Title: The Other End of the Rainbow
By: cynevie
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Warning: The things that they do. I'm not even sure people do this kind of things. However, that being said. If it's disturbing then... yes, it disturbs me too. It's like an itch that needs to be scratched until we come out all bloody and mutilated. I'm expecting huge dissent for this one. *cringe* Violent sexual activities abound. Not *too* explicit. But explicit enough.
Summary: Two deaths and one very long night.

***

The heart that sees and beholds, it cries. When it is hurt, it beats louder in the ears of men. Then, tides and seas they rage; and tears, they die falling off the edge.


In darkness, he lies on his side and pulls his knees up to his chin, tightly until his spine threatens to break, and his throat hurts from the bones digging into it. And he feels tears prickling, and his breathing labored as his heart beats wildly against his thighs and his fingers go numb, clenching over the plane of his feet. He lies there naked on top of the sheets, watching a sliver of light squirming underneath the door. And when the door is pushed open, he screws his eyes tightly and tastes salt on his lips. He thinks of the sea he loves so much and dreams of drowning.

Warm fingertips dance on his spine, across his ribs, and warm breath fans across his skin. The bed dips and he tumbles to the center of the bed, like a ball rolling down the hill. Soft lips against the side of his mouth and Greg can smell mint, salt, and vomit. He leans onto the solid chest, and lets those hands pry open his coccoon. Nick whispers against his throat and he gathers his wits to open his eyes.

Greg sees the room awash with blood and severed fingers and he clings on to Nick's arms around his stomach, and presses against Nick's waist. He turns around and nudges at Nick's throat with the top of his head and insinuates himself in the crook of Nick's neck. He feels Nick's labored heartbeat under his cheeks and he cries when he thinks of the blue gash across the arteries.

A girl of seven years old, Greg thinks. Like his niece in California. Dead. And he feels Nick move on top of him and he smiles because it's the next best thing. He turns around onto his stomach and hears a growl next to his ear.

Nick's fingers dig into the skin of his thigh and yanks his legs apart and he feels his muscles pull. And Greg thinks nothing as he waits. And it's like somebody runs a razor through his skin as Nick pushes through, unrelenting, unforgiving. And he pushes deeper into the bed, until he sees stars on his eyelids and he sees the universe in his eyes. And Nick grunts and moves above him, one palm on his shoulder blade and Greg thinks about bruises and empty sockets and crushed eyeballs.

Long, hard, and fast thrusts, and Greg feels the tearing of his skin, he can catalogue each scratch, and each new drop of blood, and Nick's teeth drawing blood. And Greg clenches his hands, and prints half-moons on his palms. Nick's knees on his thighs, grinding it down into the unyielding bed. Nick's thrusts spells desperation, long, hard, slick with blood.

There are fingers around the back of his neck, and he sobs as they tighten with every stroke. A boy of thirteen, Greg remembers. Like Nick's nephew in Texas. Dead. And Nick thrusts so hard it lifts Greg's body into the air and Greg feels cool air against his dick. And when he falls back down, there's a sharp pain against it he cries out and pushes against Nick, feels Nick's balls on his ass.

And again, and again, every movement grates. With every new stroke, new blood. With every new shred, like punishment for seeing things that he never dreamt of seeing. And thinks about Nick who does this for much longer than he. And his nipples scraped against coarse sheets of the bed, sheets he forgot to change. Sheet filthy from the night before; the sheet he left this morning when he was late for work.

And Nick comes with a roar, and clamps his fingers around Greg's throat, fingers digging into skin and Greg hovers by the brink. He keeps his eyes open, bulging with pressure building behind them. White shiny spots forming against his retina and air burns his lungs; and his heart beats louder, wilder grasping for purchase, hoping for air. And Greg wants to cry, but tears dissolve between the ducts and his skin and the air so oppressive. And he hears Nick growling above him, feels Nick looking down at him. With pity, and compassion, and unvoiced sorrow and anger.

And Greg feels his balls tightening and pain. And he knows that he won't be able to come, and he knows he won't be able to see Nick's emotions and Nick's own tears. And Nick who extricates himself from Greg's ass all blood, and semen, and shit; and Greg vomits on the bed.

A girl of seven. A boy of thirteen. Dead.

The bed shifts some more and Greg lapses into misery and hears water running in the bathroom and listens for the click of the door when Nick shows himself out.

