Fic: Digging (NC-17) Gil/Nick
Like many others, I've been buckling under the strain of the impending
season finale, so channeled that anxiety into something creative.
PLEASE NOTE: this story is speculation, and based on spoilers for "Grave Danger." If you're avoiding such things, DON'T READ. Wait until tomorrow, after you've seen the episode, at which time, I suspect that canon will have rendered unfeasible everything that happens in this fic. But, ah, such is life. I may decide to meddle with it once I see what happens to make it jive with canon. Then again, I may say "fuck it" and go back to my other projects.
Title: Digging
Author: Knightmusic
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Notes/Warning: Mostly what I say above. This is EPISODE RELATED with SPOILER MATERIAL. There. I warned 'ya. Don't complain if you didn't want to be spoiled.
The field was fucking huge; he could be anywhere Not an inch of the barren gravel looked any more or less disturbed than anything around it; nothing looked like a fresh grave. Even if this was the right place, they might not find Nick until it was too late.
Grissom knew all these things, but he refused to let himself think about them; refused to even admit that he had thought them.
“NICK!” he shouted. Around him, in front of him, behind him, Catherine, Warrick, Sara, Greg, Brass, and every other member of the Las Vegas police force were doing the same thing; shouting, making noise, trying somehow to alert Nick to their presence, hoping there was some way he could respond, some way he could tell them where he was.
Everyone was running; some with purpose and direction, some because they didn’t know what else to do. Grissom was standing still. He shouted a few more times and turned his head, trying to imagine the most likely place Walter would have dug.
He was also trying his best not to be sick.
He started to move, his attention called to what could be a fresh pile of dirt a few yards away when something stopped him. It was the slightest vibration, hardly even a tremor in the earth. If he hadn’t spent the better part of a year depending on sensing vibrations to know when someone was coming up behind him, there was no way he’d be tuned enough to notice. But he had and he did.
“Nick?” he shouted again, and dropped to his knees, tossing aside the shovel he was carrying. “Nick?” And he felt something that might have been an answering tremor; something that could be caused by someone pounding on the roof of a coffin. His heart nearly stopped, but he kept his head together enough to lay down and press his ear to the ground.
He could feel the pounding; it shook the packed gravel and traveled along his spine, and there was no doubt that it was coming from directly below him. He started to get up, to call the others over, when weak, tortured sound of a voice fought it’s way up to his ears.
“NICK!” he yelled, pushing himself onto all fours. He lifted his head and yelled, “He’s here! I found him! He’s here!” But it was hardly necessary. The instant he’d fallen to his knees, the rest of the search team had rallied over to him, the CSIs fighting to get the closest.
Grissom didn’t wait for them; didn’t even remember he had a shovel not a foot away. He started tearing at the dirt with his bare hands, using large rocks to dig deeper. Someone yelled his name, but it barely registered.
“Grissom!” Warrick shouted, right next to his ear, and he finally turned. Warrick pulled him to his feet and forced the shovel in his hands, and then didn’t say anything because they were all digging now.
He’s alive, some part of Grissom managed to pull itself back and think, and watch. He’s alive. Please, God, let him hang on a few more minutes.
He couldn’t be down that deep; the soil was far too tightly packed for Walter to have dug a full grave, but it still felt like ages before they heard the first sound of a shovel hitting something solid. When that happened, what Grissom had thought was frantic, mad action nearly turned to chaos.
Slowly, the shape of the coffin became clear. A Plexiglas lid, that they couldn’t quite see through yet because it was so dirty and still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt, covered a box so small, so narrow, and so confining, that Grissom nearly sobbed to see it. He couldn’t see inside; couldn’t see if Nick was in there, if he was moving.
They tossed the shovels aside and started searching for a way to pry the lid off, and Grissom couldn’t stand the tension anymore. He climbed down and started brushing away the dirt.
A hand slapped up against the lid and Grissom’s heart shattered.
“Nick!” he shouted, and now he could see Nick’s face behind the glass; panic-stricken, sobbing and so, so terrified. He pressed his hand over Nick’s. “We’re gonna get you out. Hang on!” He looked up and around, searching. Someone handed him a crowbar and he started prying at the edge of the coffin. For a second he was afraid that there was no way to open it, and then something gave. He climbed up and out of the way as Sara and Warrick pulled the lid open, and he reached in.
Nick’s flailing hand found his, and they both grabbed on tight. Grissom pulled. Someone else pulled on him, some other people were reaching in to get a grip on Nicky, and together they heaved him up and out. Gil stumbled as they pulled, and he fell over, taking Nick down with him.
Nick was dead weight, and he crumbled and collapsed against Grissom’s chest. He hung on as if a hurricane was trying to pull him away. It hurt; he was squeezing Gil’s ribs, and he didn’t care. He clutched back; hands leaping from Nick’s shoulders, to his back to his head; learning by touch that Nick was here and alive.
People were crowding in; Catherine had a hand on Nick’s back and was making no attempt to hide how hard she was bawling. The other CSIs were doing the same, touching him, sobbing, and behind them, the LVPD looked on anxiously.
“Back up,” Gil called, trying to pull himself away from Nick. “For God’s sake, give him some air!” The circle of people leapt back; moving as one being, and even the CSIs pulled away, giving him some room. Grissom tried again to pull Nick up and away; to let him breathe, to let him calm down, but Nick hung on harder, pressing the side of his face into Grissom’s shoulder, and sucking in huge, ragged breaths.
So Gil let him stay; trying his best to take even, relaxed breaths, hoping his own breathing and heart rate would calm Nick, and finally, finally, allowing himself to completely break down.
It had been building in him from the instant they’d lost track of Nick; a horrible gut-devouring dread that was burning him up from the inside out. They’d all felt it, of course, and they’d all done their best to control it; to hold themselves together so they didn’t screw up and cost Nick his life. He hadn’t faltered, hadn’t allowed himself one moment of fruitless worry to eat up his concentration.
