Title: Of Violent Men
By: Caster
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
A/T: I don't know where this came from. 00 (When will it stop!) It lacks that bit of cavity-inducing fluff that I normally write, but I won't worry until a wild desire to write angst becomes insatiable. That's right: the terrible "A word". (shudders) That's where I draw the line.
Disclaimer: Oops, must have left my disclaimer in my other set of jeans. (Considering my name isn't Jerry and I'm not a gazillionaire, it's my guess that I don't own CSI. But there is always that weird experiment the government did to me as a kid. Maybe I'm really two people. Or maybe I'm just weird.)
Summary: In an alley of sad tales, Greg's life is almost lost. But he's given his third chance, and three times is the charm.

***

Saw Nick at the club. That's why he left. Took the quick route through the back alleyway, where the dumpsters stank of rotten food and old plastic. Wants to leave, get away, hide. Wants to forget Nick ever saw him there, wants to pretend this was all a dream.

"Whatcha' doin' here, fag? Huh?"

Doesn't quite process the words when they're said- too focused on the gun, the itchy trigger finger, the drug and alcohol induced haze of violent men.

Too busy choking on his heart and tongue to pay attention to anything else.

Too scared out of his mind to respond.

"You gonna cry, you piece of shit?"

An alley at night was a place where too many crimes had been committed before this. A place where he doesn't want to die. Black and white films made it glamorous and he bet that the walls of this alley had many sad stories to share.

Tries to rationalize.

Blaring music from inside was muffled through the walls; no one will hear him scream for help. The gun is all that mattered.

Greg doesn't have a gun.

Remembers he's not allowed to. Wasn't technically in law enforcement and all the legal tape about owning a gun seems stupid now, when there's a barrel between your eyes and you're staring at your end of the line. Everything in his mind runs together in a never-ending, grammatically incorrect sentence. helpcan'tletthemshoot.

Doesn't try to convince them to put the gun down. Violent, intoxicated men never listen and he doesn't want to irritate them. They have spit fire words and insane, wild eyes.

"C'mon- give us your wallet, bitch."

So he does. He wasn't going to exactly argue about it. Throws it on the ground, the dirt and oil soaked pavement. Can't recall how much money he has in there. Maybe twenty bucks and a driver's license and a movie stub from two nights before. Maybe change from the soda machine. Maybe a grocery list. His offering for his life to violent men confined in a denim wallet he bought at a surfing shop before he moved Vegas.

Wonders if he'll ever see his parents again.

"Keys too."

The jangling of metal against metal echoes off the walls when he tosses his keys beside his wallet.

The wild thumping of his heart does the same.

"What car you drive? Spit it out, fag."

"Jeep." Hears his own voice but doesn't recognize it. Thinks about how Grissom's going to kill him when he doesn't come in for work tomorrow.

Wonders if Grissom is a violent man.

"You scared, fag?"

Terrified. But if he's going to die, which he probably will (another sad story for the alley to harbor) then he won't beg. Violent men don't deserve the satisfaction.

Tries to hide his tears of panic.

"Just kill him!"

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

A chorus of voices edging the gunman on, but they're anonymous. Can't see their faces in the dark. Too preoccupied that they might take his life, a life he worked so hard to achieve. Maybe it was supposed to end this way, Fate's second try to end his existence, because the explosion didn't quite work well enough.

"I gave you my money and keys. You don't have to do this."

Hears his own voice but can hardly recognize it. Maybe he wasn't used to the nervous tone, the high octave pitch, the shaky breath that follows.

Slow.

Time passes.

Gun is still up, but even violent men know the penalties of law.

Is filled with an inkling of hope.

"Don't take the chance, man. He can I.D. us. Just pull the God damn trigger."

"Greg? Hey, I've been looking all over for y-"

Familiar voice comes from behind him and he has never felt such relief in all his life. Then, worry. Nick's voice stops at the sight and suddenly he is stricken too.

"What's going on here?" he asks. It's obvious, but that's what people ask sometimes, simply to divert attention.

"Another fag. Just shoot 'em both. C'mon!"

Silence.

Pounding music.

Can barely breathe.

Vibrations under his shoes.

Pause, time passes.

Violent men.

Gun.

"You know the penalties of shootin' people, don't you?" Nick asks. Uncertain looks between the junkies. They knew. It's never a problem until you get caught. They might be caught this time. Futures are always uncertain.

"What the hell do you know, you fag? Now give us your wallet."

So Nick does. Tosses it along side Greg's. Black leather, not denim.

"Keys. What car?"

"Blue Tahoe. Parked upfront. Take it. Just don't do anything rash."

It's almost as if they're considering that advice.

More time.

Seconds like hours, minutes like days.

Then…

The sound.

A beautiful pierce. Fly through the air. Warning bell. Bust through a star flecked sky.

Sirens.

The police were coming.

"Shit! It's the fucking cops. Just take the stuff and let's go."

A stumble, a struggle, awkward movements to grab the money and keys. Movement is hurt by the influence of drugs and booze and too little sleep. Nick is calm, silently watching the gunman turn away to gather their treasures and Greg wants to puke all over the pavement. He can't handle it. He wonders how Nick can.

The sirens grow louder; blue and red light the alley, glow from headlights make the moon seem dark. Greg hears a familiar voice and a few moments later, he realizes it's Brass, pulling out his own gun and quickly arresting those who were ready to take Greg's life.

"Damn it- let me go, you fucking shits. Get the hell away from me!"

Protests rise, but they can't argue. Greg hears the Miranda Rights being read and he realizes that maybe he can move now.

