Title: A Thousand Pieces (aka Four Things that Never Happened Because of a Box Underground and One that Did)
By: quettaser
Rating: R
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairings: Nick/Greg, Warrick/Catherine
Warnings: Grave Danger spoilers, Character deaths, suicide, light het and Ecklie sympathy.
Summary: AU. Four possible post-Grave Danger stories, and one that is. No one had made it out unscathed.

***

I.

            He sighed and rubbed his eyes, finishing up the notes from the third interview of the day. He still had three more to go and he was already running on fumes. Hadn't slept since before the funerals and he was still wearing his black suit, too tired to care that he was creasing his pants. Not that he knew when he was going to have time to go to the dry cleaners.

            Been put in charge of finding replacements as fast as possible and that meant that every waking moment was spent in the lab, running interference and meeting with prospective employees. Not that there are that many, the field's too small. Certainly none to replace those that were lost or injured.

            It wasn't until two days ago that they found the prototype, until Hodges found the traces of Symtex on the dimples on the bottom of the glass coffin. He tried not to think of the hours spent walking just above it, the number of CSIs standing over what would have saved everyone. What would have brought everyone back alive and saved him a lot of trouble.

            The press had been rampant the first day when he'd been scrambling through Desert Palms, trying to account for everyone, get the glass removed from his arm and assess the damages. Everyone had wanted to know what went wrong, how the CSIs had missed something, and who was responsible.

            Except that was the problem. The man responsible was already dead, nothing more than a thousand pieces of meat and bone, splattered on the walls of some empty warehouse. So he'd switched to damage control, tired to make sure that the lab looked competent. Like they had enough people to cover every shift, that they weren't putting everything on backlog, just trying to make sense of the pile of evidence that had built up. All those cheesy superhero comics had been right: crime doesn't take a holiday.

            And now the lab was drowning in work, still fielding reports from the press and he'd had to go back into the field between interviews. Everyone, including all of the techs were working overtime, trying to ease the workload, but none of them could move fast enough. They needed more people.

            Four gone forever and six more injured enough to keep them out of work. And for all the disagreements he'd ever had with the night shift, he'd still felt the tug of loss as he filled out the appropriate forms that would take their names off of the employee payroll.

            Warrick Brown, who had been in the hole to pull Stokes out. Rough around the edges and not the cleanest jacket on the books, and certainly too much of a dirty past to ever make it to a very public position, the press would go wild. But Grissom was right, he had a knack for the job and wouldn't be the easiest to replace.

            And Grissom was right there too when it exploded. He'd be harder to replace, forensic entomologists were hardly a dime a dozen and Grissom had solved a lot of impossible cases with his knowledge of insects. Been good for the lab's reputation, a nightmare for public relations, but it in the end it had been an even trade. Made harder by the fact that he was a supervisor, grave at that, and they weren't easy to come by. Had it been a month or two earlier, he would have taken Sofia, but now she was a detective in another state and he wouldn't be able to call her to come back. Not after the demotion.

            Not that he would have chosen any differently if he'd known.

            And, Nick Stokes, of course, barely kneeling before the dynamite detonated if memory served him correctly. He could barely fathom what that must have felt like, to go through twenty four hours of hell, only to have his life be violently ripped away just as he was free. He'd be the hardest to replace, enough skill and smarts mixed with the kind of likeability that would have lead to powerful positions. Stokes could have easily been Sheriff before moving on to Mayor. Given the right guidance, he had the ability to go far, and finding someone like that, someone he'd be okay with leaving the lab with one day was going to have to wait until he had the luxury of holding out for the best.

And he'd been there, informing the parents, and then immediately afterwards taking a verbal beating from the mayor. And through it all, he'd been calm and steady, had to be. Even as the doctor pulled the shards of glass from his forearm he'd been on the phone, helping Judy field questions from the press before he returned to the lab.