But no one knew how hard it had been; what a battle he’d waged to keep himself moving, doing what needed to be done, and how close he’d come to losing it.
Gil didn’t remember who the last person was who’d seen him cry; really cry. It wasn’t that he never did, it was just a part of himself that he was deeply unwilling to let anyone else see. It made him too open, too vulnerable, and he’d learned to contain it.
He was sobbing now, with Nick, with Sara and Catherine, with Warrick and Greg, and yes, even Brass. And he didn’t care. He hung on and cried; sobs which mutated into hiccups, coughs and even laughs, as indeterminate, incompatible emotions and sensations overloaded him.
“Nicky,” he whispered, tucking his face against the back of Nick’s head, “Oh, Nicky. Thank God. Thank God.”
* * *
After that he didn’t talk to Nick for over a week.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He saw Nick a lot, of course, although most of it was when Nick was asleep. He hadn’t been in ICU for very long, and the minute he’d been moved out, Grissom had placed himself on watch; coming to the hospital the instant he got off shift every morning in order to give Nick’s parents some time to go home and rest. Nick slept soundly most of the time Grissom was in there, which suited him fine. It gave him time to be with Nick without having to worry about what to say to him.
Grissom didn’t know how to prepare for that; not knowing what he should say to Nick when he finally got the chance, wondering what Nick needed him to say. But it was clear in his mind that he had a duty to Nick; it was up to him to resolve something that he should never have let become an issue.
No one had listened to the tape Nick had recorded; with Walter dead there was no need to make a case against him, and it had been unilaterally decided to leave Nick as much of his privacy as possible. And Grissom had no reason to believe that Nick would ever say to his face what he had said on the tape.
The knowledge was so heavy he could feel it pulling him down. It wasn’t just what Nick had said, when Gil thought about it he realized that he’d always known that Nick felt that way, it was that Nick had felt he had to say it. Then. When he was saying his final peace, when he should have been thinking only of family and close loved ones, it had been Grissom he’d needed to speak to.
And that he’d felt, in his last moments, that he needed to ask Gil’s forgiveness….
Remorse, regret and despair made him nauseous when he thought about it.
But knowing what he needed to correct and knowing how to go about doing so where two different things. So, while he sat there, not quite able to sleep in the hard hospital chair, taking comfort in the idea that at least being here, keeping Nick from waking up alone was something, he tried to rehearse the things he should say.
But the more he tried, the harder he dug and more he thought, the less he knew where to begin. It wasn’t just his new understanding of Nick Stokes that complicated matters; it was what this knowledge had forced him to understand about himself.
Over the years he’d grown increasingly reluctant to try and sort out the agonized, tangled knot that his heart had become so long ago. It only seemed to make matters worse whenever he tried, leaving him more confused and lost then before. To untangle a knot you needed to find the end of the cord, first; something Grissom had never managed.
And it had happened, that one morning in the hospital, as he searched for a way to not only dissuade Nick from the idea that he’d ever disappointed him, but to prove to him how much he was valued, he realized that he’d discovered something else; every cord in the impossibly wound mess of his heart was tied firmly, irrevocably, to Nick Stokes.
* * *
He stopped by Nick’s place the day after his parents left. "Hi," Nick said, smiling but looking transparently surprised and confused.
"May I come in?" Gil asked, and Nick nodded, stepping back and letting him in.
"What's up?"
For a moment, it was on the tip of Grissom's tongue to tell him; to say exactly why he'd decided to come over after avoiding any real interaction with Nick for so long. But he reigned the impulse in, knowing that at best, he would say something clumsy, and at worse he could do some actual damage. So he said something else, instead. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
"I thought," he paused. "I thought you might...like it, if I came over," he said, halting and unsure. But even with his lack of eloquence, Nick's face brightened up.
"Yeah," he said, sighing and looking so relaxed and touched. "You're just in time for dinner, too," he added with a grin. "Pizza guy should be here any minute."
It took Gil a second to realize that Nick was trying to be jovial, and he instructed himself to grin back and try a laugh. He had marginal success. He was too distracted to make a better attempt; too busy taking note of Nick's expressions and body posture.
God almighty, had Nick always looked at him like that?
He didn't have to scour his memories for very long to determine that, yes, he had. And Gil had never realized what that meant until now; that hyper-focused, intense, hopeful expression was something Gil had always categorized as a quintessential Nick mannerism. He'd never noticed that he didn't look at Catherine the same way; that look only got turned on him.
"So," Gil said, trying to pull himself away from those thoughts. He felt like he was hanging himself on his own heartstrings. He swallowed uncomfortably, and looked at Nick, who now was wearing a puzzled and more guarded expression. "I...ah," Gil said, and didn't even have the presence of mind to curse himself for being inarticulate. He had no instincts for this kind of situation, despite the fact that he'd been called into it more and more frequently of late. Nick took pity on him.
"You want to ask me how I'm doing?" he asked, but it hardly sounded like an invitation.
"Nick, that's not-" Gil started but Nick waved him off.
"Nah, it's okay, really," he said, scratching the back of his head and looking away self-consciously. "I mean, I'm glad to know you care. Really glad. I just-" he paused and looked up at the ceiling, and Gil had the certain feeling that he was trying not to cry. "I just don't want to talk about it anymore, okay?" he said, not looking down.
"Okay," Grissom said, softly. "I only want to help, Nick."
Nick looked at him and smiled. It was a broad, enthusiastic grin, of the type that he'd seen on Nick's face for as long as he'd known him, but it woke something horrible in Gil's mind. It wasn't the smile that was worrisome, it was how easily he put it on when Gil knew, absolutely knew that he didn't feel like smiling right now. And nothing gave him away. Nick was damn good at hiding, and Gil felt he should be condemned on the spot for never noticing before.
