Title: Gift of Life
Author: Emily
Pairing: pre-slash Nick/Greg
Rating: PG
Warning: AU/set before the first season of CSI: Las Vegas
Summary: Nick has Balenephobia. Absolute bloody fluff.

***

Does it really need to be so chilly in this damned lobby? You're nervous, more than you'll admit, but to anyone who knows you well enough, it would be obvious. Your toes are tapping and you're tugging at the hair on the back of your neck; telltale signs that you're uncomfortable.

But thankfully, nobody here knows you well enough to pick up on your ques.

You've only been with the Las Vegas Forensics Department for a couple of weeks, and yeah, it figures you'd be just in time for the annual blood drive. Grissom's been excited about it for days. You suspect it has more to do with his fascination with bodily fluids than his enthusiasm for community service.

Catherine is sitting beside you, balancing her checkbook. You like Catherine, because she's the portrait of independence, wearing a sharp suit, managing her finances, and you wonder casually just how old she is. You'd like to ask her if this is mandatory, but you know you might as well say, "I'm scared", so you pick up a three-year-old National Geographic and read up on desertification in the equatorial regions of Africa.

From the corner of your eye, you see Sara being led away, already unbuttoning her sleeves and ready to go; she's got something to prove, as usual.

Maybe you could just disappear into the bathroom.

Oh come *on*, you say to yourself. All the things you've seen in the past two weeks, dead children, charred bodies, bullet wounds and fractured bones, all that, and you're afraid of a little blood?

No. Not blood. Needles. Long, rigid, cold, venomous needles. You shiver, hope nobody notices, because you're pretty sure you *smell* like fear.

"Article continued on page 72," says the magazine. You're about to turn there when you hear your name. Already? You hide behind your reading. Maybe it wasn't your name. "Stokes? Nicholas Stokes?"

Okay, that's you. Still, you peer over the spine of the Geographic, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there's another Nick Stokes here. But no one in the lobby moves, and Catherine is glancing up at you, raising her eyebrow. No such luck.

You suck in a deep breath, slide the magazine back onto the table, and stand. Your back pops, and you wonder if anybody else heard it. You smile at Catherine as you go, trying your very best to look cool, casual, and everything else that they'll come to expect you to be. "That's me," you say before you even look at him. When you do, your step catches on the floor and you blush slightly. He doesn't seem to notice it, barely glancing up from his clipboard, but you sure as Hell do.

Great, you think. He can't be older than eighteen. And while he's an adorable eighteen, he doesn't look like he knows how to brush his hair, let alone draw your blood. He turns, motions for you to follow him into a tiny closet of a room, his bright purple lab coat rustling about his waist, pink Chuck Taylors scuffing against white tile. You eye that hair again, find it amusing, alarming, alluring.

He closes the door behind you, motions again gracefully for you to sit in the chair beside the glowing computer monitor. He takes his seat in front of the screen, a solitary lamp lending a harsh lighting to his face, draws out the sharper angles of his nose and jaw, sparkles brown eyes, and you suddenly know what it feels like to be on the other side of the interrogation table. Then he looks at you, and you can tell he's actually seeing you for the first time. Offsetting vibrant tanned skin, dark circles cling to his eyes, and you can see it's been a long shift. You know the feeling. But he smiles, a slender smile that curls the corner of his mouth, and makes you feel damn old.

"So, how are you Nicholas?"

You almost laugh. "Nick," you tell him. "Just Nick."

"Then how are you, Nick?"

You're not sure if he asks everyone that, but you'd like to think not. You'd like to think that he smiled at you because... oh please, you think. He has to ask everyone that.

"Oh, great," you lie. "Thanks for asking..." You squint to see the writing beneath the glare on his gold glossy name-tag. He puffs out his chest and smiles again. "Greg," he says. A wave of blush washes over you. You think he smirks, but you're probably just being self-flattering and paranoid. "Rough shift?" you ask. It seems the polite thing to do. His eyes roll up as he contemplates your question. "Getting better," he replies, and that makes you wiggle your toes in your shoes. And this time you just *know* that that little grin was custom made, just for you.