            Three dead. Many more injured. Sidle had come back yesterday, arms still bandaged, but functional enough to run a scene. And Catherine would be back later today, her injuries a bit more severe. But even with the help of those two, they'd still be shorthanded, a lot of cases slipping under the radar.

            And then there was Greg Sanders. He sought him out in the hospital, probably more than a little affected by the pain medication he'd taken and had given Ecklie his two weeks notice. Didn't know if he was going to get another CSI job somewhere else, not that the prospects were good. Labs weren't looking for just certified Level Ones. But something told him that he was unlikely to join another lab, if the pain in his eyes was anything to go by. Was probably heading back to California, not that he had much time to care, just another space that needed filling on the schedule.

            Ecklie sighed to himself and rubbed his eyes again, stretched and felt his back ache with the movement. He bent down over his desk again, ignoring the incessant ringing of his cell phone, knowing the number belonged to some ambitious reporter, and worked on finishing the paperwork that was quickly piling up on his desk.

And out of the corner of his eye saw the edge of the gash on his arm, scabbed now, healing just fine. Just two weeks ago there'd been a sliver of glass imbedded in his arm, just like everyone who'd been at the scene. No one had made it out unscathed.

 

II.

            They'd been waiting for two and a half hours, anticipation running through their veins each time a nurse emerged from the double doors. Nick, finally safe, finally found, had been in the hospital for two and half hours. His parents had been ushered in no problem a while ago, but he and Cath didn't count as family and so they'd been forced to wait.

            For the past fifteen minutes he'd been torn between watching the clock and watching her. He'd seen it on her face, the struggle to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. He didn't know what the trigger was, but she suddenly sucked in her breath harshly and the first tear fell, slipped down her cheek while she stared up at the harshness of florescent lights. And then something crumbled in her resolve and she began to sob, hunched over her knees, hands shaking with the force of it all.

            And there was a weakness he hadn't had to face in a while. Never been able to turn away from a crying woman in his life, especially not one like Catherine. Reached out to hold her, wrap an arm around her shaking shoulders, but the arms of the cushioned chairs made the action difficult, wood digging into his stomach. And he certainly couldn't pull her closer.

            "Hey, hey," he soothed.

            She stilled, sitting back up again and he could see her resolve again, her walls building back up, damming her tears. "Sorry." Her hand trembled as she wiped away the remaining drops.

            "We made it. He's all right."

            "I-I know. I just keep thinking if it had been Lindsey-" Her sentence choked off and the walls trembled behind her eyes. Only for a moment and then they were still again. Turned to look down the hallway, knowing Nick was down there. "I don't know how they did it." She laughed a little, more of a hiccup than anything else. "I would have flown off the handle, thrown things. Done anything to get her back."

            He didn't know what to do, just shifted closer, ignored the pain of the arm of the chair in his side and rubbed her arm, felt the heat from the friction begin to spread. Her eyes were distant and he couldn't begin to guess what she was going through. Just sat and watched her for some time, he'd stopped watching the clock, hand still moving on her arm.

            Tried not to read too much into the way she leaned back in her chair, leaned into his touch. Because that was a complicated road to go down, anything with Cath was, and he wasn't sure if could handle that on top of almost losing Nick. As much as he flirted and teased, he was scared out of his mind, because a relationship with Catherine wouldn't be like anything else he'd ever had.

            Girlfriends and one night stands, hot numbers from the club and girls in the supermarket checkout line, but that's the problem, they were all girls. Well, at least, compared to Catherine. Scared because he knows he feels something a lot deeper than he's felt in a long time and he doesn't want to fuck it up. His relationships have a history of self-destructing and that certainly wouldn't help the fact that he's still on swing shift and Catherine's his supervisor.

            Of course, all the possible land mines haven't stopped him from thinking about what might be.

            "I miss her," she said, only he barely caught the words, but by the look in her eye, he can tell she's talking about Lindsey again.

            A good kid underneath it all and he knew the life she must be living, that lost place she must have been in and he can't deny that he's wondered more than once what it would be like for her to look at him like a father. To have the job of intimidating boyfriends and giving her the kind of home he'd never had.

