nickngreg | It Ends Tonight Chapter Three (Reply)

Chapter Three! You can read chapter one and two here

Title: It Ends Tonight

Summary: After a terrible incident at a crime scene one night, Nick must help Greg stay on his feet. But, in the aftermath of that night, Nick realizes that he's the one who's falling. Now it's up to Greg to help him accept it.

Genre: Drama/Romance

Warning: Slash. Some swearing.

Rating: M for adult content and use of profanity.

Timeline: Post season 10. No major spoilers, but there might be a few.

Pairing: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes (The Love)

Disclaimer: Don't own CSI. *sigh*

Author's Note: Okay, so I have NOT abandoned this story! I just take really long to update (but, come on, a seven thousand word chapter is gonna take a while). I just want to remind to guys that this story is still set after the end of season ten, even though the real show is already on its twelfth season. Thank you for all your support guys, and your wonderful comments. Enjoy!

I'm in transit, but I'm stranded on this boat.
And I pledge myself allegiance to a better night's sleep at home

"Are you... are you leaving?"

This wasn't what Nick had expected. He had expected an old, comfy couch that didn't stick to his skin like the one in the break room. He had wanted wine after a hard day at work, and an old, beat-up novel. But now the couch seemed far away, and the cold, wooden floor hurt the heels of his feet. He was tired, too tired, to deal with this.

"Do you want me to?"

Greg sounded scared, and Nick was scared too. He didn't know what he wanted...Well, maybe he did. He wanted Greg to stay. But he was completely certain that he wasn't supposed to want that, and now he didn't know what to do, or what to say, or even how to say it. His mouth felt heavy and disconnected, and unusually dry. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but the real reason he was suddenly rendered unable to speak was because he had never seen anyone else pull off a coral coloured t-shirt the way Greg could. His shoulders filled it out so perfectly, and the half-length sleeves fell loosely around the slight curve of his bicep. The plain t-shirt defined his slim waist, and brought out the pinkness of his thin, pursed lips.

But, that couldn't be it. It was just the shock of it all, wasn't it, that made it so hard to think and to breathe and to speak?

"Nick," Greg sighed around the word, his coral-coloured chest expanding around Nick's name, pausing as it took in the soft hiss of the word, and deflating like a badly timed anticlimax as it spat out the 'k' harshly. Greg had never said his name that way, a pained, tired whine, and it made Nick's chest hurt. He gritted his teeth, and, against his better judgement, imagined that very same whine perfumed with arousal rather than pain. Nick, Greg would whisper, his lower lip trembling, and his breath catching around the word.

Nick felt a moan try to claw its way out of his stomach, and swallowed it down with a shudder. "Greg, please..." he said, begging Greg with his eyes, but Greg just shook his head helplessly. Of course, Nick realized with a growl of frustration, of course, because no one could help him but himself.

He took an involuntary step towards Greg, and caught himself mid-air. But it was too late to backtrack, and he stumbled forwards towards Greg, the heel of his heavy work shoe crashing against the wood and echoing in his ears. He lifted a shaky hand and twisted the neck of Greg's t-shirt in his fist. The cloth was softer than it looked, thin too. Nick rubbed it between his fingers for a moment, and then looked into Greg's bewildered eyes. There was a startling amount of desire in Greg's dark eyes, and Nick knew it was mirrored in his own. But there was just something about the way Greg's Adam's apple bobbed up and down nervously, that made Nick want to put his lips to it.

He almost did too, but clenched his jaw and took a step back instead. Greg stiffened and paused, pondering something. Silence weighed heavily in the room. The dishwasher was running, a buzz that echoed in his chest. The clocked ticked in the background, and air whooshed out of the AC vent and then stopped. Greg took a step back, placed his palm flat on the dining table behind him. The polished wood stuck to his sweaty hand as he pressed his fingers down hard on the surface. He took a deep breath, not realizing that he had been holding it in the first place. Thoughts whooshed through his head too fast to grasp. But he was a scientist, a chemist. He knew it didn't matter what he thought now. It was all up to Nick now.

He stared at the wall above Nick's shoulder, white paint grey under the shadow of the ceiling. He waited; he had already added his chemicals to the equation, now it was up to Nick to add his. He waited, for the explosion of chemicals, the change of colour, or the anticlimax of nothing at all. No reaction. As he waited, he let his mind shut off just for a moment as he inhaled the smell of wood and vanilla in the air.

