulders, Greg had retrieved his socks and shoes, and was standing there in that jean jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets. Just the way he’d looked on Nick’s doorstep the night before. He watched Nick all the way from the kitchen door to the couch. Nick sat and started to put his shoes on. “You could…” – tugging the boot laces tight – “spend the day here. If you wanted.”
He could feel Greg shifting from foot to foot. “Yeah. Sure. Beats going home to my empty apartment.”
“Definitely does.”
“Nick?”
He looked up and found that Greg had stepped closer, but not close enough to infringe on Nick’s space. He frowned curiously at the other man. “What’s up, Greggo?”
“The whole day.”
Nick took in the look on his face – tried to interpret it and failed – and nodded. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t.”
Greg nodded as well, a ghost of the quirky smile lighting his face before falling away again. “Well. We did manage to make it work last night.”
Nick didn’t have the slightest inclination, or need, to look away from that startlingly open gaze. “Like you’re always saying. We work well together.”
“That we do.” Another shift of weight. “So. You don’t mind ‘working together’ again today then.”
Nick grinned, raising both hands, palms up, on the edge between giddy and relaxed. More relaxed than he’d been in a long while. “Hey. It’s still Christmas.”
“And afterward?”
Such careful words. Greg stared at him, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. Nick caught the movement as the other man chewed the inside of his lip.
He reached out, across the space separating them, and encircled Greg’s wrist with his fingers. Felt the cool, coarse material of his sleeve. Greg allowed his hand to be drawn from his pocket, all warm skin and curled fingers. Nick caressed the back of his hand for an instant, and then tightened his grip and gave a firm tug. Greg stumbled forward and sprawled with one knee on the couch, the other leg askew.
Nick continued to pull, sliding an arm around tense shoulders and turning Greg, tugging him down on his back across his lap. He met the other man’s mouth halfway there, and slowly lowered Greg the rest of the way in a delicious haze. Greg made a tiny, yearning sound. His arms came up, wrapping around Nick.
“Heartless romantic,” Greg gasped when their lips finally parted. Nick blinked.
“Is that even possible?”
Greg shook his head impatiently. Pulled Nick down again.
“Could stay here all week,” he breathed.
“I’d like that.”
“Yeah,” was the last sound to leave Greg’s lips before Nick’s mouth found his.
~fin~
...
...
...
Happy Holidays, CSI-ers!
fireelemental79 for beta-ing and constantly putting up with my fandoms. ^_^Title: Everywhere They Are the Wisest
Author: me
Fandom/Pairing: CSI - Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's a good thing Greg is staying in Vegas, because Nick has plans for Christmas.
Disclaimer: CSI does not belong to me. It belongs to Bruckheimer and Co. I just play around with the boys. "Rock is Dead" song lyrics borrowed from the glorious Marilyn Manson, who rocks Greg's world. And last but not least, thanks to every fic writer who ever had Greg jump up to sit on a countertop. I love the image and had to borrow it. *laughs*
A/N: Minor spoilers for Daddy's Little Girl, Grave Danger, and Boom. This story is based very, very loosely on my favorite Christmas story, "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry, which is also where the title comes from. ♥
Also posted at AO3, WMtDB, and skyehawke.
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Everywhere They Are the Wisest
It was only a mindset. Nick Stokes knew that. He was a scientist, after all. The dates of December 24th and December 25th were, technically, just another two days, the same as any other two days of the year. It stood to reason that if a person simply tried hard enough, he could remind himself of the mediocrity of those two days, and they would just pass on by without any of the brouhaha imposed upon them by humans enamored with certain religions.
But Nick wasn’t sure he wanted the mediocrity. Being reminded that he was alone on Christmas Eve was a small price to pay for the warm feeling in his gut during the coldest months of the year, the one underneath, because that feeling came from family, and Christmas was family.
He just… would have to catch them all the next time around.
And he took comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one waiting out Christmas sans relatives. Warrick had to work, and would be catching a red-eye early on the 25th to join Tina and her folks somewhere in Oregon. Grissom seemed almost proud to be eking it out from the inside of his buggy, specimen-y office. And Greg was sticking around. So there was no reason to feel out of sorts about it.
Except Nick did, and maybe that was because he’d finally come to a decision about what he wanted to be doing on Christmas, and on top of all that, he actually felt like he might go through with implementing it this time.
It was a good thing Greg was staying home, because Nick’s decision required the other man’s presence in Vegas, and not in the next state to the West.
Funny; Nick had felt very holly-jolly that morning, even though Christmas scheduling played hell with his equilibrium and stuck everyone who worked nights in the lab during the day instead, and vice versa, except for poor Archie, who’d managed to nab himself a double. Somehow. But he was in a good mood.
In fact, everyone was fairly cheery, even Ecklie, and that was just creepy.
“Should be a law against that,” Nick had said, peering over his shoulder at the departing assistant director’s back.
“I agree,” Greg answered. “Ecklies should not be allowed to whistle.”