"I know you wanna help, Grissom," Nick said, sounding so light-hearted that Gil died a little. "And that's cool. Really, I appreciate it. Just don't ask me to talk about my feelings," he rolled his eyes on the word, "okay? Got enough of that from my mom." He added a little laugh, and didn't seem to notice when Gil didn't return it. "Beer?" he asked, heading into the kitchen. Gil shrugged and Nick brought one out for him anyway.
"So," he said, sitting down at his dining room table and waiting for Gil to join him, "since you're wondering, I'll tell you that I'm doing about as well as you'd expect. And let's just add that the sleeping pills are a godsend." He grinned again, like he'd just cracked a joke, and Gil thought of all the ways that humor could be a valuable coping mechanism. Something didn't quite ring true, here.
"I can't even imagine," Gil said, softly.
"Yeah, don't try," Nick said.
Gil nodded, somberly. "What I saw was bad enough." He heard the click of Nick's beer bottle hitting the table, and when he looked up, the merry, carefree front was gone.
"About that," Nick said. His tone was flat and guarded, protecting something that was obviously a tender point. And some bastard part of Gil made a note of where it was; wanting to hit it again, to force Nick out of this front.
"I'm really sorry you guys had to see that," he said, looking down at the table. "I'd have tried to keep it together more if I'd known you were watching." It felt like a tiny bomb went off inside Gil, raining guilt and horror over the fallout zone.
"That's ridiculous, Nick!" he said, a little more fiercely than he'd intended. Nick looked up. His eyes were a little glassy.
"I didn't want to scare you so much," he whispered.
"Nick," Gil said, feeling lost in his search for words. "We would have been just as scared if we hadn't seen it. You know that, don't you?"
Nick nodded, reluctantly, and looked back at the table. And despite how low Gil was already feeling, how much he already felt that he'd let Nick down in almost every way possible, he sank a little further. Because Nick didn't know that. Or at least, didn't believe it.
"Nick?" he asked, and Nick nodded a little more emphatically.
"I know that. I do," he said, but his voice was hollow and empty.
"No, I don't think you do," Gil said. And the thought struck him, almost passively, as he longer could sink any lower, that this was a much an issue for Nick as facing his own impending death had been. Possibly even bigger. Every second he was out in the open, still breathing, made the thought of dying fall a little further away. That was physical, it was real and inarguably had been conquered. This other danger, thought, that was living in his head; probably had been living there most of his life. In some ways, Nick had been in that coffin for most of his life; buried away from the people he cared about, and afraid of being forgotten and abandoned.
"Grissom, you don't need-" Nick started, but Gil interrupted him.
"Nick," he said, and then said it again until Nick looked up at him. "Why do you think you're worthless?"
Gil knew instantly that he'd hit something squarely on the head, because Nick couldn't have looked more blindsided if Gil had actually hit him. "I-" he said, his voice breaking on the word. "I don't," he said. But there was a slightly upward inflection to his voice, and it trembled.
This, then, was why Gil had come here. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, and tried to find a delicate way of saying this. "Nick, I know what you said on that tape," he said. It wasn't delicate, but at least when being blunt he got his meaning across.
"I thought no one listened," Nick said, clearly horrified. "You said you didn't need to...that you'd destroy it."
"We did, Nick. No one's listened," he reached out and put a hand on Nick's arm, and was surprised that Nick didn't shake it off. "I was watching when you recorded it." He gauged Nick's puzzled, uncomprehending expression. "I could read your lips," he explained. Nick's head dropped and hung, deadweight, between his shoulders.
"Nick, I had no idea," Gil said, feeling as helpless as he ever had. "I never wanted you to feel-"
"I just wanted you to be proud of me," Nick said, not looking up. "That's all I ever wanted. And if I couldn't do that, I didn't want you to regret that you'd hired me."
"Nick, I've never regretted that!" Gil said. Even though Nick's words weren't surprising him, it didn't relieve their sting at all.
"Maybe," Nick said. He lifted his head, but put his hand over his eyes. He doesn't want me to see him cry, Gil thought. "But you've never actually been glad of it either, have you?"
"Nick-"
"I mean, when you've got people as brilliant as Sara or, hell Greg, around. And I know I'll never be as savvy as Warrick or Catherine," Nick said, not even aware that Gil was trying to contradict him. "The only thing I'm good at is getting into trouble," he said, with a horrible, self-depreciating laugh. "I know it sounds stupid, but I just wish there was one thing I could do that no one else had done."
"Nick, listen to me-"
And this time Gil wasn't interrupted by Nick's tirade of self-destructive proclamations, but by the doorbell. Pizza. Right. Fuck.
"Shit," Nick said, standing up and grabbing a paper towel from the counter. "I'm a fucking mess."
"I'll get it," Gil said, gently pushing him out of the way. He answered the door, took the box and tipped the man a lot more than necessary because he didn't want to wait for change, and came back to the table to find Nick slumped in his seat, looking drained and empty. He sat back down.
"I'm sorry," Nick said, and Gil suddenly realized how often Nick apologized to him.
"Don't be," Gil said. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I-" He didn't even know where to begin. It wasn't enough to just tell him that he'd never been a disappointment, and he didn't think Nick would believe him if he tried to convince him otherwise. A memory struck him.
"When you told me why you took this job," he began, slowly. Nick lifted his head a little, listening but clearly trying not to get too involved. "I thought you wanted me to validate your work for you," he said, and sighed. "And that wasn't it at all, was it?" He didn't even wait for Nick to shake his head or answer. He kept on talking.
"I didn't give you what you wanted because I wanted you to see that you didn't need it. You still don't need my approval, Nick." Nick nodded, a lazy, tired, hopeless gesture, and Gil reached out and took his hand.