He waited.

No reaction. Wrong chemicals. Nothing produced.

Then he pushed past Nick towards the door, and finality of it all made it completely impossible for Nick to think. "No!" Nick shouted suddenly, spinning around to face Greg, and throwing an arm out in his direction. Greg looked up at him from the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. "No, I don't want you... to leave."

Greg grinned in relief, and then the younger CSI was talking a mile a minute like he always did when he was nervous—but not scared. It was distressing actually, how quiet Greg got when he was scared.

"Nick," he said, shaking his head in disbelief and walking towards him. "Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick," he trailed like it was the only thing he knew how to say. "Nick, you have no idea how much this means to me," he continued breathlessly, walking up to Nick, and placing his hands on the older man's shoulders." I don't know how to thank you. I-I thought you were going to hit me." He laughed nervously. Greg's eyes were darting everywhere, and he was talking too fast for Nick to understand what he was saying. Not that he could pay attention to Greg's words anyway; not with Greg's warm hands resting peacefully on his shoulders. "I don't know what I would have done if... if... if... I-I don't know, I don't know..." Greg's eyes met Nick's finally, and he couldn't tear them away. He slowly trailed off, his frantic movements slowly until, he was almost completely still. Only his head still swayed slowly from side to side in utter and complete shock, as he stared at Nick open-mouthed. His voice and thoughts were lost to the wind. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lip. "Can I kiss you?" he said finally, his eyes unguarded and his smile easy and unafraid.

Somehow, Nick's hands had made their way onto Greg's hips, his thumbs rubbing circles over the thin cloth of his t-shirt. Greg's eyes finally stopped boring into his, instead trailing down to his lips. Greg cocked his head, his lips parting as a pink tongue darted out to lick them. Nick swallowed, and tore his gaze away from Greg's mouth, trying to forget how they felt against his mouth. He stared at the space above Greg's shoulder, hating himself a little more, because it shouldn't have been so easy, even without Greg's droopy, puppy-dog eyes looking into his, it shouldn't have been so easy to break Greg's heart.

It shouldn't have been so easy, to push Greg away seconds before their lips met, to turn around, hurry to his room and slam the door shut behind him. It shouldn't have been so easy to not look back into hurt eyes, and it shouldn't have been so easy for tears to spring to his own, as he slid down his bedroom door. It should have been a lot fucking harder.

But it wasn't.

It hurt, it hurt more than Greg could bear. It made his chest ache, and his eyes burn. He banged his head against the refrigerator behind him, and let the pain rattle through him. He had been sitting there, on the kitchen floor, for an hour or so, trying to muster up the strenght to get up and go to bed. But he was so fucking angry, and he didn't like going to bed when he was angry, because the nightmares were bad enough anyway.

The tile floor was cold and hard. The kitchen smelt of gas and the garbage bag nobody had taken out. The dishwasher stopped running, and the silence was hard to take, so Greg banged his fist against the refrigerator behind him. The loud crash and the rattle of things inside was satisfying, but the silence that followed was worse than before.

He felt the heat of the fridge behind him, and listened to its whirring until it seemed to rattle his chest. He began to hum tunelessly to himself, so soft he could barely hear it. He felt his throat close up around the vibration, and swallowed back tears.

Whe really felt like doing was taking Nick's name dumping it into a stream of swear words and shouting it out to the walls. But Nick would probably hear him and throw him out on his ass. He sighed angrily, frustrated that he really depended on Nick that much. So much that he was afraid to speak his mind, in case it pissed Nick off, and lost him a friend. He hated needing anything that much, let alone someone who was fully capable of biting him in the ass when he least expected it. And that's exactly what Nick had done.

What was Nick's fucking problem, anyway? Why did he have to be so nice to Greg, if he was going to avoid him forever because of one kiss, that left Greg feeling as perplexed as Nick anyway? Didn't he see that Greg felt exactly the same way, confused and lonely and burning with a desire that was almost scary?

Nick had been so compassionate and patient with Greg since that night, and if it wasn't for him, Greg probably would have been in a mental hospital by now. Even though Nick hadn't exactly done anything specifically,there was just something about him that Greg was addicted to. Conversation with Nick was easy and fun, and Greg could let his guard down in front of Nick and finally be himself. And anyway, it was hard to wuss out in front of a guy who had been buried alive with a loaded gun and lived to tell the tale. That was all that Greg really needed, someone to keep him strong, because when he was acting strong there was no time to be scared.