Nick shook his head. “Gotta throw out all my CDs with Rudolph on them now.”
“Christmas will never be the same.”
And then later—
“Holidays are overrated.”
Greg grimaced and bagged a broken ornament. “Understatement. You’d have to be pretty whacked out to resort to this.”
Nick ducked under the base of the pine tree that was sticking out through the house’s bay window. “Seriously. Who launches a Christmas tree at their neighbor’s living room anyway?”
“Maybe Mom One pushed Mom Two down and stole her Elmo.”
And even later—
“Heading home?”
Nick shrugged into his coat. “Yeah. To my quiet house. To sleep. You?”
Greg tugged his locker open. “Thought I’d find an open bar, but sleep sounds like the best buzz right now. Have to be awake to catch Santa in the act tonight, after all.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.
Nick laughed outright. “Yeah, good luck with that, Greggo. So, you’re spending Christmas alone?”
Greg gave a forlorn sigh. “Just me and my tv. And cookies.”
“Hey.” Nick pointed a finger. “Nothing wrong with cookies. I don’t even have those.”
“Ah, the price of a career.” Greg nodded sagely.
“Get used to it,” Nick shot back.
“There’s always the 7-Eleven.” Greg waggled his eyebrows. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”
And bantering was all well and good because it kept Nick from thinking of his Decision until he was already halfway home and halfway through Carol of the Bells, and halfway toward thinking that maybe he really might not end this holiday alone this time.
Nick went home. Showered. Put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a fresh white t-shirt. Surveyed the absolute lack in his refrigerator. Not that there wasn’t food. But there certainly wasn’t a turkey or goose or other sizable bird, and there were no mashed potatoes or mince pies in sight. No stuffy living room full of laughter.
Nick grabbed a bottle of water and settled on the couch to ponder his approaching apocalypse.
It was just a drive. Ten minutes, at most. And then a short stroll through a small apartment complex. And then words. They sounded so good in his head, the Merry Christmas and the no sense being by ourselves tonight and the come to my place. He knew they would sound good out loud, too.
It was just that he also knew Greg would see right through them, partly because Greg was a scientist too, and smart, but mostly because it was very plain what he was really asking.
“Nick Stokes,” he said, taking a swig of water, “Christmas is a time for change.”
It was a good mantra to have, because it sounded so very sure of itself, and that was the appearance Nick was going for. Still, it was another hour and a half before he finally got up, stretched, and looked around for his shoes and jacket. By the time he located his most comfortable work boots, he had changed into a navy blue t-shirt as well, with white stitching around all the important hems, and had discovered a black, weathered leather jacket that still fit hanging in the back of his closet. That was the nice thing about leather: once it was broken in, it clung like a second skin for the rest of a person’s natural life.
He twirled his keys on one finger all the way down the hall, grabbed up his cell – just in case – and locked himself out of his house with quite a bit more calm and finesse than he’d anticipated. It was like jumping off a cliff into a lagoon, he supposed: one never really felt the tug of fate until one was actually hanging in midair over the water, realizing that backtracking was no longer an option. Then there was screaming, but only then. And Nick had barely even reached the edge yet. No, that would come when he actually opened his mouth to speak.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he made his way through Vegas, hearing cheerful Christmas tunes and thinking that he wouldn’t be alone in his car when he made the return trip. Because he, Nick Stokes, had beaten the odds time and time again, he was a winner, and tonight was the first night of the rest of his life. And he was sick of going through it alone.
The inevitable what-if popped up about six minutes in, of course – what if I come back home and that front passenger seat is still empty? – but it seemed just a little too surreal, didn’t it? Greg couldn’t possibly say no. Right? Nick had spent too many hours pondering the meaning of life, the universe, and everything to let stupid exaggerations of the former lab tech’s possible anger get in the way. That was just idiotic: Greg was his friend, at the very least. There would be no cold door shutting, or tossing of himself out onto the stoop.
There might be awkwardness. There might even be embarrassment. But Greg would hear him out, if only out of curiosity. It was in his nature.
Nick smiled to himself and turned into Greg’s apartment complex, parked, and killed the engine. Chafed his hands together briskly and snapped his fingers. “Alright, you’re just asking him over. Nothing wrong with sharing a little cup of Christmas cheer.”
He’d just offer. It was mostly the fear of the look on Greg’s face that was twisting Nick’s stomach. He didn’t think he could deal with pity or disbelief there. Well, maybe at first. But not when it came right down to it.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, you want to come over tonight? Seeing as we’re both alone again. Hey, Merry Christmas, you want to…”
Easy. And then his part would be done and it would all be in Greg’s more-than-capable hands.
Nick jogged up the path with a spring in his step, past windows winking with colored lights, and took the stairs to Greg’s apartment two at a time. He could smell eggnog from somewhere, and wood-smoke. Hear Christmas carols. The air was still, that stillness that comes with freshly fallen snow, and Nick figured it was more a Christmas thing than a snow thing, because it sure as heck didn’t snow in Vegas. He cleared his throat, “Hey, Merry Christmas”ed to himself one more time, and rapped on the door with his knuckles.