"But that doesn't mean you've never had it." That made Nick look up sharply. "You always have, Nick."
Something that might almost have been hope blossomed in Nick's eyes, but it was still veiled by suspicion. "You don't need to say that Grissom," he said. "Just to make me feel better."
Gil sighed. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it to be difficult to convince Nick; long seated misconceptions didn't just vanish and go away when someone said the magic words. He'd have to prove it. And he could only think of one way.
"Nick," he began, still wondering if this was something he wanted to reveal. And then he berated himself for the thought; he'd just seen Nick at his absolute lowest, broken down to his component parts, and he thought he had the right to protect himself? That was bullshit.
"This may not be what you want to hear," he cautioned. "But it's the most I can offer. And I hope it will do you some good." He paused, one last time, and took a deep breath. "I don't know how you can doubt yourself so much, I really don't. You should be proud of your career. Of the work you do. And there is something you've done that I know no one has ever done before." He heard Nick's soft hitch of breath at that, and he looked up, determined that he was going to drive this point home.
"You made me fall in love," he said.
Nick froze for a second, barely able to blink, and then he broke down completely. He sobbed; broken, choking sounds that barely made it out of his chest. Gil's throat went tight. He'd tried to help, but it would seem as though that little piece of information was more than Nick was prepared to handle.
"Nick," he said, scooting closer to put a hand on his back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"Don't be sorry!" Nick said, almost shouting and whipping his head around to look at Gil. "Please don't be fucking sorry!"
"Okay," Gil said, now very confused. "But I don't want you to think there's any pressure or-"
Nick kissed him.
Gil hadn't seen it coming at all, but suddenly Nick's hands were around his neck, holding his head, and his mouth was pressed so hard against Gil's that he was afraid he might draw blood. Would certainly bruise, at the very least. But even as surprised as he was, his reaction time was excellent. He had his own arms around Nick, pulling them together before Nick even managed to get his tongue in his mouth.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. But mostly he wanted to see if there was any way he could crawl inside Nick's mouth; crawl inside of him and stay curled up in his heart for the rest of his life. But even if it could only happen in the metaphorical sense, it was good enough for him, and he settled for helping Nick crawl onto his lap instead. He wondered briefly if the chair was sturdy enough to hold both of them, especially given what the were clearly about to do on it, and then he could care less about the chair, because Nick was straddling him, groping him, and had finally released his mouth to kiss down Gil's throat.
"Love you," Gil whispered, running his hands over Nick's back; trying to touch every part of him at once.
"How long?" Nick asked, and it was asked so earnestly, so painfully honestly, that it made Gil hurt. But in such a good way.
"I don't know," Gil gasped, finding it hard to breathe with the things Nick was doing to him. "Forever?"
Nick looked up and grinned. "Me too," he said, and pulled Gil's shirt out of his pants so his hands could wander over bare skin. Gil thought it was the best idea he'd encountered in years, did likewise to Nick, and then found that sliding his hand down the back of Nick's pants was an even better idea. It made Nick shudder and rock against him, and Gil was suddenly, sharply aware of how hard he was. How hard both of them were. How in the hell had they gone from emotionally broken to aroused and desperate so fast? It felt like something had exploded, and Gil, who had never been good at putting names to the things he was feeling anyway, couldn't begin to process what was happening in his heart right now.
"Are we going to fast?" he asked, but didn't bother to remove his hand from Nick's backside, which probably took some of the gravity from his concern.
"Probably," Nick whispered against his chest. "Do you care?"
"No," Gil said. "We can sort it out later. I want you."
Nick said something in response, but if it was an actual word, it wasn't in any language Gil knew. He thrilled at the idea that it was a completely new one; a needy, lustful Nick language. He hoped to become fluent very soon.
Nick's inability to speak coherently didn't seem to affect his dexterity at all. He had Gil's pants open, and Gil was about to return the favor when Nick reached in and took hold of him. Gil slammed back against the chair, gasping, feeling explosions go off behind his eyes and in his stomach. It wasn't just the mere intensity of sexual contact, powerfully good thought that was, nor was it the feeling of finally getting something he'd wanted so badly. It was the sudden realization that he hadn't known how badly he wanted this until now he finally had it.
He abandoned his work on Nick's fly to grab him by the face and kiss him again, because there was nothing else he could do. "God, Nicky," he whispered, and was amazed at how much his voice broke. He felt Nick smile into his mouth, and melted at that and the feeling of Nick's hand slowing moving over his cock and then reaching in further to caress his balls. He could easily go into full overload right now, but that wasn't what he wanted. Pulling himself back together, he got Nick's own pants open, and gave himself over, just for a moment to the feel of Nick's cock in his hands. Nick edged himself a little closer, rolling his groin against Gil's, and there really wasn't enough room down there for four hands and two cocks, but the sensations were so wonderfully overwhelming.
Again, Gil pulled himself back mentally. He could give himself over to this, live in the moment and enjoy the sensations, but then he'd never be able to remember it afterwards. And he wanted every detail for the rest of his life.
Nick's eyes were barely open; just enough that Gil could tell he was looking at him, and every muscle in his body was tense. Gil leaned up to kiss his throat, and then kept his mouth there, feeling Nick's pulse under his lips, and listening to the gasping, wheezing, whimpering noises Nick was making as the moved against each other. It felt like he was being put back together; that every sound Nick made, every movement of his body, was building him anew; completely from scratch. And his heart was going to have to break, he realized, when he finally deciphered the words Nick kept gasping; it was garbled, and permutated into nearly unrecognizable forms, but he could put it together.
"God, Gil. I love you." Somehow, it was more powerful because he could barely understand it.
He wanted to bring Nick off first; to let this moment be all about him, and what he needed. It wasn't hard to find things to do with his hands that made Nick's breathing hitch and his rhythm falter, and Gil zeroed in, mercilessly, on him.