As long as he wasn't scared, he was okay. He could handle the pain, the guilt, the nightmares, but not the fear. It was different, having a gun held to his head, different from lab explosions and alleyway bruises. Charred flesh and the smell of grit and blood didn't leave any room for thought, just instinct, action and desperation. But the cold touch of metal, the hard pressure of the barrel pushed against the back of his neck, it gave him too much time. There was no pain, no fire, no glass, no alleyway floor. Just fear and too much time to think about regrets and his family and friends and lovers, and Nick. Too much time to think about things he had hidden away into the dark corners of his mind, and now all of that thinking was screwing his over; fucking him up, and making it impossible to ignore his problems.

There were all these questions unearthed, about Nick and his relationship with his parents and death and God and everything he would leave behind. Like, would Grissom cry like he did at Warrick's funeral? And would Sara give his eulogy or Nick or his mother? And who would replace him at the lab? And would Warrick being waiting for him, alongside Papa and Nana Olaf, and his childhood pet Skippy, and his best friend at college who died in a meth lab explosion? Or, God forbid, Demetrius James, there to tell him that all those years he didn't confess, and all those Sundays he didn't spend at Church were coming back to haunt him, and he would be in Hell forever because he fucking murdered a kid?

And they wouldn't leave him alone. The questions about God, and death, and Nick and Nick and Nick. Nick was the one he'd miss the most, the one he would visit in dreams, and watch over. It would be Nick's bed he would hover over every night, watching the older man's spirit lift out of his body in his sleep as he roamed the world of dreams. And did he really believe in that shit? In Nana's spirituality and pychic abilities, and maybe he did. Maybe there was some sprinkle of faith left in him afterall.

But none of it changed the fact that, when the chilling thought of death floating into his mind, without the pain, bruises and burns to keep it at bay, it was Nick who he thought of. And all his life, he had spent seeking independance, whether it meant fighting off a coddling mother, or leaving California, or getting out of the lab. And now, all of that hard-earned independance flew out of the window, because here he was, on the floor of Nick's kitchen, rather than in his own bed, in his own apartment. And why? Because he fucking needed the guy. He needed that prick of a Texan, that asshole who led him on and then slammed the bedroom door in his face after he was done with him.

That prick, that asshole, who was also compassionate and kind and sweet and generous. And fuck him for being that guy, the good guy, because Greg needed him, and that was one word he hated. Need. Why the fuck did he have to need anything? Why the fuck did he have to need anything that was going to screw him over afterwards?

Need. Fucking Need.

And you know what he needed? He needed for Nick to stop being so fucking nice to him! If he wasn't so kind and patient and understanding and helpful, then maybe it would be easier to get up and leave. But there was Modern Warfare on the couch, and beer and pizza on the dining room floor, and poetry in the study, and all these uninhibited touches and comforting words and private jokes and subtle glances chaining him back to Nick's house and that tiny chance that Nick didn't really regret that kiss in the lockerroom. And even a slammed door and the cold, tiled floor couldn't burn out that tiny flame of hope that maybe Nick needed him too.

And he needed that flame to be put out. Immediately. Ha! There was that word again, need. Fuck it, he thought, stumbling to his feet, and pulling out a beer from the fridge.

"To need," he made a toast. "Who always comes back to fuck you over just when you think you're done with crushes and unrequited love. To fucking need."

He downed the beer, cherished the burn, and went to bed.

The mattress groaned as Nick rolled over in bed and kicked off the heavy eiderdown. He stared at the alarm clock on his bedside table, wishing it would ring just so he would have a reason to get out of bed. He had been tossing and turning for about three hours; he would hardly call it sleeping, though he hadn't been entirely conscious either. But it was hard to sleep, knowing that Greg was in the next room upset and angry. There was a stirring in his stomach, a nagging at the back of his head and heaviness in his throat that was much worse than just nausea. He'd experienced guilt before, but knowing Greg was the one he had hurt, made his feel a hell of a lot guiltier. He was getting used to that now, the idea that every emotion he felt was a thousand times stronger when Greg was involved.