Cupped his hands and blew into them, felt like maybe he was just about to make that leap over the cliff, and knocked again.
No answer.
It was only then that Nick realized just how dark the place was.
He stepped back, blinking at the door, at the silence of the windows, the lack of light through the peephole. Inside other apartments, he could hear laughter and the clink of dishes, but Greg’s home was quiet. All the lights off.
Greg wasn’t home.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.
Nick suddenly had to swallow. And then he swallowed again. But the clutch of his throat only cinched tighter, climbed higher. He turned and looked out at the parking lot, and then back to the closed front door.
For some reason, he’d never imagined a scenario wherein Greg didn’t open the door. It had been harrowing enough just thinking how he’d get past the first moment when Greg’s eyes settled on him, standing there on his front stoop. How to deal with surprise, shock, even… well, of course, outright rejection. But absence? It had never once factored in.
All it took was a shimmer of a thought – where Greg might be, if not at home – and Nick had to breathe hard, step backward and sit down on the first step.
God, he was too late. He’d taken too damn long. The burn in his eyes stole up and Nick shook his head, suddenly furious with himself.
“What in hell were you expecting?” he muttered, hating the weakness of his own voice. “For him to wait for you?”
Oh, this was so stupid. So perfectly, selfishly stupid. Nick pressed both hands over his face, appalled at the magnitude of his own reaction. How long had he been so attached to the idea? And it had only occurred to him now to do something about it, and now he was too fucking late.
It really was just like him, wasn’t it? There were a number of people who could attest to that: Kristy Hopkins, Kelly Gordon… Hell, everyone he’d left a message for on that horrible little recorder in that horrible plexi-glass coffin under that especially horrible anthill. Nicholas Stokes didn’t learn much after all, it seemed; always a few minutes too late to make any difference.
Nick blew into his hands again, stared at his palms for a few seconds, and then glanced up at the sparkling heavens. The ice crystals high in the atmosphere made the stars twinkle, but that was just so fittingly unromantic a description, wasn’t it? Ice crystals. Air density.
“Wonderful,” he muttered to himself. “Just wonderful.”
What was on the agenda now? Nick could count it all on one hand: an empty house, another Christmas by himself… and yet another chance, fallen by the wayside. The night’s chill ate through his jacket and into his jeans as he got slowly to his feet.
He didn’t feel like moving. Like going anywhere. Just sitting in the dark and… sitting. No one would know he was there, and Christmas would pass by sometime in the night and he could imagine that he hadn’t royally screwed things up. He didn’t even want to think about where Greg might be. The only thing that mattered was that Greg wasn’t here. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
So sorrowfully maddening, to think that his own inability to act had led him to this end.
“You should have just said something,” he berated himself weakly. “Maybe then—”
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Nick ground his teeth and yanked his jacket closed with a rough jerk. Forced the buttons home and descended the steps to the main walkway. There was no sense in sitting on Greg’s front stoop feeling sorry for himself. He’d never know what would’ve could’ve should’ve happened. He was an adult, not a kid. Adults didn’t mope their way through their mistakes. Adults went home. Adults fixed themselves some strongish eggnog and took a long, hot bath, and called their folks to wish them a happy holiday before going to bed. Adults smiled and opted for ‘you win some, you lose some, life goes on.’
But even that knowledge, that resolution to be adult about this, didn’t keep Nick from feeling sorry for himself.
The drive back was quiet, radioless and uneventful. Nick took the turns automatically, pressed the brake with his foot and shifted gears with his right hand, and found his way back into his own neighborhood eventually. His neighbors’ light displays glimmered cheerfully, blinkers, chasers, pearly white icicles, but the sight was raw and dull to his eyes. Just lights. Nothing behind them anymore. Nick pulled into his driveway with a sigh and shut off the engine. Thought about sleeping in the car and almost immediately decided that that was just dumb.
He got out, locked the doors with the press of a button, and thrust his hands into his pockets, heading up the walk.
It took him five or six steps to look up and notice that there was already someone on his front porch, in the process of turning away from his door and looking at his own tennis-shoes as he walked. Nick watched the other person come slowly down his walkway, and then his brain clicked on who it was, and he stopped in place.
Greg Sanders raised his head and saw him, and his lips parted even as his pace slowed. He came a few steps forward before just halting there, staring at Nick. He had on a pair of dark jeans and a tan t-shirt with a faded white logo peeking from beneath his denim jacket. As Nick watched, Greg’s cheeks flushed. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“Nick.” Both question and answer at once.
Nick finally got his body to obey and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I was just at… your place.”
Brilliant. No hello. No nothing.
Greg stared at him. “You were at my place,” he repeated dully. His brow wrinkled.
“Yeah.” Nick nodded, and then couldn’t figure out what else to say. He felt his cheeks reddening. Greg’s eyes swept his face in the dim light, and the younger man glanced down. Shrugged his shoulders fitfully.