And Nick went to pieces; making the most wonderful symphony of sounds, each one an affirmation that lodged in Gil's heart and soul. He watched him ride it out, completely in awe of what was happening. And then Nick opened his eyes, kissed Gil, and pulled him over; shattering, shuddering, breaking.
Neither one moved after that, and Gil considered the possibility that he might never move again, and found it an acceptable idea. Except that the back of the chair was hard and unforgiving, and starting to dig into his back. He started to sit up, and felt something wet against his neck. He looked up, expecting to see tears in Nick's eyes, and was surprised that they were dry. That would mean-
"Hey," Nick said, his voice so amazingly tender, and raised a hand to Gil's cheek. "You okay?" he asked.
Gil wiped his hand on his pants, making a brief mental note to never, ever wear these to work again, because the first time he flipped on the ASL would be an embarrassing moment he'd just as soon not experience, and rubbed the back of his hand over his damp eyes.
"Yeah," he said, stunned. He'd never cried during sex before. Emotional overload, he thought. Too much stimulus to process. He reached up and kissed Nick. "I'm great," he whispered into his mouth.
"Do you mind if I stay?" he asked when they pulled apart. Nick grinned and kissed his cheek.
"I'm kinda hoping you'll never leave," he said, standing and pulling Gil up with him. Now Gil's back protested mightily their impromptu tryst, and Nick laughed a little. "Come on, let's get you more comfortable."
When he climbed into bed next to Nick, and pulled him tightly against his chest, he marveled at his life. He'd never be glad of what had happened to Nick, but he could be grateful for what had happened as a result. He drifted to sleep, hands soothing down Nick's spine, and just relaxed as, inside him, the final knots and tangles of his heart pulled apart and resolved themselves; all of them wrapping themselves around Nick.
And when they woke up, there was cold pizza for breakfast.
PLEASE NOTE: this story is speculation, and based on spoilers for "Grave Danger." If you're avoiding such things, DON'T READ. Wait until tomorrow, after you've seen the episode, at which time, I suspect that canon will have rendered unfeasible everything that happens in this fic. But, ah, such is life. I may decide to meddle with it once I see what happens to make it jive with canon. Then again, I may say "fuck it" and go back to my other projects.
Title: Digging
Author: Knightmusic
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Notes/Warning: Mostly what I say above. This is EPISODE RELATED with SPOILER MATERIAL. There. I warned 'ya. Don't complain if you didn't want to be spoiled.
The field was fucking huge; he could be anywhere Not an inch of the barren gravel looked any more or less disturbed than anything around it; nothing looked like a fresh grave. Even if this was the right place, they might not find Nick until it was too late.
Grissom knew all these things, but he refused to let himself think about them; refused to even admit that he had thought them.
“NICK!” he shouted. Around him, in front of him, behind him, Catherine, Warrick, Sara, Greg, Brass, and every other member of the Las Vegas police force were doing the same thing; shouting, making noise, trying somehow to alert Nick to their presence, hoping there was some way he could respond, some way he could tell them where he was.
Everyone was running; some with purpose and direction, some because they didn’t know what else to do. Grissom was standing still. He shouted a few more times and turned his head, trying to imagine the most likely place Walter would have dug.
He was also trying his best not to be sick.
He started to move, his attention called to what could be a fresh pile of dirt a few yards away when something stopped him. It was the slightest vibration, hardly even a tremor in the earth. If he hadn’t spent the better part of a year depending on sensing vibrations to know when someone was coming up behind him, there was no way he’d be tuned enough to notice. But he had and he did.
“Nick?” he shouted again, and dropped to his knees, tossing aside the shovel he was carrying. “Nick?” And he felt something that might have been an answering tremor; something that could be caused by someone pounding on the roof of a coffin. His heart nearly stopped, but he kept his head together enough to lay down and press his ear to the ground.
He could feel the pounding; it shook the packed gravel and traveled along his spine, and there was no doubt that it was coming from directly below him. He started to get up, to call the others over, when weak, tortured sound of a voice fought it’s way up to his ears.
“NICK!” he yelled, pushing himself onto all fours. He lifted his head and yelled, “He’s here! I found him! He’s here!” But it was hardly necessary. The instant he’d fallen to his knees, the rest of the search team had rallied over to him, the CSIs fighting to get the closest.
Grissom didn’t wait for them; didn’t even remember he had a shovel not a foot away. He started tearing at the dirt with his bare hands, using large rocks to dig deeper. Someone yelled his name, but it barely registered.
“Grissom!” Warrick shouted, right next to his ear, and he finally turned. Warrick pulled him to his feet and forced the shovel in his hands, and then didn’t say anything because they were all digging now.
He’s alive, some part of Grissom managed to pull itself back and think, and watch. He’s alive. Please, God, let him hang on a few more minutes.
He couldn’t be down that deep; the soil was far too tightly packed for Walter to have dug a full grave, but it still felt like ages before they heard the first sound of a shovel hitting something solid. When that happened, what Grissom had thought was frantic, mad action nearly turned to chaos.
Slowly, the shape of the coffin became clear. A Plexiglas lid, that they couldn’t quite see through yet because it was so dirty and still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt, covered a box so small, so narrow, and so confining, that Grissom nearly sobbed to see it. He couldn’t see inside; couldn’t see if Nick was in there, if he was moving.
They tossed the shovels aside and started searching for a way to pry the lid off, and Grissom couldn’t stand the tension anymore. He climbed down and started brushing away the dirt.
A hand slapped up against the lid and Grissom’s heart shattered.
“Nick!” he shouted, and now he could see Nick’s face behind the glass; panic-stricken, sobbing and so, so terrified. He pressed his hand over Nick’s. “We’re gonna get you out. Hang on!” He looked up and around, searching. Someone handed him a crowbar and he started prying at the edge of the coffin. For a second he was afraid that there was no way to open it, and then something gave. He climbed up and out of the way as Sara and Warrick pulled the lid open, and he reached in.