He rolled over onto his stomach, buried his head under the pillow, and willed himself to fall asleep again. After ten minutes or so of tossing and turning, wrestling with the eiderdown, trying, and failing, to not think about Greg, Nick decided he wasn't going to be getting any more sleep.

He sat up in bed, and tried to ignore his growing headache. He turned on the bedside lamp, and retrieved his book from the table. He began reading from where he left off, but soon his thoughts were gravitating back to Greg, as he wondered how he would convince the poor reader to dig into this novel once he was done with it. When he had read the same sentence for the fifth time, he growled in frustration and threw the book across the room. Why should he give a fuck if the only books Greg read were about chemistry, forensics, and Vegas history?

He had begun to realize, rather, he had stopped denying, that he thought about Greg way more than he should. It was bad enough that he worried about Greg constantly, but now, even the smallest most mundane things reminded him of Greg; like books and coffee and DNA. What he realized, now, was that there was too much Greg, in everything he did, and said and thought. And it was that much harder to ignore Greg, to slam a door in his face, to not kiss him, when he couldn't stop thinking about him.

Nick heard the creak of a door, and instinctively reached for the gun on the bedside table. He hadn't even taken the safety off when it occurred to him that it was probably just Greg waking up for a midnight snack. He did that almost every night he had been at Nick's. Nick wondered if Greg was just naturally restless, or whether he found it hard to sleep since the incident at his crime scene.

Nick heard another door being yanked open and then closed again; the bathroom in the hall probably. Nick had been using the guest room bathroom as a storage area recently, so Greg usually used the powder room in the hall. Nick pulled his knees up to his chest, and closed his eyes. Half of him wanted to speak to Greg right now and straighten things out, but he was too scared of what the consequences would be. Fucking coward, he thought angrily.

He growled low in his throat and punched the bed next to him. He'd been acting like an asshole to Greg since the kiss, and he hated himself for it. He knew he had to go and talk about what had happened, but he couldn't work up the courage. Because if he did, he knew what it meant, that he couldn't deny it any longer. He was falling for his co-worker, and he would fall hard. And then what? Heartbreak, probably. Even if they managed to tough it out, to make it work, there would always be homophobic cops, and coming out to their friends, and a thousand other problems that Nick would rather steer clear off. And if things did go wrong, seeing each other every day at work would be like rubbing salt in open wounds. And, face it, things probably would go wrong. Besides the usual tension of trying to make their relationship work, there would be the added stress of working together. If their supervisor found out, they'd probably be on different shifts, or maybe even out of a job. Or worse; they'd end up like Grissom and Sara: in different continents.

The truth of the matter was, it just didn't seem worth the risk. If he and Greg got together, they would break up; and twelve years of friendship and good memories would mean nothing. Nick stood, and walked out of the bedroom before he could change his mind. He was going to tell Greg exactly what he thought, that kissing or fucking or actually getting together were the worst things they could possibly do, a recipe for disaster.

Only once he got to the bathroom door, and was about to open it, did he realize how ridiculous this probably looked from the outside. One man, sleep-warm in a t-shirt and pajamas, walking into the bathroom already occupied by another, younger, and probably more dishevelled man. (Nick tried to not to acknowledge that, after living with him for only a week, he could visualize a sleepy Greg perfectly: the ruffled hair, the warm skin—warm enough that he shivered if Nick turned the fan on in the lounge right after Greg had woken up—hazy eyes, boxer shorts, and a thin, ratty old t-shirt that hung off his bony shoulders loosely) Absolutely fucking ridiculous; like he could walk into that bathroom right now, and expect Greg to believe him when he told him he wasn't attracted to him and didn't want a relationship. Hell, Nick wouldn't even believe it himself! The situation was as queer as it got.

He rested his forehead against the bathroom door, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He paused; should he go in? Go back to bed? Wait for Greg to come out Nick was sure that by the time Greg came out of the bathroom, he'd have lost his nerve completely. If he hadn't lost it already.

Suddenly, he heard fumbling, desperate and careless, on the other side of them door. He pressed his ear against the door, half concerned, half curious. The sound of retching filled his ears, and he winced. He knew how much Greg hated vomiting; he had told Nick that the last time he had gotten really drunk was the night he passed his final proficiency to become a CSI. He hated the hangover enough to sacrifice the high. The team had partied hard that night, though Nick didn't recall Greg drinking very much. Lightweight, probably; wouldn't really surprise him.