            "I made a mistake...no, more than one."

            There was nothing he could do but ask. "What?"

            "I should have never taken the job supervising swing."

            "You can't blame that for what's happened-"

            "No, I was losing her long before that, and I didn't notice, didn't change anything and I'm paying for it now. She barely talks to me for the few minutes I ever get to see her."

            And her walls began to crumble again. He turned her head so that she was looking straight at him, and her eyes carried so much pain, he'd lost his breath. Regained it, bit by bit and tried his best to comfort her. "You're a good mom. In fact, you remind me a lot of my grandmother."

            And that's only somewhat true, because while he loved his Grams, there's no way he ever thought of her the way he thinks of Cath. Certainly doesn't associate the woman who raised him with stripping.

            And that was the smile he was looking for, faint but true, and he knew that was the right thing to say. She played with her hair, tucking a few stray strands behind her ears and her eyes traveled back to the double doors. "That's not my only mistake."

            "You aren't the only one who's made them."

            And then awkward silence and he knew they were both running over every mistake they've ever made, every tiny regret they can summon coming into focus. He felt tired, the last twenty four hours having taken him to places he'd never thought he'd go, and his shoulders sagged in the chair, leaned his back against the beige wall.

            "I should have kissed you."

            At first, he wasn't sure if he just heard it, if maybe the stress was getting to him and he was just hallucinating. Only, she was looking at him, eyes hopeful and no trace of tears and he was positive that's exactly what she said.

            "Back in the sewer," and she laughed as she said it, and he knew she thought it sounded ridiculous. Only nothing right now seemed ridiculous, just...miraculous. And confusing and he laughed a little with her, feeling more than a little unhinged.

            Because none of them should be here, they shouldn't be in the hospital waiting for his friend, who just got buried alive. Shouldn't have just witnessed some sick fuck's idea of a passion play and spent his last twenty four hours losing his sanity over a box underground. And they can't even get closure because the sick fuck's just a thousand piece of meat and bone.

            So he couldn't be held responsible if it took him more than a moment to recover, to gather his thoughts and come up with some coherent response. "I still owe you a fabulous dinner."

            And that wasn't quite the reply he had planned on using, but it sufficed. She smiled again and they're both giggling, laughing like idiots and it was a release...a long one coming.

            He didn't even notice how loud they were laughing until the nurse emerged from the double doors with Nick's file and began to stare at them, perplexed.

 

 

III.

            "Bullet entered through the right zygomatic arch and exited through the occipital lobe. Body is covered with fire ant bites ranging in size from an eighth inch to a half inch..."

            He sighed, turning off the tape recorder. He knew when he took this job, that one day, he'd have to examine someone he knew, someone he cared about. And he'd done it before, too, not that he ever got used to the feeling. But he didn't ever think he'd have to do this, examine someone he worked with every day. Even working on Cyrus hadn't prepared him for this.

            None of the other CSIs had come down to the morgue that day. Knew what he'd be doing, and it had been easier by himself, no one to watch him hesitate before he turned on the saw. And it wasn't a mystery what had happened, why Nick was now lying on his table. No investigation necessary, especially not with the culprit in a thousand pieces of meat and bone.

            And now all that was left behind was meat and bone, nothing but parts without the thing that made it whole. The first autopsy he ever did, he'd silently apologized, like it was a trespass to pick apart someone's body, instead of letting them rest in peace. Never done it since then, too many bodies to have enough time to waste on prayers, to give so much of himself every day.

            Except for today.

            Today it felt necessary, right. Because he'd seen Nick nearly every day for over five years, and he couldn't help but feel close to him, to all of them. Like a grandfather watching his kids grow up, showing them just enough to learn on their own. And for a moment, he wished he was part of their family, tied by blood instead of proximity so that he wouldn't feel strange, feel the knot of guilt in his stomach when he asked about the funeral.