“Great minds think alike, huh?” A belated laugh, barely there. Awkward.
Nick smiled a flimsy smile and then remembered that it was his doorstep they were dancing on, and that for all his Texas charm, he was currently being a lousy host.
It was just—he’d already stopped expecting to be a host tonight.
“I—uh. You wanna come inside?” He gestured vaguely with one hand, indicating his front door. “I’ve got beer. Or—Eggnog, if you want.”
Greg’s eyes flickered up to his. A nod of a slightly shaggy head. “Sure. I mean. If you’re offering.”
“Yeah.” Nick started forward, and Greg stepped aside – into his path – then moved to the other side with a duck of his head. At the same moment, Nick tried to reroute, and again found his way blocked. He stopped, Greg stopped, the younger man motioned with a fluttering hand, moved again, and Nick found the path to his door clear.
He blushed. Greg’s lips quirked into a sheepish smile.
“Sorry. Please. After you.” Greg made a showy bow, and Nick felt one façade of the tension crumble just a bit.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. Greg grinned at last.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Nick.”
Nick turned away before his throat closed up on him again and fumbled his keys out. By some Yuletide miracle, it only took him a few seconds to get the right key into the lock. He opened the door and flicked on the light switches, flooding the porch with a soft yellow glow. Nick stepped inside and toed off his boots, then held the door open. Greg came in, shoulders hunched a bit, hands still deep in his jacket pockets. He kicked his shoes off and nudged them toward the wall.
Looked up expectantly.
“Uh, kitchen’s this way,” Nick said, a little too quickly. But Greg only nodded and followed along behind as he made his way through his home. The familiar carpet felt soothing under his stockinged feet, and Nick let himself breathe for a moment. Getting all wound up over this wasn’t necessary. Technically… well, technically the evening had turned out just as he’d wanted, only it had gone about it differently. No reason to get bent out of shape. Greg was still here.
Greg was still here.
Nick swallowed the thing blocking his throat. “So, eggnog or beer?”
When Greg didn’t answer, Nick turned around and found the other man staring at him somewhat blankly—and yet not blankly at all. Fixedly. And blankly. Didn’t make much sense, even in Nick’s mind. “Greg?”
His co-worker shook himself and blinked, dark eyes focusing rather abruptly. Looked down. “Sorry. I… A beer. Sure.”
Nick nodded and busied himself with the fridge, and then with glasses, and then had to look at his visitor again. Greg looked back. Nick lifted his beer symbolically, a wordless toast. Greg did the same, and then there was a little bit of drinking.
“I just came from your place.” He stumbled over it, the first really coherent thing he’d said since the moment Greg had shown up. He gestured with his beer, trying to make up for the painful lack of intriguing conversation. “I thought I’d… go for a drive.”
Greg nodded quickly. Took a sip. His gaze found Nick’s. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
"Thought you'd gone out."
"Well... I did. To your place."
Nick nodded. More drinking. The refrigerator clicked on, filling the silence with a warm hum. Outside a dog barked. Nick wished they were in the living room, where at least they could talk about his Christmas tree if things really fell apart on them.
“I was going to invite you over. I mean, because we’re both by ourselves this Christmas. I figured…” He tilted his head, wishing the answer were there instead of lost somewhere within clumsy words. Greg glanced at him and looked away again almost as swiftly.
“Sure. I mean, what’s the use of spending it alone?” The younger man shrugged.
Damn it. Why was talking so hard? It was just his house. They talked all the time at work, but maybe there was some unspoken cosmic rule that made such comfort impossible within the walls of one’s own abode. Too much personality getting in the way, or too much Nick, or too much communal shock at actually being in the same room when they both seemed to have resigned themselves to finding abandoned houses instead of friendly homeowners.
For the first time, Nick wondered what Greg was doing here.
“Hey, you hungry? I mean…” Nick looked around for something to distract them both. “Did you eat yet?”
Greg shook his head. “I… No. I don’t really have anything over at my place. Forgot to go shopping, and then I thought about it, but the stores are all closed, or empty except for Spam, and I didn’t feel like Spam, and I was tired.”
But not too tired to drive to Nick’s. He looked at Greg awkwardly. And suddenly there was a feeling in the enclosed air of his kitchen, the feeling of another chance slipping through his grasp if he wasn’t more careful. Nick set his beer down.
“I haven’t eaten either,” he said, and then, because something seemed to be missing, “Usually I have Christmas dinner early.”
“Yeah.” Greg’s lip quirked into something very similar to a smile. He took another sip, then set his own glass down and rubbed his hands together. “So. What’s on the menu?”
Which… introduced the other problem.
“Actually,” Nick said at last, “I was sort of—” Expecting to find dinner at your place? But that implied planning, and Nick barely remembered in time that he’d only been heading over to Greg’s ‘by chance,’ according to his own story. His words slid into silence and he reached out, gripping the handle of the fridge with one hand.
"So, we don't have anything to eat." Greg looked down at the clean countertop, and then back up at him.