But Nick knew that alcohol wasn't the only thing that made Greg nauseous. Nightmares too. The Texan had enough of his own to know that everyone reacted differently. He got violent; yelled, punched his pillow, kicked his bed, and cried angry, fat tears. And Greg got sick.

The first time Nick found Greg throwing up after a nightmare, he had slipped into the bathroom hoping to comfort him. Greg had pushed him away, mumbled incoherently, blushed a deep red, and stumbled out of the bathroom. Since then, Nick had learned that Greg wanted his space after a nightmare, and so instead of confronting him, Nick would inconspicuously slip into his room and leave Greg a can of sprite and some aspirin on the bedside table.

Greg only got sick after the bad ones, and Nick felt instantly guilty; were his actions the night before responsible for the nightmare? He stepped back from the door, knowing there was no way he could go inside and speak to Greg right now. He turned away, sighing guiltily, and walked into the kitchen to get Greg something to drink.

He spotted the half-empty beer bottle on the counter, and chugged down the rest of the beer. It was warm and flat, and he grimaced, tossing it into the trash. He grabbed a can of sprite from the fridge, and took in into Greg's room with some aspirin. He placed them on Greg's bedside table, and turned on the lamp, glancing around the room.

The eiderdown was bunched up at the bottom of Greg's bed. Twisted and tangled, it was thrown half on the floor. Even the sheets had come off of the mattress. The blatant evidence of Greg's nightmare made Nick's chest hurt, and he tore his gaze away from the bed. He still had nightmares about his kidnapping and the shooting. He knew how it felt to wake up sweaty and scared, and all alone. To hear nothing but the blood rushing in your ears, and to be too afraid to close your eyes because then you'd be back there again. He knew how it felt to force yourself to live through each day, and then not even have a reprieve when you were sleeping.

He gritted his teeth and left the room abruptly. He marched up to his bedroom door with every intention of going back to bed and forgetting about life for a while. But something stopped him, and he backtracked, stopping in front of the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the door, and listened to the sound of the shower running. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A serene calmness washed over him, displacing his unease and shame. It was the same feeling that overcame him whenever he saw Greg, or anything that belonged to him, Blue Hawaiian on the kitchen counter, an unfolded blanket on the couch, a crime novel on the coffee table, or this, a shower running. Just the knowledge that Greg was safe, alive and with him was comforting to Nick. But Nick had learned pretty early in his career that when your life was on the line every day, you had to appreciate simple pleasures like seeing your best friend alive and relatively unscathed.

Nick heard a bang from inside the bathroom and started. Instinctively he pushed open the unlocked bathroom door and stepped into the steamy room. His chest felt tight, and he couldn't think straight. He pressed his fingernails into his sweaty palm and breathed in the clean citrusy smell of Greg's shampoo. He knew he was over reacting, but he had to know that Greg was okay.

"Greg?" he called out, biting his lip. He took a step towards the opaque shower door and then stepped back again. He called out again, but Greg didn't reply. Nick swallowed thickly and pressed his ear against the damp shower door. He couldn't hear anything over the running water. His fingers flitted hesitantly over the handle. His heart raced and he felt irrationally afraid of losing Greg. He heart clenched painfully as he recalled how scared Greg had been the first night he came to Nick's. Greg's fear seemed to mingle with his own, and then he was sure: Greg was hurt. Greg was hurt and Nick had to save him.

He pulled the shower door open with sweaty palms and a thumping heart. And then everything slowed down. Greg wasn't hurt, but he was looking at Nick with lost, wide eyes. His breathing was ragged, and one shaky hand was planted on the tile wall, while the other dangled by his side. He was... naked. And Nick wasn't sure why that surprised him. Nick blinked hazily, watching a droplet of water drip from Greg's plastered hair, slide down his nose and drop onto his thin lip. His tongue shot out to lick it away, and Nick was overwhelmed with the urge to trace the same spot with his own tongue.

Nick knew, somewhere deep in his head, that Grge would probably get really fucking mad at him later, and he'd die of embarrassment. But somehow, Nick couldn't reach that thought, the thought that would send him out of the bathroom and probably the house. He felt oddly detached, objective almost. Like Greg was a peice of artwork at a museum. His gaze trailed down Greg's wet chest with intense concentration, and yet with a certain disconnection from what he was really seeing. His gaze reached Greg's navel, and he paused, his thoughts connecting and the reality of the situation hitting him full force. Stop it, Nick, he said to himself. This is wrong.