Nick’s flailing hand found his, and they both grabbed on tight. Grissom pulled. Someone else pulled on him, some other people were reaching in to get a grip on Nicky, and together they heaved him up and out. Gil stumbled as they pulled, and he fell over, taking Nick down with him.
Nick was dead weight, and he crumbled and collapsed against Grissom’s chest. He hung on as if a hurricane was trying to pull him away. It hurt; he was squeezing Gil’s ribs, and he didn’t care. He clutched back; hands leaping from Nick’s shoulders, to his back to his head; learning by touch that Nick was here and alive.
People were crowding in; Catherine had a hand on Nick’s back and was making no attempt to hide how hard she was bawling. The other CSIs were doing the same, touching him, sobbing, and behind them, the LVPD looked on anxiously.
“Back up,” Gil called, trying to pull himself away from Nick. “For God’s sake, give him some air!” The circle of people leapt back; moving as one being, and even the CSIs pulled away, giving him some room. Grissom tried again to pull Nick up and away; to let him breathe, to let him calm down, but Nick hung on harder, pressing the side of his face into Grissom’s shoulder, and sucking in huge, ragged breaths.
So Gil let him stay; trying his best to take even, relaxed breaths, hoping his own breathing and heart rate would calm Nick, and finally, finally, allowing himself to completely break down.
It had been building in him from the instant they’d lost track of Nick; a horrible gut-devouring dread that was burning him up from the inside out. They’d all felt it, of course, and they’d all done their best to control it; to hold themselves together so they didn’t screw up and cost Nick his life. He hadn’t faltered, hadn’t allowed himself one moment of fruitless worry to eat up his concentration.
But no one knew how hard it had been; what a battle he’d waged to keep himself moving, doing what needed to be done, and how close he’d come to losing it.
Gil didn’t remember who the last person was who’d seen him cry; really cry. It wasn’t that he never did, it was just a part of himself that he was deeply unwilling to let anyone else see. It made him too open, too vulnerable, and he’d learned to contain it.
He was sobbing now, with Nick, with Sara and Catherine, with Warrick and Greg, and yes, even Brass. And he didn’t care. He hung on and cried; sobs which mutated into hiccups, coughs and even laughs, as indeterminate, incompatible emotions and sensations overloaded him.
“Nicky,” he whispered, tucking his face against the back of Nick’s head, “Oh, Nicky. Thank God. Thank God.”
* * *
After that he didn’t talk to Nick for over a week.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He saw Nick a lot, of course, although most of it was when Nick was asleep. He hadn’t been in ICU for very long, and the minute he’d been moved out, Grissom had placed himself on watch; coming to the hospital the instant he got off shift every morning in order to give Nick’s parents some time to go home and rest. Nick slept soundly most of the time Grissom was in there, which suited him fine. It gave him time to be with Nick without having to worry about what to say to him.
Grissom didn’t know how to prepare for that; not knowing what he should say to Nick when he finally got the chance, wondering what Nick needed him to say. But it was clear in his mind that he had a duty to Nick; it was up to him to resolve something that he should never have let become an issue.
No one had listened to the tape Nick had recorded; with Walter dead there was no need to make a case against him, and it had been unilaterally decided to leave Nick as much of his privacy as possible. And Grissom had no reason to believe that Nick would ever say to his face what he had said on the tape.
The knowledge was so heavy he could feel it pulling him down. It wasn’t just what Nick had said, when Gil thought about it he realized that he’d always known that Nick felt that way, it was that Nick had felt he had to say it. Then. When he was saying his final peace, when he should have been thinking only of family and close loved ones, it had been Grissom he’d needed to speak to.
And that he’d felt, in his last moments, that he needed to ask Gil’s forgiveness….
Remorse, regret and despair made him nauseous when he thought about it.
But knowing what he needed to correct and knowing how to go about doing so where two different things. So, while he sat there, not quite able to sleep in the hard hospital chair, taking comfort in the idea that at least being here, keeping Nick from waking up alone was something, he tried to rehearse the things he should say.
But the more he tried, the harder he dug and more he thought, the less he knew where to begin. It wasn’t just his new understanding of Nick Stokes that complicated matters; it was what this knowledge had forced him to understand about himself.
Over the years he’d grown increasingly reluctant to try and sort out the agonized, tangled knot that his heart had become so long ago. It only seemed to make matters worse whenever he tried, leaving him more confused and lost then before. To untangle a knot you needed to find the end of the cord, first; something Grissom had never managed.
And it had happened, that one morning in the hospital, as he searched for a way to not only dissuade Nick from the idea that he’d ever disappointed him, but to prove to him how much he was valued, he realized that he’d discovered something else; every cord in the impossibly wound mess of his heart was tied firmly, irrevocably, to Nick Stokes.
* * *
He stopped by Nick’s place the day after his parents left. "Hi," Nick said, smiling but looking transparently surprised and confused.
"May I come in?" Gil asked, and Nick nodded, stepping back and letting him in.
"What's up?"
For a moment, it was on the tip of Grissom's tongue to tell him; to say exactly why he'd decided to come over after avoiding any real interaction with Nick for so long. But he reigned the impulse in, knowing that at best, he would say something clumsy, and at worse he could do some actual damage. So he said something else, instead. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
"I thought," he paused. "I thought you might...like it, if I came over," he said, halting and unsure. But even with his lack of eloquence, Nick's face brightened up.
"Yeah," he said, sighing and looking so relaxed and touched. "You're just in time for dinner, too," he added with a grin. "Pizza guy should be here any minute."
It took Gil a second to realize that Nick was trying to be jovial, and he instructed himself to grin back and try a laugh. He had marginal success. He was too distracted to make a better attempt; too busy taking note of Nick's expressions and body posture.