"First things first," he says, reaching to the wall just right of your shoulder. "I've got to get your blood pressure and temperature." That makes you nervous, because you're pretty sure neither of those are normal right now, and what *are* you, seventeen? You lay your hands palms-up on your knees to calm down.

He lifts the sleeve of your T-shirt, and you can feel all your hair standing on end as he wraps the band around your arm, right above the elbow, and squeezes the air pump several times. You're just trying to remember to breathe. He scribbles something onto a steno pad, plays with his hair. Nice hands, you think. He gently takes your wrist, underside up, and lightly places two fingers across your veins. You can't stop a smile at the chipped black nail polish. He glances at his watch-cuff, and you're fascinated by the aureate shimmer of his hair.

Snap out of it, Stokes, says part of your brain.

Pretty, says the other.

He nods to himself, scribbles down your BP. Doctors' handwriting. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves, makes you think of work, and tells you playfully to, "say ahhh." You think you'd like to make *him* say 'ahhh'.

You open your mouth silently, stubbornly refusing to *say* anything, and hope to God that your teeth look okay today. You wish you'd taken Warrick up on that Altoid he'd offered on the ride to the blood bank. What if you pass out in the donation chair (a definite possibility) and *someone* has to administer rescue breathing? Oh well. With your luck, it'd be Brass anyway.

Your train of thoughts is derailed by the invasion of the thermometer, not unbearable as he tells you to hold it under your tongue. It beeps momentarily, and he removes it, says, "Well, you're a little hot, about 99.3, but I'm sure you knew that. Blood pressure looks good." Okay, and that's really not fair, because you're almost certain that he's flirting with you, but he said it with such a straight face. He smiles at you again, and you're proud of yourself for being so healthy.

He clears his throat, says robotically, "Now I'm going to ask you some questions, including questions relating to current and past behaviours. Simply..." His voice falters, and he sighs, "Just gimme a yes or a no."

You nod. Yes or no. You can do that. Easy.

"Are you HIV positive, or do you think you may be HIV positive?"

"No," you tell him truthfully.

He hits a key, continues, stealing a glance at you.

"Have you ever injected or been injected with illegal or non-prescribed drugs, including bodybuilding drugs?" You follow his gaze to your biceps, flex them involuntarily.

"No," you say smugly. He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips in a way that implies more than one kind of approval.

"Have you ever been given money or drugs for sex, or had sex with anyone who has traded money or drugs for sex?"

Emphatic "No."

"Have you had sex even once with a man, or someone who has had sex with a man even once since 1978?"

And this time you turn absolutely cherry red, and rub the nape of your neck, because suddenly you can't get out of this chair fast enough. He's eyeing you beneath thick lashes, coolly observing the blush that's creeping up your neck and into your face.

"Um," you stutter, "I, uh... I don't..."

"Oh, who hasn't," he says with a flippant grin.

You stare down into your lap, a little grateful that he's so light-hearted about it. You kind of wish the roles were reversed, and *you* could ask deeply personal questions. Then again, simply pinning him up against a wall would be the only thing you'd ask.

"Moving on," continues Greg, "Have you ever had oral or anal sex with another man with or without a condom or other form of protection?"

And you *really* don't want to answer this one. But he's got eyes like a confessional, and so you softly, grudgingly say, "Yes."

He looks concerned, lifts your head up using only his eyes. "Don't worry. It doesn't automatically disqualify you, it just means we have to run a couple extra tests. No biggie." The remainder of the questions pertain to your travel overseas, your medical history, do you have SARS and soforth. You answer honestly, which takes no effort on your part, and you're glad, because you don't think you have the focus for fibbing right now. You watch his lips contort around long names of diseases you've never even heard of, watch him lick dry lips with a delicious tongue. "Oh, allow me," you want to say.

He asks if you've had a tattoo or piercing in the past six months, and you say no. He nods and says, "Good. I still can't donate because of that."