His eyes returned to Greg's and he waited, ready for whatever Greg had to say to him. He couldn't run. He had to face the consequences of his actions.

But Greg's barely even spoke. He mumbled, his words slurred, disjointed, and barely audible over the sound of running water. The shower was still on."Can't... reach. Can't... need to... soap."

Nick frowned. He didn't even think Greg was speaking to him. His gaze was on the ground and the hand hanging by his side was stretched out and reaching for something. Nick looked down, blinking at the bar of Irish Spring on the shower floor. Greg's hand was shaking, he realized, and without thinking about it, he reached out his own. His grasped Greg's wrist gently, and the younger man blinked up at him. Greg's hand was warm and wet. Nick could feel light tremors running through it. He tightened his grip on Greg's wrist, and rubbed his thumb in soothing circles on the back of his hand. It stopped shaking, but instead of letting go, Nick pushed it forwards towards the bar of soap. Greg gripped it with loose fingers, and Nick lifted his hand up again. They faced each other, Greg inside the shower stall and Nick outside of it. The bar of green soap lay in Greg palm, and Nick's hand still gripped his wrist, harder now, as he breathed unevenly through his mouth.

They looked down at the soap, their hands, and then back at each other, their confusion mirrored in each other's eyes. Not a word was spoken. Greg's wrist felt hot against Nick's palm, and his skin was reddened. The water that ricocheted off the wall and onto Nick's skin and clothes burned, and he felt it cool down on his skin. It felt odd, being fully clothed, when Greg was so open, so vulnerable, so pure, wearing nothing but skin.

The tension was thick, like the steam in the room. Soaking, clenching, suffocating.

"You're... dead," Greg whispered, finally, shock and disbelief coating his voice. Nick started, his breath catching. "Y-you," Greg pulled his wrist away from Nick's hand harshly, the soap falling from his hand again, and banging against the tile loudly, surprising them both. "You died! I-I killed you," Greg said incredulously. He whimpered, and pressed himself against the wall of the shower, trying to get as far away from Nick as possible.

Nick had never seen him look so scared before, so vulnerable. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Greg's face, and not wander any lower. When Greg's emotions were already bare and unmasked, it felt wrong to strip him down any further.

"Greg, Greg, no... I'm not—" he stumbled over his words, confusion wrapped around his mind. Did Greg think he was that dead kid? Was that why he looked so scared? "No. No, no, no. It's me, Greg. It's Nick!"

"I know," Greg said, his voice trembling hard. "But-but I swear, I didn't... it wasn't my fault. I-I... He made me do it! It was s-so cold, and he held it t-to my head and said it was the only way. The only way t-to redeem myself, for what I had done. And now, and now...I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. Please, please don't—" Greg's voice caught, and he shuddered. "Nicckk..."

"Greg," he murmured, feeling desperate and sick. "Calm down, please. I-I don't understand. Please, just..." He trailed off. Greg wasn't listening to him. He kept looking down at his chest, his arms, and shaking his head.

"I can't get it off me," Greg muttered to himself. He began rubbing and scratching at his arms. Nick's heart was thumping wildly in his throat, and he felt himself panic and lose control.

"Greg, I don't understand. Please, just...stop!" he grabbed onto Greg's wrists harshly, bringing them to a jerky halt. Greg's eyes met his, his gaze finally lucid. He looked defiant and scared at the same time, and Nick felt the sudden urge to just kiss it all away.

Greg swallowed nervously, and then stared at Nick with his lips parted. Soft. Red. Wet.

Nick took a deep breath, looked back into Greg's eyes, dark with confusion and unease, but no longer filled with white, hot panic. "Nick," Greg said, his voice soft and strangled. He was staring at Nick like this was the first time he had even noticed the older man was in the room. His gaze wandered down over Nick's clothed chest to his cotton pants. Greg took a deep breath, suddenly very aware of his own nudity. A blush crept up his neck, and Nick watched it spread over the younger man's cheeks, his ears. For a moment he wondered how it would feel to be the cause of that flush. To be on top of Greg, touching, kissing, licking. Red, hot skin. Hot because of him. Hot for him.