God almighty, had Nick always looked at him like that?
He didn't have to scour his memories for very long to determine that, yes, he had. And Gil had never realized what that meant until now; that hyper-focused, intense, hopeful expression was something Gil had always categorized as a quintessential Nick mannerism. He'd never noticed that he didn't look at Catherine the same way; that look only got turned on him.
"So," Gil said, trying to pull himself away from those thoughts. He felt like he was hanging himself on his own heartstrings. He swallowed uncomfortably, and looked at Nick, who now was wearing a puzzled and more guarded expression. "I...ah," Gil said, and didn't even have the presence of mind to curse himself for being inarticulate. He had no instincts for this kind of situation, despite the fact that he'd been called into it more and more frequently of late. Nick took pity on him.
"You want to ask me how I'm doing?" he asked, but it hardly sounded like an invitation.
"Nick, that's not-" Gil started but Nick waved him off.
"Nah, it's okay, really," he said, scratching the back of his head and looking away self-consciously. "I mean, I'm glad to know you care. Really glad. I just-" he paused and looked up at the ceiling, and Gil had the certain feeling that he was trying not to cry. "I just don't want to talk about it anymore, okay?" he said, not looking down.
"Okay," Grissom said, softly. "I only want to help, Nick."
Nick looked at him and smiled. It was a broad, enthusiastic grin, of the type that he'd seen on Nick's face for as long as he'd known him, but it woke something horrible in Gil's mind. It wasn't the smile that was worrisome, it was how easily he put it on when Gil knew, absolutely knew that he didn't feel like smiling right now. And nothing gave him away. Nick was damn good at hiding, and Gil felt he should be condemned on the spot for never noticing before.
"I know you wanna help, Grissom," Nick said, sounding so light-hearted that Gil died a little. "And that's cool. Really, I appreciate it. Just don't ask me to talk about my feelings," he rolled his eyes on the word, "okay? Got enough of that from my mom." He added a little laugh, and didn't seem to notice when Gil didn't return it. "Beer?" he asked, heading into the kitchen. Gil shrugged and Nick brought one out for him anyway.
"So," he said, sitting down at his dining room table and waiting for Gil to join him, "since you're wondering, I'll tell you that I'm doing about as well as you'd expect. And let's just add that the sleeping pills are a godsend." He grinned again, like he'd just cracked a joke, and Gil thought of all the ways that humor could be a valuable coping mechanism. Something didn't quite ring true, here.
"I can't even imagine," Gil said, softly.
"Yeah, don't try," Nick said.
Gil nodded, somberly. "What I saw was bad enough." He heard the click of Nick's beer bottle hitting the table, and when he looked up, the merry, carefree front was gone.
"About that," Nick said. His tone was flat and guarded, protecting something that was obviously a tender point. And some bastard part of Gil made a note of where it was; wanting to hit it again, to force Nick out of this front.
"I'm really sorry you guys had to see that," he said, looking down at the table. "I'd have tried to keep it together more if I'd known you were watching." It felt like a tiny bomb went off inside Gil, raining guilt and horror over the fallout zone.
"That's ridiculous, Nick!" he said, a little more fiercely than he'd intended. Nick looked up. His eyes were a little glassy.
"I didn't want to scare you so much," he whispered.
"Nick," Gil said, feeling lost in his search for words. "We would have been just as scared if we hadn't seen it. You know that, don't you?"
Nick nodded, reluctantly, and looked back at the table. And despite how low Gil was already feeling, how much he already felt that he'd let Nick down in almost every way possible, he sank a little further. Because Nick didn't know that. Or at least, didn't believe it.
"Nick?" he asked, and Nick nodded a little more emphatically.
"I know that. I do," he said, but his voice was hollow and empty.
"No, I don't think you do," Gil said. And the thought struck him, almost passively, as he longer could sink any lower, that this was a much an issue for Nick as facing his own impending death had been. Possibly even bigger. Every second he was out in the open, still breathing, made the thought of dying fall a little further away. That was physical, it was real and inarguably had been conquered. This other danger, thought, that was living in his head; probably had been living there most of his life. In some ways, Nick had been in that coffin for most of his life; buried away from the people he cared about, and afraid of being forgotten and abandoned.
"Grissom, you don't need-" Nick started, but Gil interrupted him.
"Nick," he said, and then said it again until Nick looked up at him. "Why do you think you're worthless?"
Gil knew instantly that he'd hit something squarely on the head, because Nick couldn't have looked more blindsided if Gil had actually hit him. "I-" he said, his voice breaking on the word. "I don't," he said. But there was a slightly upward inflection to his voice, and it trembled.
This, then, was why Gil had come here. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, and tried to find a delicate way of saying this. "Nick, I know what you said on that tape," he said. It wasn't delicate, but at least when being blunt he got his meaning across.
"I thought no one listened," Nick said, clearly horrified. "You said you didn't need to...that you'd destroy it."
"We did, Nick. No one's listened," he reached out and put a hand on Nick's arm, and was surprised that Nick didn't shake it off. "I was watching when you recorded it." He gauged Nick's puzzled, uncomprehending expression. "I could read your lips," he explained. Nick's head dropped and hung, deadweight, between his shoulders.
"Nick, I had no idea," Gil said, feeling as helpless as he ever had. "I never wanted you to feel-"
"I just wanted you to be proud of me," Nick said, not looking up. "That's all I ever wanted. And if I couldn't do that, I didn't want you to regret that you'd hired me."
"Nick, I've never regretted that!" Gil said. Even though Nick's words weren't surprising him, it didn't relieve their sting at all.
"Maybe," Nick said. He lifted his head, but put his hand over his eyes. He doesn't want me to see him cry, Gil thought. "But you've never actually been glad of it either, have you?"