            He'd seen more than his fair share of suicides, something about Vegas calling to people wavering on the edge, betting everything on that one card, that one horse. And often, everything turned out to be more than the money and the house, it was their lives too. Before he'd always wondered what their second to last thought was, just before they were about to jump, that one last moment of hesitation before they steeled themselves and let go.

            He didn't really have to guess this time, almost too easy to imagine and he caught himself before he started thinking that Nick's talking to him out of the corner of his eye, whispering his last few secrets before moving on. Like how he'd lasted twenty-two hours, and how after all that time...finally gave up.

            And that thought cut through him, because hindsight's twenty-twenty and there was no way Nick could have known how close they were. It wasn't giving up, it was release and it scared him to think how easily he would have done it himself. How he wouldn't have made it more than six hours before the gun was pointed at his own head.

Sighed and picked up the tape recorder again, and not for the last time, thankful he's alone for the moment. Made saying goodbye easier, although he knows the morgue isn't the place to say goodbye, and it's a bad trend to start. But if this becomes a trend, there are more important things going wrong than just saying goodbyes in the workplace.

            And maybe he had it the easiest of all, because he wasn't up there, watching, when it happened. Didn't know what his last moments looked like, and that was probably the sickest part of the whole setup. Forcing them to watch a friend make the hardest and last decision of his life.

            "Faint echimosis on the wrists, implying that the subject was bound..."

 

IV.

            Packing clothes had always been the hardest for him. Having to plan his wardrobe for the next few days, anticipate what he might wear, what he might need to wear. And he always ended up forgetting something, recalls that one time where he'd forgotten socks, another time forgot all but one pair of underwear.

            That's why half of his wardrobe's currently spread out across his bed, the other half already packed away in boxes. Picks out three t-shirts and two long-sleeves, unsure of what the weather would be like once he arrives. Pulls aside a dress shirt too, not knowing if his parents want to take him to dinner with powerful people...and their daughters, knowing his mother.

            And even though he always finds packing hard, he can't concentrate long enough to pick out the four pairs of pants he'll need before the rest of his clothes make it down – two jeans, two pairs of dress slacks. He keeps wishing Greg was there to convince him out of it, and that's stupid because that's the last thing he can ever want.

            He's leaving in the morning to get on a plane to Dallas. Spending his three month leave of absence at home. He wouldn't have agreed to it if some part of him didn't want to go back, see his family again, but the thought of being stuck under his father's roof again ties his stomach into knots. At least, he tells himself that's what's making him feel sick. Not that he's leaving Greg without a proper goodbye.

            Because it's been over six months and he's the one who ended it anyway, and he can't afford to have something that doesn't exist tie himself to Vegas. Needs to focus on getting better and wonders if his parents will let him rest when he gets home, or if his mother will insist on introducing him to the city's best debutants the moment he lands.

            But that only makes him think if Greg again, and how he used to joke about all the southern belles Nick was disappointing by being with him. Which leads to the thought of the two of them, stretched out in bed, relaxed in the post-orgasmic haze, Greg's fingers lightly stroking over his skin. And those were the only times they ever really talked, too awake from work and sex to fall asleep immediately, whispering to each other until one or the other drifted off to sleep.

            Found himself gripping and twisting the jeans in his hands, running over the fabric with his thumb and suddenly finds himself wanting soft skin sliding beneath his fingers, something he's become accustomed to these past few months. The blundered not-relationship with Travis four months ago doing little to alleviate his want. Always found himself saying something about company ink, but he lost the energy to troll the bars looking for a date like a normal person a long time ago.

            Except, he's been to the bars, and he's not sure how normal that is.

            And Grissom already knows where he's going, which means that tomorrow everyone else will know, and he still feels a stab of guilt when he thinks it. There's nothing left holding them together anymore, only, he thinks it's unfair that Greg should find out at work, once he's already gone. Nothing holding them together, it's just that he can't stop feeling guilty, like its wrong. But he forces himself to stop worrying about it because doing anything more would be unfair to both of them.