And then Greg's almost inaudible, 'Fuck,' brought him back to reality. And fucking hell, how did they get themselves into this situation? How could Nick convince himself they were just friends? Friends didn't do this; friends didn't look at their buddies, naked and hurting, and want to touch them. Touch them everywhere. Touch everything. Caress, stroke, hold, jerk, shove, kiss. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. Everything.

Nick swallowed back a ragged whimper. He couldn't deny it any more. Couldn't deny this pulsing need that he felt in his stomach, his throat, all along his spine, and deep in his groin. He didn't understand it, he didn't know why. Why, after working with Greg for ten years, did he feel attracted to him all of a sudden? Why did he want him, need him? Why was he so afraid to have him? It wasn't like it was his first time, with a guy or a girl. It wasn't like he hadn't been in love before. Why was this so terrifying?

"I can't get clean," Greg murmured, his voice small and scared. His gaze fell somewhere over Nick's left shoulder, and his chest heaved with each breath. "He's always there, in my dreams... and I don't even know his name." Greg took a deep, shuddering breath. "And everytime, i-it's always me who kills him. It's like s-someone makin' me do it. Putting the gun in my hand... forcing me to put the trigger. And-" Greg's gaze met Nick's, and he felt his chest tighten when he saw Greg's eyes were brimmed over with tears. "This time it was you. I-I shot you, and you screamed. So loud. And... and when I woke up, all I could hear was you screaming. Ringing in my ears, and—"Greg let out an uneven breath, and each word sounded like it was an effort to get out. Greg closed his eyes, fighting back tears, and fell silent.

Nick blinked back his own tears; his chest was tight with overwhelming emotions. Greg had been dreaming about him. And, even though it had been a nightmare, Nick felt a rush of affection at the thought. He stepped forwards, into the shower, closer to Greg. The hot water soaked his already wet clothes, and he didn't bother turning it off. He brought his hand up to caress Greg's cheek, and wiped away wet hair from his forehead. Greg didn't open his eyes, and Nick wondered what would happen if he just leaned over and kissed the younger man. He didn't, telling himself he didn't want to take advantage of Greg; telling himself he wasn't scared.

The stood in silence for a long time, Nick's hand still on Greg's face. He closed his eyes too, concentrating on the way the hot water steamed down his face and down the neck of his shirt. Tight, wet cotton across his chest and deep breath. He looked into the stormy calm of Greg's dark eyes, and whispered. "Let me," he croaked. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Let me... make you feel clean again."

Greg's eyes fluttered, his gaze hopeful and earnest. But even Nick didn't know what he meant by that. He bit his bottom lip, and then leaned forwards, pressing a soft, chaste kiss on the corner of Greg's mouth and then retreating before the younger man had the chance to respond. Greg jerked forwards instinctively, his motions uncoordinated. But Nick stopped him, placing a palm flat on his chest. Greg paused, complying with Nick immediately. His open, unabashed trust was too much, and Nick wanted to just turn him around and fuck him against the tiled wall.

He didn't; he didn't becasue he wanted this to last. He wanted this to mean something. And a first time again the bathroom wall at three o'clock in the morning meant absolutely nothing.

So he leaned down and grasped the bar of soap in shaky hands. He rubbed his hands against it, and the smell seemed to brand itself in his nose. He'd never forget that, the smell of Irish Spring and the smell of Greg and this moment.

He placed his hands on either side of Greg's smooth, hot neck, and felt the younger man tense and then relax under his touch. His hands slipped across the width of Greg's broad shoulder, and then back up his neck to his narrow jaw. He cupped Greg's face in his hands, his fingers running soothing circles on the nape of his neck, and his thumbs resting on Greg's cheek just next to his ears.

Greg's eyes fluttered closed, and Nick began massaging the soap into Greg's shoulders, his thumbs pressed into the hollows above his collarbone, and his fingers working at the knots in Greg's shoulders. He felt them sag under his touch, and smiled when Greg hummed appreciatively. Nick ran his hands down the slope of his shoulders, and then up and down his arms. The soft skin, the toned arms, the slight bend of a bicep and smooth, round shoulders. Smooth, soft skin, and freckles and a mole just under his left shoulder. The smell of soap, clean and fresh in the hot, heavy air, and warmth, on Greg's skin and in the water pattering on Nick's body, and in his body, hot in his chest, and soul and groin.