Nick shrugged and felt his cheeks heat alarmingly. He gestured at the cupboards. "I have mac and cheese. Somewhere."
Greg's eyes found his for an instant. He nodded. Shrugged one shoulder beneath his worn jacket. "Sounds good."
Nick hesitated, waiting to see if the other man was joking. When Greg just continued looking interestedly around the kitchen, Nick slung the cupboard door open and took down a box of macaroni, then grabbed the first clean saucepan he could see from the dish drainer and filled it with water. "It's Annie's. Parmesan Peace Pasta." He shook the box inelegantly and the dry noodles rattled around inside. "You know, bunnies."
A smile lit Greg's face. "I know that stuff. My mom has it when I go home. I go through an entire case of it in a weekend."
Nick grinned, feeling comfort steal back over him at last. "Good to know I can feed you adequately, Greggo."
"Watch it." Greg waggled a finger, looking at him sternly. "Might just have to make myself at home."
Not such a bad idea. Nick turned back to adjust the range before the redness climbing into his cheeks could broadcast itself properly.
"So." Greg's tone was amiable. "Is this standard Stokesian fare for the holidays?"
Nick laughed. "Absolutely. We buy out the whole store. We don't go in for that ham-and-pie nonsense in Texas."
He could tell from the change in the air that the other man was grinning back. "Figures. I never could find any Annie's at Christmastime." His tone turned forlorn. "It was all I ever wanted."
"Well, now you know where to go."
"And don't think I won't come around with my tin cup." Greg walked up behind him holding the sauce pan's lid. "Here."
Nick took it.
A few minutes later, the water was boiling, the bunnies had been dumped tragically into the pot, and Nick and his houseguest had moved on past comparing the different brands of pasta and arguing about the beauties of homemade macaroni.
"You wouldn't believe the stuff that Hodges brought in today for lunch. Covered with melted cheddar." Greg hoisted himself up onto the counter, but somehow stopped midway, arms cocked, feet dangling off the ground. He raised his brows at Nick. "This okay?"
Nick nodded. Greg finished pulling himself onto the countertop and went on, legs kicking lightly. "I mean, who does that? Who melts cheddar over their macaroni? It's like... noodle-nachos."
"Maybe he ran out of Velveeta."
Greg nodded sagely. "Or maybe he's just Hodges."
"I think that's a good deal more likely," Nick managed with a straight face, but Greg's answering snort broke his complacency and he leaned against the counter chuckling to himself.
“You know, he made it a point to tell me I couldn’t have any. As if I’d even asked for some.” Greg hopped down off the counter again, shaking his head, and there was that easy smile that Nick liked so much. He’d been afraid it wouldn’t make an appearance that night, what with all the uneasiness and fumbling around and such. It was a good start, a very good start for so inauspicious and fateful a beginning. Nick had been half afraid that he was both meant and not meant to be with Greg tonight. Only a series of chances had brought them together, and certainly that had to mean something. But then again, if they were so far in need of help from fate, then what was there really to connect?
And now he was waxing all metaphysical. A sign he was hungry. Nick rubbed his stomach furtively and pointed to the cupboard behind Greg. “Bowls up there. Forks down there.”
Greg turned with a flourish and set about rummaging through the pristine cabinetry, pulling down several white bowls and selecting two that obviously passed some sort of secret Sanders-test that Nick couldn’t fathom. Greg slid the silverware drawer open with a flick of his fingers. Nick found himself poised over the saucepan of drained noodles, pouring a packet of parmesan cheese and staring at the way Greg’s fingers moved and curled as he picked out two forks. His friend looked up just in time to catch his gaze, and Nick straightened.
“Something wrong with my dishes?” he asked in a semi-stern voice, raising an eyebrow for good measure.
Greg lifted his own brow right back. “It’s Christmas dinner. Nothing but the best will be tolerated.”
Nick couldn’t help his own smile.
He grabbed a serving spoon from the dish rack and ladled steaming macaroni bunnies and parmesan into the bowls Greg held. For a moment, the other man looked a bit lost, standing there with twin dinners in his grip, and Nick pointed toward the door a little unsteadily. “We can eat out there. More Christmasy in my living room.”
Greg led the way, setting the bowls down on the coffee table without sitting on the couch. Nick could see that his friend’s attention had already departed from the state of his empty belly. Greg wandered over to the tree in the corner of the room with all its dazzling lights. He reached out and touched a glimmering golden ornament with one finger. “Hearst Castle?”
Nick smiled. “My parents.” He gestured at the tree. “Anniversary trip. They bought us each an ornament.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. His finger again stroked the delicate gold metalwork. “Nice.”
Nick wondered if Greg was going to peruse his entire tree asking after the life story of each ornament – and Nick didn’t really want to get into the frosted green pickles hanging up near the top if he could help it – but Greg merely let his eyes rove for a moment more, and then came back and sat down next to him on the couch. He picked up his bowl and stirred his macaroni.