            Except, before he knows it, he's reaching for the phone and dialing Greg's number, his fingers moving automatically and in the back of his mind, he doesn't care if it's fair. Has no idea what he's going to say and he hopes that it will just go to voicemail. That Greg will be asleep or out or in the shower and he can just hang up and forget he ever did this. But Greg does pick up, his voice confused, but soft and intimate across the miles.

            "Nick?"

            "Hey, Greg," he replies a little stilted, silently cursing the inventor of caller ID.

            "How are you doing?"

And that's more than a loaded question. Says he's doing fine, only he knows he's not. Not fine with leaving for three months, not fine that he got buried alive, not fine that he's still hung up on Greg and certainly not fine that he hasn't had sex in four months.

            "That's...umm, that's good, Nick, but why did you call?"

            Only then it hits him that they haven't really talked since it ended, haven't worked a case together, barely exchanged more than three words. It hits him how ridiculous it must sound, his voice on Greg's phone, and all he can see is the giant chasm between them. "I-I'm spending my three months back home in Dallas."

            Greg doesn't respond.

            "I'm leaving tomorrow."

            Hears Greg breathing on the other end of the line and his gut feels hollow, like he's empty. And he's not even sure what reaction he wants, but he can hear Greg thinking, almost see him, hair tousled, standing by the phone, barefoot and shifting his weight while he absently stared out the side window. "Would you mind," starts Greg, and he can feel the indecision in his voice, "would you mind, if-if I came over?"

            "No...I mean, yeah, that'd be fine." And as he says it, he realizes it's exactly what he wants, what he needs. Hears Greg says something like goodbye and he hangs up, suddenly very aware of the horrible state of his house.

            Starts to throw his clothes back into the box they came from and then stops and takes them out again. Folds each one, slightly faster than before. Takes the few sweaters left and places them at the top of the box and then it hits him. He just made a booty call.

            To Greg, no less.

            Shoves the box over towards the closet and neatens up the bedroom. Can't believe he's done it, can't believe Greg went along with it. Can't even remember if he has condoms left. A quick check of the medicine cabinet in his bathroom and he comes up with a half empty bottle of lube and some loose condoms. Debates for a moment where to put them before quickly shoving them into the empty nightstand drawer, all those things already packed for tomorrow.

            Straightens his bed and straightens his hair and he can't deny the little shiver that goes through him when Greg knocks on his door. Takes a deep breath and goes to open it, Greg standing there, hands in his jean pockets. Feels the nervousness radiating off him as Greg walks past and inside.

            Shuts the door and just watches while Greg looks around, never thought he'd ever see him back in his house and the image is so familiar but so strange, notices each difference in Greg. The longer hair, the thinner frame, the apprehension in his every movement. And for a second, he looks so lonely, the long planes of his back through his t-shirt and Nick knows exactly what the skin looks like beneath the fabric and for a second, he wants to reach out and touch. But even that feels too intimate, too strong a gesture after all this time, and suddenly he's scared out of his mind and wonders how he ever let himself think this was a good idea.

            Then Greg was turning, smiling at him, not the brilliant smile that shows off his teeth. No, this one's soft and small, but it reaches his eyes and that's something he's missed even more.

            "Jesus, Nick. You're only gone for three months. Are you taking the whole house with you?"

            And it's said with a laugh, but he can feel the fear behind it too, and it sends a little thrill through him, feels something like a shiver trace its way up his back. "No," he laughs, and it sounds pathetic even to him. "Well, you know my mom. She just wants me comfortable."

            Greg nods and he can tell that Greg thinks it's only a half-truth. And that's what it is. He doesn't say that his mom insisted on hiring a truck to gather most of his belongings once he's made it to Texas. That he's pretty sure his mom is going to try and convince him to stay in Dallas, to transfer and find a wife and settle down and start a family. He doesn't say he's worried that she might succeed this time.

            "Yeah. I remember." And then Greg's moving closer, reaching out a hand to trace along Nick's wrist, stopping at the fresh skin of a healing fire ant bite. They're both silent for a moment, watching Greg's hand softly caress Nick's skin.