But he can't, and that's the problem.

He can hardly breathe.

He feels someone behind him and he knows whom it is. He turns to see Nick, standing a few feet away. Nick knows all about trauma and how victims don't want to be approached or touched when in situations like these. But Greg doesn't feel claustrophobic. Instead, he feels weak.

His legs won't hold him up and he feels the ground rushing forward before he's caught. Warm, strong, smelling of sweat and sweet cologne. Nick's latching onto him, making sure he doesn't collapse and Greg puts his arms around his neck, trying to hold himself together the best he can.

"Greg, man, are you okay? Jesus, do you need an ambulance? I can call- you're pale and-''

"I'm fine." He hears himself say it, but it's more of an out-of-body experience than anything else. Nick doesn't believe it, and he shouldn't, because it's not true.

"Greg…"

"Thanks for coming. God, I've never been so scared in my entire life."

"You handled it well." Empty congratulations. It doesn't seem like the appropriate thing to say, but neither can really think of anything else. "Are you sure you're okay?"

No. But Greg won't tell him that. Despite the circumstances, he was aware Brass was watching them and he had to remain cool and collected, not let anyone witness him bursting into tears at the sight of a gun. Because he would face many guns if he were to ever become a real CSI, and he can't turn away when he sees one.

He watches as the druggies are shoved in the back of a police car and Brass walks over to the, holding two wallets and two sets of keys.

"I believe these are yours," he says, and Greg can barely hold his hand out to take them. But he does, because he has to prove he can be fearless in the face of anything that comes his way. He puts his keys in his jacket and wallet in his back pocket and he knows what's coming next.

Brass looks reluctant, but it's protocol. He takes out a pen and small notepad.

"It's just a few questions and then you can head on home." He gives them both a small, apologetic smile and looks incredibly tired.

"You were both at this club tonight?" he asks. It's obvious they were, but neither Greg nor Nick blame him.

"Yes." They reply in unison.

"Did you come together?"

"No." Also in unison, and Greg feels another wave of nausea hit him, because he remembers why he wanted to leave in the first place and he won't be able to stand the awkwardness that would inevitably form between Nick and himself.

"Can you explain why you were here in the alley?"

Greg answers. "I wanted to leave. I took the alley instead of walking the entire block."

"Nick walk with you?"

"No."

"Those men approached you with a gun?"

"Yes. They asked for my keys and wallet."

"Did you feel threatened?"

"They cocked a loaded pistol."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"And Nick, you…?"

Brass turns towards Nick, and Nick looks a little worn out himself.

"I followed him out. I saw the situation and called the police."

"Then intervened?"

"They were ready to leave."

"Meaning?"

"They got what they came for. They were going to shoot him."

Brass hurriedly nods. "Thanks. Speaking for both your boss and myself, I suggest you head home and take a few days off if you want to."

Nick answers with an "okay"; Greg merely nods. The officers get into their cars, Brass giving them one final look before following and they leave as quickly as they came. Nick and Greg are left alone in the alley again, dark and dreary and Greg wants to leave, but has a little trouble walking.

He should probably get home. Only after Nick leaves him will he collapse- tears, sleep, no food for a week. He can't imagine ever being hungry again.

"Do you need a lift home?" The words are a whisper and Greg thinks that maybe he does, because he can't imagine driving and Nick's concern must be caused by something that he saw in Greg's face or eyes.

"Okay." His reply is hollow and his voice cracks. He's ashamed and doesn't want to cry in front of a man he'd been trying to run away from. A man he's loved for a very long time. He wants to be strong. He realizes he'll fail.

"No man is fearless," Nick whispers, and Greg knows it's okay to cry.

So he does.

Right on Nick's shoulder, latched to him like a child to their favorite blanket. He sobs, but he feels better because Nick's warm and comforting and not a violent man. He feels a soft kiss on the top of his head before they move forth to Nick's truck in the front parking lot, away from the music that was still blasting and the stench of rotten food and old plastic.

Nick drives him to his apartment and goes in with him. Offers to cook, clean, do anything to help. He makes Greg's bed and runs a hot bath for him. An hour later, Greg is clean from the oil and dirt soaked smells of the alley, the sweat from dancing, the couple of beers on his tongue.

He watches as Nick finishes up all of his duties before turning towards Greg and they face each other, twenty feet apart, silent, the only noise being the ticking of Grampa Olaf's old clock in the living room.

"Do you feel okay staying alone? I can sleep on the couch if you want."

Nick's concern for him really is too much, and Greg replies back, exhausted and almost defeated, "You know I love you, right? You've known for a long time."

He's always meant to tell him this, but he's stopped himself by littering his mind with excuses so many times before now. He realizes he might as well say it now, because rarely do people get second chances at life, much less a third. He knows tomorrow he'll have lost the nerve and his common sense would have fully returned.

Nick looks at him quietly for a few moments before walking over and giving him a kiss on his forehead, very sweet, as he always is.

"I've known, Greggo. But we'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Greg whispers, and suddenly sleep doesn't look like such a bad idea. So Greg wanders towards his freshly made bed, the sheets clean and warm and inviting, and he crumples on top. He can hear the sounds of Nick getting some extra blankets from the hall closet and making himself comfortable on the couch. Greg realizes that he doesn't want to be alone and is thankful that Nick knows that, because he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to ask Nick to sacrifice his nice bed at home for Greg's couch anyway.

But tomorrow, they will sort it all out over breakfast and a few days off.

In the back of his mind, Greg is idly pleased that the alley has one happy ending to tell.

FIN.