And he really shouldn't've said that, because you have a thing with tattoos. You like to run your hands over them. You narrow your eyes at him, wishing your vision could penetrate clothing, because you're dying to know what exactly he's had done. Noting your curiosity, he tugs the neck of his scrub to the side, shows you a small, black rune that's been inked just beneath his collar bone.

Does he have any idea what a tease he is? Does he know how much you'd just *love* to trace it with your tongue, how much you'd like to plant a little kiss *right there*

"Now this," he says, swabbing your left ring finger with alcohol, "is my least favourite part of the whole thing. I've gotta take a few drops of blood to see if you've got enough iron to donate. Eat your broccoli, Nick?"

You nod. Your mother always told you to eat your broccoli, and now you're thanking her for it. Before you can even process what's happening, he's pricked you, and a bead of blood is shining on your finger tip. He takes what looks like a miniature pipette and siphons up your blood, slowly kneading the pad of your finger. He hands you a gauze, tells you to hold it until the bleeding stops. He drops your blood into a vial filled with blue liquid, times its descent to the bottom. You watch, eyes dilated, observing the meticulous way he disposes of the gauze and the pipette.

"Last thing," he says. "Could you show me the insides of your elbows?" You oblige him, try not to feel offended when he examines the white flesh of your arms. His fingers look so dark against your skin, and you wonder if he's tan all over. He nods to himself. "Good boy."

"Okay, Nick, let's get a chair for you." He holds the door for you, asks, "Is there an arm you'd prefer?"

Oh yeah. You still have to donate. You'd forgotten all about the needle. You think you might faint. Wouldn't *that* be embarrassing.

"You pick."

He holds each of your arms up for inspection, so close you can feel his breath wrapping around them. He scrutinizes your veins, his hands feel so warm that you wonder if you'll reach 100 degrees. He rubs a thumb across your skin, presses on a vein, reading it. Suddenly you imagine how it would feel to have those lips running from your finger tip to your neck and back again, you want him to bite you softly.

"Looks like your right one might be the easiest."

He seats you in a right-handed chair, reclines it so far back that your feet are at eye level. Goosebumps are rising on your arms on across your back, and you see Warrick several chairs away, calmly watching as the nurse removes his needle. You look away.

"I'm going to sanitize the skin right here," says Greg, scrubbing your elbow with a painful vigour. If he were someone else, you know you'd resent the way he's babying you, telling you everything before he does it, but you don't mind it so much now. It's a feature that could be sexy in another context...

You're really thinking about asking him when he gets off shift, or if he's got a break coming up soon, but instead you blurt, "How old are you, Greg?"

You make a note to fire your brain. He arches a dark eyebrow, tells you, "Twenty-one." He winks. "Nice 'n' legal." Pause. "Why?"

"Just curious." Your right arm is extended stiffly on the arm-rest, the fingers of your left have drumming on your hard stomach.

"Gotta pay for college somehow," he murmurs, removing some test tubes and a bag from the drawer.

"Oh, what are you studying?" you ask.

He smiles childishly, excitement filling his voice. "Chemistry," he says. "Mostly organic." "Wow. Fun stuff."

He realizes that you're being sincere, and his grin widens. "Yeah, it really is interesting. Biology, on a genetic level. It's so... I mean..." He sounds dreamy now, his arms limp at his sides. "If I wanted, I could take one of these vials of your blood and clone you."

And okay, that was a little weird, but you knew some chem majors in college, and they're just kind of like that. He wraps a black band around your upper arm, and you restrain a chuckle as he grits his teeth trying to stretch it all the way around.

"Are you flexing?" he accuses.

"No," you say.

"Jealous," he mumbles, finally adhering the Velcro to itself. You don't see why he would be. You'd kill for skin that perfect. Your arm swells, pulses, feels sore. He places a foam ball that vaguely resembles the Earth in your palm, tells you to give it a good squeeze. You watch your veins bulge, and your eyes water at the sight of a needle that is to you, for all intents and purposes, roughly the size of a medieval lance.

You swallow hard, look up at Greg's face. He's licking his lips, unblinking as he maneuvers the needle into position, and you wrinkle your nose. You gasp through clenched teeth as the needle pinches into your vein.