            "Will it scar?"

            And at the same time, he says, "I miss you." Greg's eyes immediately snap to look at his face and he struggles to keep his facing down. Can feel the blush creeping up his neck and he stumbles to answer Greg's question. "Not really. One or two might."

            Greg nods again and absently licks his lips before pulling Nick's hand up to them, placing a soft kiss on the center of his palm. He swallows a whimper, everything he's missed wrapped up in the single brush of lips and he leans in to kiss the point where Greg's neck meets his shoulder, the soft hollow of skin that smells like him, smells like home.

            It's only then he realizes he's moving, Greg slowly walking them back towards his bedroom. As soon as they're inside, he shuts the door behind them, an awkward reach, mouth still attached to Greg's neck. Greg's hands sneaking their way under his shirt, tracing planes of muscle along the top of his pants.

            He finally pulls back as Greg pulls off his own shirt and takes a moment just to look, the slow flush of Greg's skin and the look in his eyes that he hasn't quite forgotten how to read.

            Then they're on the bed and shedding their remaining clothes, and Greg's beneath him, moving in all the ways he wishes he couldn't remember, couldn't call up without a moment's notice to get him through long cold nights. Soft moans and bedroom eyes and touches that dance around his wounds and he's glad Greg knows him well enough not to push the subject.

            And the thought of a thousand pieces of meat and bone bringing him to Greg again isn't helping his arousal.

            Pushes the image to the back of his mind and focuses on the expanse of skin beneath him. Relearns every curve, every mark and freckle. Kisses every inch of skin he can get his hands on and he really doesn't care if he gets any sleep or not. Can catch a few hours on the plane and face his parents, exhausted, gladly take their abuse without strength if this is what he's doing for the next twelve hours. Somewhere between familiar and new, and he can't remember why he ever thought this was a bad idea.

            The night becomes a blur, hands and sweat and moans. Long legs around his waist, cock in his mouth and in his ass and more orgasms than he's had in a long time. By the time the sun comes up, they've used up his three condoms and Greg's wallet stash, like the months apart have built up some sort of interest and now they're cashing in. A few stolen moments of sleep, each one waking up the other with caresses and kisses and slow grinding hips.

            But now with the sun peeking in through the blinds, he can't sleep, lying next to Greg, both of them sweaty beneath the rumpled, ruined sheets. Didn't know when he would have time to clean them before he left, they'd probably end up in the trash.

            Greg stretches next to him, sighing in half sleep, neck extending and the long line of pale skin covered in marks, his marks makes his cock twitch painfully, and he resists the urge to lean down and kiss, to start all over again. Reaches across to touch, though, trace the gentle panes of his face with his thumb, smiles at the contented sigh that escapes Greg's lips.

            Then Greg's sliding closer, and there's no gap between them at all and Greg's eyes are open and staring at him and suddenly he feels sick. Like he's been sucker  punched and he sits up slowly, carefully disengaging himself from Greg.

            Hears Greg sigh as he covers his face with his hands. "Why'd you come?"

            "Well," says Greg, sitting up next to him, hand rubbing absently across his back, "you were fucking me pretty hard and I had a hand wrapped around my cock, so really, it was an inevitable event."

            He can't decide if he needs a joke or not, can't even decide what it is he's feeling, somewhere between guilt and exhaustion, anger and shame. Moves his hands away from his face, wraps his arms around his bent knees to say, "That's not what I meant."

            "Knew that." Their voices are soft in the faint dawn light. The crinkling of the sheet sounds harsh to his ears, his only clue that Greg's moving at all, shifting his body position a little bit with each word. Knows exactly what he must look like without having to turn his head.

            "Why are you okay with this?"

            "Why aren't you?"

            "Because I just used you for sex. Christ, Greg-This isn't what should be happening. I shouldn't have called you."

            "Can we not have a pity party for you today?"