“Here’s to Annie and her bunnies,” Nick said. Greg’s mouth twisted in a doomed effort not to grin.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nick savored the taste of parmesan and realized that he’d forgotten to get them drinks. He was about to get up when Greg's fork clinked in his bowl.
"Why did you go to my place?" Greg asked solemnly.
Nick blinked. Straightened on the couch, and wondered where all that previous easiness and companionship had disappeared to. Decided to turn it around. "Why did you come here?"
"I was lonely," Greg said, a little too quickly.
"Oh."
"I mean..." Greg's shoulders hitched. "Well, you said you were staying in, and... I was staying in... And it's Christmas." The younger man's cheeks flushed. He narrowed his eyes at Nick, mouth thinning into a determined line. "Answer my question."
Nick shrugged. Looked away and busied himself with stirring his bunnies. "Same. I just figured—" And wasn't it time for his practiced mantra, or something similar? Nick glanced at Greg. "It’s Christmas. And we’re both by ourselves.”
Brown eyes tracked across his face. Greg's tongue came out and moistened his lower lip. Nick watched the movement. Greg sat back suddenly. His hand clenched and unclenched against his thigh.
"Sorry. I didn't really want to be at my place," he muttered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I don't know. I don't like being alone."
Nick studied him, finally allowing himself to memorize Greg's profile, his lowered lashes. Pursed lips. "I know the feeling," he answered softly.
"Yeah." Greg nodded, a little jerkily. His hand clenched and released over his thigh again. He seemed to mentally shake himself. "But hey. You were going to ask me over anyway."
And there was just something in the light of Greg's eyes, suddenly, something unearthly and bright, and far too quick. Nick's throat closed up for the umpteenth time that evening and he fought not to clear it. Greg was sitting so close, just within arm's reach, actually he was closer than that, and why hadn't Nick noticed earlier how close Greg was sitting? It was where he’d been sitting the entire time. His leg was almost touching Nick's own.
He realized that he didn't know what Greg expected out of this at all. If he needed a friend – and Nick knew what it was like to need a friend so desperately he could barely think or breathe or see – then this... this wasn't a good idea. It wasn't appropriate, even if what Nick needed was more than a friend. Especially then. He leaned forward, needing to move, and set his bowl slowly down on the coffee table. He could feel Greg watching him.
"Well," Nick said, searching for some way to continue the sentence, break through the silence he could feel lowering down on him. "It's not right to spend Christmas alone."
Lame. Very lame. Had he already resorted to repetition? It was still early, in what was sure to be a long evening.
Greg's bowl clinked down next to his. Nick could see the tanned skin of the other man's wrist peeking from under his jacket sleeve, the slender wiriness of his fingers. It suddenly felt completely unfair that he wouldn't be touching those fingers tonight, grabbing them or caressing the soft flesh over the back of that hand.
"You make good mac and cheese," Greg said, and his voice sounded just a tiny bit stilted, a tiny bit higher than usual. Nick smiled weakly, still looking at his bowl and wondering why this night had ever seemed simple to him.
"I usually try to make more traditional food."
Greg shifted slightly beside him. "This is fine. Comfort food."
Nick looked up, startled by the weird pitch to Greg's voice, and at the same moment, Greg spoke again, "I needed it," raised his eyes, and was just inches away from him, the entire room, the entire couch, and Greg was very close, lips parted to let breath in and out. Nick's own breathing began to quicken. He could smell Greg's aftershave, faint with the late hour.
He swayed forward without thinking, and words came. "Good to know."
"You usually aren't alone for Christmas," Greg murmured, and it sounded both loud and soft in Nick's ear, weighted with unspoken questions. Maybe they were his own unspoken questions. Maybe they were the questions he wanted to answer the most, but his body told him the answer didn't lie in words, and if this wasn't what Greg wanted—
"Usually back home," was all he could think to say.
Greg's hand rose slowly in the corner of his vision, and Nick could feel it hovering. Fingertips brushed his cheek. Greg's face was very close, right there, a breath away. "Is there..." Touch of lips, or maybe it was just the brush of an exhalation. "...anyone else?"
"No one," Nick breathed.
"Oh, thank god," Greg hissed, and clasped the back of Nick's head, threading through his hair and pulling him into the deepest, most desperate kiss Nick had ever shared with anyone. Greg groaned softly. His lips teased, parted, and Nick felt Greg's tongue touch his mouth, and he tilted his head and returned the touch, stroking, tasting. Greg's mouth fell open and his tongue was hot, his teeth sharp, and his lips chapped and needy. Before Nick knew it, he had pressed Greg's body back into the couch and was kissing him for all he was worth, and the contented noise Greg made, the stirring of his body beneath his, was the most beautiful sensation Nick had felt in years.
They kissed slowly, then languorously. Painstakingly; Nick drew away until it was nothing but tiny pecks against Greg's lips, until Greg's mouth opened helplessly, until Greg let out a pained sound and surged up, claiming the deeper, sensuous kiss Nick had been holding back. The slow slide of tongues went fiery for an instant, then became almost timid, and Nick ached with it, down in his heart between beats, and he held Greg's face carefully in both hands, trying to stem the hurt.