In the morning Greg will wake up surrounded by blood, semen, shit, and vomit. He will spend the day cleaning his house, like purgatory. He will find bloodied razor blades buried in the bottom of his bin, and will find traces of Nick's skin and blood and tears on them, covered with the dry remains of Nick's dinner. And he will find Nick curled in his car on Greg's driveway and Greg will knock softly on the window and lead Nick into the house. He will listen to Nick hiss when he rubs antiseptic onto Nick's forearms and inner thighs, over scabs and old scars. He will clean Nick's knuckles and wrap gauze over them, and hunts down the crack on the wall where Nick pummels out his frustration and wipe skin and blood from the wall.

Then they'll shower alone, together. Then they'll dress in silence, next to each other, separated by a gulf of sadness. Then they'll drive to work, and fill in the paperwork. They'll write the report and cry silently in the adjacent toilet cubicles, clamping down on their forearms. They will wash their tears and look at each other in the mirror. Then they'll walk out to meet with the victims' parents and offer support.


Rainclouds and thunderstorms gather, but they'd forever look for the break in the clouds, the sliver of clear blue sky.

***

They ride down the road in silence, Greg on the steering wheel and Nick watching the night lights drift by. Nick watches the road for just a second longer, all the while listening to Greg's measured breathing. They are driving away from Las Vegas, just... away. To nowhere and everywhere, it's anyone's guess. Nick isn't even sure if Greg knows where he's driving towards. Nick tries to convince himself that this is not an act of cowardice. He tries to tell himself that this is not something that they do to run away from the problem. What problem? Nick muses. He likes to think that they are going on a soul-searching trip, to a place uncomplicated by strangers, lights, and confusion.

It is a dead moon night, and a night where the lights of the city outshone the stars above. He screws his eyelids even tighter until star bursts into his vision. He clenches his hands until he feels moons rising on the planes of his palms. He relishes the stars in his vision and the moons in his hands, and for a while he feels like he can will his worries away. They are going away, temporarily.

Driving away from the pulsating, throbbing, loud, wide-eyed city.

The car pitches sharply from side to side. Nick hears Greg releases a strangled sob as the steadied itself again. "Did I hurt you?" Nick whispers softly, unwilling to break the earthly silence that hangs between them, coalescing like gelationous poison. He doesn't even know why he asks the question. He tells himself that the bruises at the back of Greg's neck isn't his fault, at least not the full extent of it. He tells himself that the scabs on Greg's back and stomach will eventually heal.

"Nothing that I didn't want," Greg answers. "How about you?" Greg brushes against his the heavy gauze wrapped around his knuckles.

"It's okay," Nick tells him, because Nick doesn't know what he can say. "I don't mind the pain so much."

The car pitches to the side once more and sputters to a halt. Greg's sigh is loud, cutting through the white noise that is collecting in his ears. There is a small shift from the driver's seat, a click as the door opens, a gust of wind from the outside, and Greg's voice barely registering in his brain. "I'm taking a walk," Greg tells him. Nick counts to ten and opens his eyes. There is an eerie calm as the slivers of headlight cuts across the endless gulf of black. He mentally traces Greg's silhouette moving away from him, swallowed by night.

---

They spoke to the children's parents a few hours ago -- hours that felt like years. The father sat on the chair, staring into space, tears running down those cheeks unchecked. There was a litany of disbelief being recited under his breath, a tribute to two dead children. The mother clung onto him, crying inconsolably, every tear a memory for each passing day. My tiny miracles, she said. My greatest treasures, she said. The whole floor of activity seemed to stop at that time, a deathly silence punctuated by sobs and whispers.

Then just as they stopped, the flurry of activity began in earnest once more. Investigators, detectives, witnesses, and convicts milled around them. The parents were inconsolable; they cried, prayed, and wished somebody would wake them up, clinging to each other because there could never be anyone else. Not for quite a long time. They sank into their own coccoon of misery, unheeding of everything around them. Unheeding of the bowed head of the perp who took their children away marched past them. Too miserable to notice, and neither Nick nor Greg could make a sound. They stood at a distance, arms held firmly by their side, trying very hard not to reach out across the small space between them and just touch.

---

Nick waits in the car until abject misery forces him to open his door and step out. Wind catches the hem of his shirt and grates against the skin of his face, and he inhales the scent of ozone and blinks dust out of his eyes.

"Greg?" he tentatively calls out. "Greg?!" He thinks he hears an echo, vibrating through the air. He thinks he hears the leaves whisper of distant planets and migrating birds. I'm going to go crazy, he thinks. He kicks the nearest wheel and wonders if it can feel pain. Wonders if it can absorb his frustration and absolve his inadequacy.

