Title: He Tried Not To Notice
By: Call_Response
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Do not own characters, do not make money, just love the damn show.
Summary: The beginning of the end

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Sometimes he watched him.

He knew the echo of his footsteps and the distance he was from the door. He knew the pitch of his knock, the way his accent would come across on certain words, how safe he sounded when he talked about his case. He knew the curve of his back and the scar on his upper arm from something long forgotten.

Not that any of that mattered.

He thinks of himself as one of the forgotten and tries not to live up to his own idea. He wears bright colors and ignores rules; maybe getting himself into trouble will result in something. He doesn't care what. He hides behind a desk and a smile. He wishes he didn't have to.

Nick knew. He can't hide the longing in his eyes just as Nick can't hide the pity. The one-sided eye contact and that night. That night. The crew went out for some drinks after work. He tagged along, hoping that he, the loner lab geek, might have the courage to try to make Nick love him. He saw him leave. He watched as Nick excused himself from the table. Maybe it was the beers he already had, the "chaser" that consisted of nothing more than hard liquor. But his sense of reality dulled down to a small prick in the back of his mind warning him not to try the impossible. And with all that alcohol, how could you listen.

He followed him to the bar, ordering another beer for himself as an excuse and then switching his order to gin on the rocks. Nick was so close that their sleeves were brushing, fabric against fabric, cotton against some poly mix. Even their shirts weren't on the same level. Their eyes met as they turned back and Nick was the first to look away. But he had seen it. He had seen the pity and the sadness. Nick turned to him, avoided his eyes.

"I'm not that way. You're a good friend but...I'm sorry."

And he tried to. He tried not to notice the arc of his shoulder blades as he stretched. He tried not to notice when his shirt rose a little higher than usual. He tried not to notice at all. But the perfection outweighed the responsibility he felt and he was drawn to the older man. He was drawn to what he himself could never be. Assured, confident, liked and loved at the same time. He was a fuckup. A messed up boy with grownup problems and a fear of facing the world. Why would anyone want to watch him? Stare at a brooding man with twisted jokes and dark secrets. If you looked long enough, you could see the failure that surrounded the "glory." A glimpse at the whites in his eyes and you might see the abuse, the loneliness, the need for someone to bring him out of it. But they never looked that far.

It was like slow motion that night. Slow motion rejection dripping out of every curve of Nick's body. Instinctually, he knew, but that didn't matter. Slow motion avoidances; they were friends, yes, but he made it clear that it went no further. Slow motion hopelessness reflecting on every surface. Nick was a good guy and that's where some of the hurt came from. Why his realization set in then, why he knew that he would never be good enough for Nick, or anyone, he never did figure out. Not that the 12 hours of his life he had let to live would have been enough time to solve such an enigma. But as he stumbled home, torn and weakened with his own guilt, he knew that he couldn't last anymore as one of the them. An outsider whose consumption of life and need for love had overruled every instinct in his body.

He turned on the late night tv programs, tried to laugh along with the host in an effort to not end his life in misery. Maybe Conan O'Brien could make dying easier. He doubted it. He turned off the alarm, went to the bathroom. He poured the last of his cocoa mix into one giant mug and sat there sipping, staring at the pills in front of him. He changed into his favorite outfit, wrote out a last-minute will leaving everything to nobody. He thought that to be funny, not having anybody to leave his things to. This made him drink his cup faster. Irony was a last defense and he would have none of it. He knew what he needed to do.

He dialed his number. It was in the white pages, exactly where it was supposed to be. He knew that this could change his mind, hearing the deep southern undertone of Nick's voice, the sleepy irritation. He took the pills before as a precaution. He didn't need this to fail. Not today. Nick answered on the third ring with a breathy hello and it took all his energy just to answer back. A school boy's crush does weird things to the nerves of dying people. Nick recognized him and he hung up. The phone rang on the onset of the call but he didn't answer. He didn't need to. He already knew the script. He fell asleep praying for salvation and listening to detergent commercials.

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