"You know, I never really expected to get this far," Greg panted against his lips. A hand touched his face, the warmth of a palm, the stroke of a thumb over his brow. Nick kissed the corner of Greg's mouth in answer, and Greg tugged him down, both hands suddenly fisted in Nick's shirt. Greg still had his jacket on, but somehow that made it feel even more sensual, to slide his hands underneath, gripping bunched shirt fabric and feeling the promising heat of skin beneath. Greg smelled like coconut, very faint.
"Should've heard my radio blaring on the way over." Greg licked his lips, lips Nick had just finished kissing, and his head began to bob to a beat in his head. "All simple monkeys with alien babies, amphetamines for boys and—"
Nick cut Greg off with a squeeze of his hand around his wrist. "Doesn't sound like a Christmas song."
"Oh, it's not," Greg started, but Nick just kissed him again. Greg's breath left him in a rush and his body rose sinuously against Nick's on the couch. Nick could feel the tenseness of the other man's muscles under his hands. He slid his arms beneath Greg and clung to him, suddenly unable to do anything but kiss him, work his mouth and tongue, and taste the inside, share his breath. He came away whispering Greg's name.
"Sorry," Greg whispered back, voice barely there. "Sorry, Nick. I'm kind of going on nerves here."
Nick touched his cheek, feeling himself sinking under the liquid brown of Greg's eyes. "Me too, G."
* * *
Nick’s left side felt cold, and just a little bit stiff. Blue jeans were never made to sleep in; something he’d known well enough to avoid once upon a time. His right side was pleasantly warm, however, from ankle to shoulder, and there was an arm tucked snugly against his ribs, pulsing gentle, constant heat into his body. Greg gave a soft whimper, almost disconsolate, and Nick breathed in deeply through his nose, scenting the tang of his cedar tree and the simple freshness of another person nearby.
Christmas morning, his brain offered sleepily.
His legs were a mass of warmth, tangled between Greg’s. Ankles hooked over ankles. He could feel the silky skin of a bare foot against his own. A knee was settled between his. It felt drowsily good.
Greg stretched, long and sinuous, and Nick suddenly felt the other man’s body shift violently away and downward. Instinctively he locked his arms around Greg’s middle, and heard the breathless hiss in his ear. Nick pulled Greg’s body back up onto the safety of the couch.
“Saved your life,” he murmured.
Greg let out a startled chuckle. His fingers closed lightly around Nick’s upper arm. Nick opened his eyes at the sensation, abruptly more awake than he’d realized, and found Greg looking at him, and it really… really hit him.
Greg.
Nick blinked twice and thought thoughts about pulling his arms away, scooting upright. Trying to explain away something he hadn’t thought he would have to explain. Greg’s eyes darted over his face. Nick saw his throat work, and witnessed the subtle shadow building there in the other man’s face. Greg looked like such a child, devoid of certainty. As if he were waiting for a moment where he wouldn’t have to keep such a tight grip on his breathing.
“Merry Christmas.” The words were out before Nick thought of them properly.
“Hi,” Greg returned, then winced. “I mean… Merry Christmas.”
Nick licked his lips. Greg’s eyes were still hazy from sleep, but warm and deep and brown. He stared into them. “Sleep alright?”
Greg shrugged. Rolled his shoulders experimentally. “I have no idea. Don’t really remember the sleeping part.”
And there it was. Leave it to Greg Sanders to bring the real subject right to the fore. Nick squeezed his hand gently over Greg’s side, and felt the intake of air as the other man inhaled. Greg’s foot shifted against his, all warmth and arch.
“What time is it?” Nick asked at last, looking around dazedly for the nearest clock. Greg lifted his head, his shoulders, and blinked as light flooded over the back of the couch from the window and into his eyes.
He squinted in the direction of the kitchen clock. “It’s… maybe 9:30?”
Nick rubbed a hand over his face. “Too early. Too early for Christmas morning.”
“Oh, you’re one of those kids,” Greg murmured. His hands slid up Nick’s sides and buried themselves in the warmth between his body and the couch. “Mmm, not me. My folks hated me on Christmas morning. Early was never early enough.”
Nick nodded and found himself rubbing Greg’s back in long, steady sweeps. The jean jacket had never quite made it off the night before. Nick waited for the blush to flood his cheeks – he hadn’t had someone over who didn’t make it to his bed right away in a long while – but it remained conspicuously absent. Hell, the fact that he’d had anyone over at all should have sent the heat into his face. It wasn’t something Nick indulged in often. Work and all that jazz. Very little time for a social life.
Then again, Greg Sanders bridged ‘work’ and ‘social life,’ it seemed.