You can't do anything, Grissom told both him and Greg that morning, as they convened in Grissom's office with their written report, surrounded by dead bugs and facing Grissom's detached ambience. There is nothing you can do. Nothing they could do but write the report and talk to the parents. Nothing can bring the children back alive. Such is life, a priest said one day. Another case, another death, the same desperation. People live, and people die. Some are more unfortunate than others. And there's really nothing that he could have done -- not waking up the dead, not making things go away.

Don't get too attached, he was told years and years ago. Remember, cry, forget, move on. And everything should go like clockwork, unflinching against the trial of time. Until the batteries run out, or the pendulum stops swinging. Or being shattered into fucking pieces, every which way, Greg told him last night. Between the cries, the tears, the blood, the vomit. His thrust, scraping against Greg's skin. Him, wanting to hurt somebody and Greg was willing. Greg egging him on. Telling him that everything would be all right, once tears had been shed and blood had been split. Him telling Greg that it was probably the best for them.

Because they can hurt each other and still forgive. Better than hurting other people. Keep it between the two of them. Sometimes the best way to heal a pain is to inflict more pain. Break the unbroken, sever the cut. And Nick can feel that they are spiralling down into their own madness, into their own chaos.

Nick swears he can hear grasshoppers. He swears he can hear nightingales and owls. He swears he hears promises in the wind, and he tries to stop thinking.

"Greg!" he shouts, and... nothing. Just him and the car, in a field.

He waits, leaning against the hood of the car, watching the sky. He can trace the edges of the trees if he tries, or touch the wind.

Rustles and hesitant footsteps are preludes; Greg's silhouette against the car's headlight. Nick can smell the salt of Greg's tears as Greg leans against him, hair tickling under his chin, and arms curled around his shoulders. "Can we go home?" Greg asks. Greg's mouth breathes the words onto his throat and it vibrates against his collarbone.

"I'll drive," Nick offers.

"What should we do now?" Greg whispers as they drive towards home. They can see Las Vegas from a distance, like a jewel -- bright and beckoning in the middle of a desert night.

"I don't know," Nick answers, as they leave the darkness behind and drive towards light, like moths to a flame.

---

"Both of you," Grissom told them. "Take the week off."

"But..." Greg took a step forward.

"Our pending cases..." Nick added.

"Will be divided between the shifts. You don't have to worry about a thing," Grissom looked up from the report he was reading. "Are you seriously saying that you can function in any case after that?"

Grissom waved his hand in the air, a short side to side wave.

"We can," Greg spat between gritted teeth. "I'm sure..."

"The mirrors in the gents tell me differently," Grissom told them firmly. "They're coming out of your pay." They stood in the middle of the room and nodded almost simultaneously. What are we going to do, Nick wondered. A week of isolation. Where should they go? Where could they go? At home, they would only have each other, the cable, and the playstation. Hardly something to distract them away from the double homicide. Nick thought about crossing several state borders, putting a distance between themselves and painful memories. Nick wanted to pry the pictures from his brain, and throw them into the ocean. Dead children and crying parents. Parents aren't supposed to outlast their children, the old cliche, parents aren't supposed to bury their children. Not one, definitely not two.

"One more thing," Grissom called as Nick followed Greg out of the office. They stopped just beyond the threshold. "The funeral is in four days. The parents, they'd like you to..." Grissom shook his head. "Anyway. I have the details. Call me later in the week if you..."

"We'll call you," Nick cut in.

They'd lie awake at night, side-by-side, watching shadows play on their ceiling. They'd link their hands, grind their teeth and weather their sorrow in a quiet eulogy. They'd recite the names of their loved ones and pray for their safety. They'd let exhaustion claim them and sleep uneasily.

They'd wake up in the morning, and the sun will be beautiful.

---

The sun shines brightly, blue skies as far the eyes can see. There is a slight chill descending upon them from the ceilings, as Nick sits next to Greg in their black suits at the back of the church. There are photographs of smiling children. The girl smiled, eyes glinting joyfully and small hands waving at the camera. The boy grinned mischievously, kitted in muddied baseball shirts.

What does the sun know about us, the mother recites on the pew. About us, the ones who dwell on desolate land. The Pitmans, Nick remembered. My soul used to sing with pleasure, she half-sang under her breath, eyes as bright as the dews fading in the morning, each one dropping like clear streams, turning black as her mascara smeared down her cheeks. My soul used to sing with joy, she whispers, but forgets.

They follow the sombre procession from a distance, watch the sun glint against shiny, black coffins. The ground will welcome them, and shelter them from the storm. Laid to rest.



There is no rain today. Only sun.

***