"Oops."

"Oops?" You didn't need to hear that. Oh God, you're going to die.

"Oh, you just... you kind of spurted a bit." He wipes the stray blood from your shoulder. "Now, you just keep giving that ball a squeeze about every five seconds, okay?" He smiles and adds, "I just love watching guys squeeze balls."

You nod weakly, laugh a little stronger. You despair as Greg leaves your side to attend to another donor. You gaze down in a transfixed horror at the tube that runs from your arm out of sight, filled with deep dark liquid.

He returns, kneels and remarks, "Hhhmmm... your blood flow is a little sluggish. It'll just take a few minutes longer is all."

You can feel your eyes rolling back, tongue lolling into the back of your mouth, and you're kind of dizzy. As you watch Greg bending to shake someone else's blood bag, you think that maybe the problem is that not a whole lot of blood is flowing through your upper body right now.

As he crouches near the base of the chair on the other side of the room, you see the tails of his lab coat part, get a little peek at low-riding jeans with a skull-and-crossbones belt and a sliver view of flannel boxers.

God.

You close your eyes.

When you look up next, he's at your side again, fingers resting lightly on your arm. He tilts his head at you, looks worried and asks, "Have you ever given blood before Nick? You're looking kind of pale."

You nod. "Yeah, I have. I, uh..." You colour faintly, look at your toes. "I have a thing about needles."

"Balenephobia?"

"Huh?"

"Fear of needles," he explains. "It's not uncommon. The first time I gave blood, I fainted like a bride." He clamps the tube, fills three vials with your blood. "It's very brave of you to donate."

You don't mention that you *had* to be here, because you're okay with him thinking you're brave.

"Well," he says, hands on his hips, and for the first time you can really see his figure. Lank, and you know you always liked skinny boys. "You're all done. I'm going to take the needle out now."

You force your eyes to stay on your arm, his hands as they delicately withdraw the stylus, and your mouth opens slightly when you see your blood immediately seep out onto your arm. "You don't have to prove anything to me," he says, swiftly pressing gauze over it. Greg instructs you to hold it over your head for a moment. He hurries away with your blood, and you wonder where it goes.

He comes bouncing back with a bright yellow roll of something in one hand. He almost skips when he walks, and you want to tie a red helium balloon to his wrist. "Alright, you can put your arm down. I'm going to bandage you up. Smiley faces okay?"

You smile and say, "Yeah, fine."

"Good." He wraps the gauze against your arm, knuckles brushing against your skin. He pauses, looks into you.

"A few things," he says, lowering your chair. "First, I want you to go over to the snack bar, have a pop and a cupcake, get your blood sugar up. Stick around for a few minutes, to make sure you're good to drive home."

He actually takes your hand to help you up, fingers pressing into your palm, and you stop breathing. "No alcohol or hot drinks for an hour, and no heavy lifting for the rest of the day." He gives your upper arm a squeeze, says, "Alright, Rocky?"

You scowl at him and he laughs, and God has anything ever sounded that good? Have you ever gone hard from just a *laugh*? Heavy lifting? Hell, you'd like to lift him up onto that donation chair and stick a few things in him...

At the snack bar, he opens a bag of mini-Oreos and hands them to you. He's humming along to "Girl from Epanema" on the overhead muzak, doing a little shoulder dance that you realize he's not even aware of. He says, "Listen, I'd... I'd love to stay and talk with you, Nick. I always thought forensics would be *so* fun, but I have you know, more blood to drain." He winks and waves at you.

You watch him disappear into the Question Room with someone else, and you feel a pang of envy. You eat your Oreos, lean your head against the cool wall and pout.

Warrick slumps down next to you, sipping Pepsi in a Styrofoam cup. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

"Nah." You grin at the yellow bandage that smiles up at you.

Well, you feel kind of dirty admitting it, but at least you have some new masturbation material.

As you walk out the door, the nurse at the desk returns your donor card to you, and it says that you are eligible to donate again in eight weeks. And suddenly you can't wait.

***