            He turns to look at Greg, sees his somber expression and he remembers every reason why they broke up. Not that they matter much anymore, because he also sees every reason why they should have stayed together and the sick feeling in his stomach doesn't lessen.

            "Sorry."

            "It's not easy for me either. You think I don't miss you?" Now Greg's sitting up next to him, posture mimicking his. "You're going away for three months and I haven't had any sex in much longer than I care to say and I just thought it'd be nice to...you know...help each other out and say goodbye."

            He sees Greg cringe and he feels it too. Feels dirty and sick, because the last thing he wants is to use Greg for anything. Doesn't want Greg to use him, either. Wants them to be together again, and the sickness in his stomach changes to a hollow longing and he turns, kisses Greg's shoulder at the top of a stray scar.

            Hates to break the silence, end this moment, because he knows that they were heading towards something, some sort of conclusion, but he can't stay in this bed forever. "I have to leave in a few hours, and I'm not done packing yet."

            Greg turns, faces him and begins to back slowly out of the bed, towards the bathroom, hand on his arm, lightly pulling. "Come on, then. We'll shower together, save you some time."

            He smiles for a moment, knowing that's the furthest from the truth, but he stops, holds Greg where he is, and waits until their eyes meet. "I don't want to hurt you again."

            "Nothing to get hurt from," says Greg, only there's no conviction in his voice and Nick knows he's lying. Still follows him out of the bed and to the shower, though. Notices the way Greg's eyes linger just a little too long on the cuts on his arms in the harsh light of the bathroom. And suddenly everything that's happened to him comes rolling back in an instant, overwhelming him, stopping his breath.

            Greg pulls him in, under the quickly heating water and he wants nothing more than for this to be easy again. Wants Greg this way every morning, every night, just existing with him. A slow, deep kiss that's so simple and pure and he can't imagine that when it's over it will all be complicated again.

            Only he knows as soon as they leave the shower, it's going to be awkward again. He'll pack his clothes while Greg watches, or Greg will leave, his hair still dripping wet, and either way he'll still be on a plane to Dallas without any idea where he's going.

 

V.

            "Fuck!" cursed Greg. He hadn't been paying attention when he poured the coffee, boiling liquid sloshing onto his hand and jolting him out of his head. He ran his hand under the cold water, softly cursing under his breath.

            It was the sleep deprivation, he knew it. Been four days with barely more than eight hours sleeping, quick naps of sheer exhaustion, passing out in the middle of the night, only to wake up when Nick thrashed in nightmare. And he couldn't even fall asleep when Nick slept, couldn't get his brain to stop turning, body to calm down and relax.

            Which explained why he was in the kitchen at four thirty in the morning, been shuffling around in a half-awake daze, cleaning the counters while he waited for his coffee to brew. Except now he was standing at the sink, hand turning red under the cold water bathed in the soft lights they'd had installed just three months ago. Everything had a strange glow to it, like the moon was shining its faint light directly into their kitchen.

            He heard a shuffling behind him and turned off the water to face Nick. Recognized his shuffling immediately, slow steps of his bare feet on the tile floor of the kitchen. Turned off the water as he turned and what he saw gutted him, stole the breath from his lips.

            Nick was leaning in the doorway, watching him. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, one, he imagined, that mirrored his own. Red marks still stood out against all that pale skin, the last remnants of the fire ants, too stubborn to fully heal yet. His hair was rumpled, like he had just woken up and he wore only boxers, those hopelessly wrinkled too. Greg knew if he leaned past Nick and looked to the bedroom, he'd see the sheets a mess, which wasn't a common occurrence.

            "You alright?" Nick asked, voice loud at first, but then quickly dropping, like he didn't want to disturb the night's silence. Greg thought his voice almost harmonized with the hum of the fridge, but he filed the thought away for later.

            "Fine," he replied. "Just spilled some coffee."

            "Want me to kiss it better?" asked Nick, smiling. He saw Nick's struggle to overcome exhaustion, push everything else off his face, only he was losing the struggle and Nick had always been a horrible liar.