Now was the defining moment. He’d experienced lots of them, and he knew the feel of their approach. He could ease Greg off of him, laugh it off. Go back to… well, not anonymity, obviously, but strictly friendship. Except he wasn’t inclined to move Greg anywhere, now or later. It might be the easier option. Definitely the less complicated of the two. And Greg was certainly starting to tense up, as if he expected to be pushed away. He looked down and found the younger man looking back, eyes not so wide, but clear. Focused. Waiting, for just about anything.
Nick knew he’d be the world’s biggest fool to let go of what was already in his arms.
“Know any places that are open for breakfast?” he asked softly.
Something in Greg’s face shivered. His eyelids dipped, and Nick could feel him turning the question over in his mind. “There’s always Denny’s.”
“You buying?”
Greg snorted. “At Denny’s? I think my paycheck can handle that.”
Nick grinned. His spirits had risen straight through the roof, and they hadn’t really been all that low to begin with. After all, he’d woken up that morning, and Greg was still there.
“Your couch is pretty comfortable,” Greg murmured sleepily, shutting his eyes again. Nick lifted a hand, nearly stroked the other man’s forehead. His fingers hovered.
“You didn’t sleep on my couch,” he said in a very low voice.
Greg’s eyes opened. A single nod. Nick let his hand drop, let his fingers touch. Greg watched him unblinkingly the entire time.
“Then you’re comfortable,” was the quiet answer when it finally came.
Nick didn’t know what to say. Luckily, a response didn’t appear to be required. He rested his hand in Greg’s hair for another moment, and then shifted restlessly and gave the other man’s leg a light slap. “Come on. Breakfast.”
It was a fine task, extricating themselves from the couch. Nick sat up stiffly, rolling his neck, and watched as Greg shifted to sit on the edge of the couch, jeaned legs asplay, hand scruffing through his tangled hair. Nick drew a breath and stood, stretching his arms overhead. He heard the pop of his own back. When he came to himself again, Greg was standing beside him, adjusting his shirt. One slim hand rose, tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket. Nick could already tell it was a useless endeavor.
“Should go home and change,” Greg said. A lopsided smile that had something else beneath it, but it was gone too quickly for Nick to pinpoint it. “My mom calls early in the mornings on holidays.”
“Payback?”
“Depends on the holiday.” Greg’s smile had reappeared.
“You know,” Nick said conversationally as he hunted for his own jacket and discovered his discarded socks in a pile with Greg’s on the floor next to the couch instead, “I don’t think the Denny’s people will care if your shirt is wrinkled.”
“Just thinking of your reputation, Nick,” Greg fired back. The easy, somewhat mischievous tone had edged back into his words, the tone Nick was most comfortable with. He pulled his socks on and went off after his jacket again.
When he finally located it on a chair in the kitchen and returned to the living room, shrugging it over his shoulders, Greg had retrieved his socks and shoes, and was standing there in that jean jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets. Just the way he’d looked on Nick’s doorstep the night before. He watched Nick all the way from the kitchen door to the couch. Nick sat and started to put his shoes on. “You could…” – tugging the boot laces tight – “spend the day here. If you wanted.”
He could feel Greg shifting from foot to foot. “Yeah. Sure. Beats going home to my empty apartment.”
“Definitely does.”
“Nick?”
He looked up and found that Greg had stepped closer, but not close enough to infringe on Nick’s space. He frowned curiously at the other man. “What’s up, Greggo?”
“The whole day.”
Nick took in the look on his face – tried to interpret it and failed – and nodded. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t.”
Greg nodded as well, a ghost of the quirky smile lighting his face before falling away again. “Well. We did manage to make it work last night.”
Nick didn’t have the slightest inclination, or need, to look away from that startlingly open gaze. “Like you’re always saying. We work well together.”
“That we do.” Another shift of weight. “So. You don’t mind ‘working together’ again today then.”
Nick grinned, raising both hands, palms up, on the edge between giddy and relaxed. More relaxed than he’d been in a long while. “Hey. It’s still Christmas.”
“And afterward?”
Such careful words. Greg stared at him, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. Nick caught the movement as the other man chewed the inside of his lip.
He reached out, across the space separating them, and encircled Greg’s wrist with his fingers. Felt the cool, coarse material of his sleeve. Greg allowed his hand to be drawn from his pocket, all warm skin and curled fingers. Nick caressed the back of his hand for an instant, and then tightened his grip and gave a firm tug. Greg stumbled forward and sprawled with one knee on the couch, the other leg askew.
Nick continued to pull, sliding an arm around tense shoulders and turning Greg, tugging him down on his back across his lap. He met the other man’s mouth halfway there, and slowly lowered Greg the rest of the way in a delicious haze. Greg made a tiny, yearning sound. His arms came up, wrapping around Nick.
“Heartless romantic,” Greg gasped when their lips finally parted. Nick blinked.
“Is that even possible?”
Greg shook his head impatiently. Pulled Nick down again.
“Could stay here all week,” he breathed.
“I’d like that.”
“Yeah,” was the last sound to leave Greg’s lips before Nick’s mouth found his.
~fin~
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Happy Holidays, CSI-ers!