His hands wandered down Greg's chest, not so much rubbing in soap, not so much cleaning, anymore, but touching, feeling. Hard nipples and smooth chest. The flat of his palm against ribs that struggled with movement, and then fingers around a slender waist, and he's never touched Greg like this before, like...like lovers.

Up Greg's side, and into the startling heat of his underarms, back down his back, and no, not below his waist, not even looking because—

Becasue this wasn't sex. It felt like it, almost, the vulnerabilty, the soft touches, the hesitance, and those soft, little moans from Greg's mouth, and feeling the tension run out of Greg's body like the water running down the drain. And Nick couldn't deny it anymore, couldn't deny that he didn't want it. It scared him but what scared him more was the look in Greg's eyes, when he had stared, dead, into Nick's own. So scared, so bewildered, shocked. You're dead. The words echoed in Nick's mind, and he swallowed back the lump in his throat.

Dead. He didn't want to die. He didn't want Greg to die. He didn't want Greg to be scared, scared of death, even though they both were, even though they always were. And he wanted this, but he didn't.

He forced his hands back up to Greg's shoulders, away from everything he wanted. But, even so, he needed to maintain phyisical contact. He needed to feel Greg's heat against his hands, but he couldn't, he couldn't touch Greg where he wanted to, where he needed to.

He needed to touch, to feel, to hold. Greg's pulse against his hand, and shattered breathing, and fluttering eyes, trembling lips. He needed it so badly, needed to know who Greg was, who he really was; needed to know him so intimately, that he would never forget. He needed Greg's body, and mouth, and hips ground up against the tile wall, and lips on his neck, and Greg.

Greg at his mercy. His hand on Greg, making him quiver, shake—for him. Greg loud, talking, begging, or completely silent, concentrating.

He needed to touch Greg, to see him, to hear him, to taste him. To know him, like he had never known anyone before. To feel him, in every fibre of his being.

And then he needed it to stop. Everything. He needed to stop seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling, thinking. He needed Greg's body against his, he needed that peace, that almost painful ecstasy of absolute nothingness. White hot pleasure, and Greg and nothing else. Thinking, feeling, nothing.

Escape.

He needed it, he wanted it, but his hands were on Greg's face and nowhere else, and his clothes were on, wet, sticking to him, but on. Because he wanted it, but he couldn't have it. Not now, when nothing made sense, when he didn't know what he wanted, when he didn't know what Greg wanted. Not now, when they hadn't even talked about this, when they'd been running on pure instinct alone, pure fear, pure desperation. Now now, because he knew, he knew that if he fucked Greg against the bathroom wall, he would run. He would run, and he'd be afraid to look back.

Afraid, so afraid. Afraid because Greg had almost died. Again. And he was so scared, because what if Greg did die, where would that leave him? Alone, hurt, scared, in love, and lost. And he didn't want it, he didn't want to love Greg, to make love to Greg, if he was just going to die, if Nick was going to be alone.

All alone. All over again.

But what if Nick died? What if he died alone, with having ever told Greg how he felt? What he died like this, feeliing nothing but painful longing? He needed Greg, he needed to have Greg, because he didn't want to die alone. He didn't want to die.

And that's what he couldn't figure out. Run or stay? Die alone, or leave someone else to suffer after you're gone?

Alonealonealone. You always end up alone.

He sqeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't think. He couldn't weigh the fucking options. He didn't know what to do.

And then Greg's voice, soft and comforting, like he knew exactly what Nick was thinking. "Nick... we need to talk about this."

Nick opened his eyes, staring into Greg's clear, solemn gaze. Greg was right. He couln't think rationally. Not here, not now. Not when Greg was completely vulernable, exposed, unabashed, and just... there.

And he needed to think, even though he didn't want to. He needed to figure this out.

"Yeah," he said, his voice garbled and barely audbible. He cleared his throat nervously. "Yeah, let's... talk."

Author's Note: Hope I didn't disappoint with this chapter =) Huge revelation for Nick, but there's definitely going to be more drama for him in the next chapter. Greg's emo-ness reaches it's high watermark in this chapter, and he will be significantly less OC from now on (thank God). The next chapter is one of my favourites, and things are going to finally start making sense.

More flashbacks too!

Thank you for reading, and please comment!