            He nodded and went to Nick's side, and instead of raising his hand to his lips, Nick caught him in a tight embrace, and he knows immediately that it wasn't him knocking about in the kitchen that woke Nick up. He hugs back just as hard and all the words he hasn't said since it happened threaten to spill over, fill the empty kitchen and drown them both.

            Swallowed the words as Nick pulled back, now raising his red hand and covering it with light kisses. His free hand comes to rest along Nick's stomach, lightly dancing over muscles he can't believe he gets all to himself, can't believe he almost lost, can't believe-

            "Greg?"

            Realized he'd been silent and staring for far too long, and Nick was looking at him, worried. "What do we do?" And it's said before he could do anything about it, words slipping out into the hushed room.

            Nick waited until his eyes found his again before he spoke, knew exactly what he was talking about. "I don't know." Nick's arms slipped around his waist, fingers tracing the scars that cover his back and Nick's forehead came to rest on his shoulder. "I thought-thought maybe you'd know."

            His arms settled on Nick's hips and he pulled them closer, swaying back and forth slowly, his body deciding on the rhythm for the not-quite waltz. "Because of the explosion?"

            Nick moved with him, rocking slowly, and it always amazed him how Nick just went with him sometimes, how much Nick trusted him, and how little he had to push anymore. Nick's fingers stilled on his back. "Yeah, I mean...you recovered okay."

            He leaned in and placed a soft kiss against Nick's neck, then buried his head there, finding a comfortable spot, smiling faintly against his skin. "Mostly because I had to...well, and then all of a sudden you were kissing me an awful lot. That helped."

            He felt Nick's laugh and then felt it fade and Nick pulled them just a little bit closer while they swayed. And maybe that's why he's felt so lost the past few days, because while being blown through a wall is pretty traumatic, it's nothing compared to being locking in a box for twenty-four hours, being used at the whim of some psycho who couldn't let things go. What did anyone know about that?

            "I just feel like I've been broken into a thousand pieces and I don't know how to put myself back together. What goes where, what's up or down and I feel...I feel like I'm nine again."

            He stopped their dance and leaned back, watched Nick's face and all the emotions that flickered there. Let a hand come up and trace the planes of his cheek and he nearly sobbed, Nick looked lost and frightened and in that moment he prayed with everything in him that he could find a way to make it better. All he could manage was a choked out, "Baby," tears threatening to spill over.

"No, no. It's okay," said Nick, cupping his face and Nick was smiling, like he'd discovered the secret of the universe. And for a second, Greg believed he did. But he's never felt more helpless in his entire life and Nick's the one person he would give everything to help. "When, you're with me, it doesn't feel impossible, like...like that as long as you're there, I can make it through the day."

            And Nick's eyes were sincere, only Greg knew it wasn't that simple. That kind of optimism only ends up getting crushed. He'd lived it. But it was still too soon and the wounds still too fresh, so he swallowed all his objections, let them pool in the knot in his stomach and forced a smile through his building tears. "Don't make me fucking cry."

            "Sorry," said Nick and Greg knew he meant it. Knew he was talking about more than just tears and long nights without sleep. And the knot in his stomach dissipated, because maybe Nick had discovered the secret of the universe. Almost laughed because love will see us through is never a thought he'd actually considered as having a lick of truth, but Nick's made him see a lot of things differently over the years.

            He leaned in and kissed Nick then, short and soft, just for a moment and the look in Nick's eyes when he pulled back made his heart stop and he doesn't feel so lost. Pulled them out of the kitchen and back to the relative warmth of their bed. They slid under the covers, Nick immediately twining their legs together, hand finding it's place, low, on his hip. As his eyes began to close, he remembered his coffee, still sitting on the counter, getting cold.

            Debated getting up, but just shifted closer to Nick, nestled his head into the crook of Nick's warm shoulder. The sound of their dual heartbeats echoed in his head like the rhythm of some unwritten song and he slept deeply for the first time in four days.



Fin.

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