"Nick-"
"I mean, when you've got people as brilliant as Sara or, hell Greg, around. And I know I'll never be as savvy as Warrick or Catherine," Nick said, not even aware that Gil was trying to contradict him. "The only thing I'm good at is getting into trouble," he said, with a horrible, self-depreciating laugh. "I know it sounds stupid, but I just wish there was one thing I could do that no one else had done."
"Nick, listen to me-"
And this time Gil wasn't interrupted by Nick's tirade of self-destructive proclamations, but by the doorbell. Pizza. Right. Fuck.
"Shit," Nick said, standing up and grabbing a paper towel from the counter. "I'm a fucking mess."
"I'll get it," Gil said, gently pushing him out of the way. He answered the door, took the box and tipped the man a lot more than necessary because he didn't want to wait for change, and came back to the table to find Nick slumped in his seat, looking drained and empty. He sat back down.
"I'm sorry," Nick said, and Gil suddenly realized how often Nick apologized to him.
"Don't be," Gil said. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I-" He didn't even know where to begin. It wasn't enough to just tell him that he'd never been a disappointment, and he didn't think Nick would believe him if he tried to convince him otherwise. A memory struck him.
"When you told me why you took this job," he began, slowly. Nick lifted his head a little, listening but clearly trying not to get too involved. "I thought you wanted me to validate your work for you," he said, and sighed. "And that wasn't it at all, was it?" He didn't even wait for Nick to shake his head or answer. He kept on talking.
"I didn't give you what you wanted because I wanted you to see that you didn't need it. You still don't need my approval, Nick." Nick nodded, a lazy, tired, hopeless gesture, and Gil reached out and took his hand.
"But that doesn't mean you've never had it." That made Nick look up sharply. "You always have, Nick."
Something that might almost have been hope blossomed in Nick's eyes, but it was still veiled by suspicion. "You don't need to say that Grissom," he said. "Just to make me feel better."
Gil sighed. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it to be difficult to convince Nick; long seated misconceptions didn't just vanish and go away when someone said the magic words. He'd have to prove it. And he could only think of one way.
"Nick," he began, still wondering if this was something he wanted to reveal. And then he berated himself for the thought; he'd just seen Nick at his absolute lowest, broken down to his component parts, and he thought he had the right to protect himself? That was bullshit.
"This may not be what you want to hear," he cautioned. "But it's the most I can offer. And I hope it will do you some good." He paused, one last time, and took a deep breath. "I don't know how you can doubt yourself so much, I really don't. You should be proud of your career. Of the work you do. And there is something you've done that I know no one has ever done before." He heard Nick's soft hitch of breath at that, and he looked up, determined that he was going to drive this point home.
"You made me fall in love," he said.
Nick froze for a second, barely able to blink, and then he broke down completely. He sobbed; broken, choking sounds that barely made it out of his chest. Gil's throat went tight. He'd tried to help, but it would seem as though that little piece of information was more than Nick was prepared to handle.
"Nick," he said, scooting closer to put a hand on his back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"Don't be sorry!" Nick said, almost shouting and whipping his head around to look at Gil. "Please don't be fucking sorry!"
"Okay," Gil said, now very confused. "But I don't want you to think there's any pressure or-"
Nick kissed him.
Gil hadn't seen it coming at all, but suddenly Nick's hands were around his neck, holding his head, and his mouth was pressed so hard against Gil's that he was afraid he might draw blood. Would certainly bruise, at the very least. But even as surprised as he was, his reaction time was excellent. He had his own arms around Nick, pulling them together before Nick even managed to get his tongue in his mouth.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to laugh. But mostly he wanted to see if there was any way he could crawl inside Nick's mouth; crawl inside of him and stay curled up in his heart for the rest of his life. But even if it could only happen in the metaphorical sense, it was good enough for him, and he settled for helping Nick crawl onto his lap instead. He wondered briefly if the chair was sturdy enough to hold both of them, especially given what the were clearly about to do on it, and then he could care less about the chair, because Nick was straddling him, groping him, and had finally released his mouth to kiss down Gil's throat.
"Love you," Gil whispered, running his hands over Nick's back; trying to touch every part of him at once.
"How long?" Nick asked, and it was asked so earnestly, so painfully honestly, that it made Gil hurt. But in such a good way.
"I don't know," Gil gasped, finding it hard to breathe with the things Nick was doing to him. "Forever?"
Nick looked up and grinned. "Me too," he said, and pulled Gil's shirt out of his pants so his hands could wander over bare skin. Gil thought it was the best idea he'd encountered in years, did likewise to Nick, and then found that sliding his hand down the back of Nick's pants was an even better idea. It made Nick shudder and rock against him, and Gil was suddenly, sharply aware of how hard he was. How hard both of them were. How in the hell had they gone from emotionally broken to aroused and desperate so fast? It felt like something had exploded, and Gil, who had never been good at putting names to the things he was feeling anyway, couldn't begin to process what was happening in his heart right now.
"Are we going to fast?" he asked, but didn't bother to remove his hand from Nick's backside, which probably took some of the gravity from his concern.
"Probably," Nick whispered against his chest. "Do you care?"
"No," Gil said. "We can sort it out later. I want you."
Nick said something in response, but if it was an actual word, it wasn't in any language Gil knew. He thrilled at the idea that it was a completely new one; a needy, lustful Nick language. He hoped to become fluent very soon.
Nick's inability to speak coherently didn't seem to affect his dexterity at all. He had Gil's pants open, and Gil was about to return the favor when Nick reached in and took hold of him. Gil slammed back against the chair, gasping, feeling explosions go off behind his eyes and in his stomach. It wasn't just the mere intensity of sexual contact, powerfully good thought that was, nor was it the feeling of finally getting something he'd wanted so badly. It was the sudden realization that he hadn't known how badly he wanted this until now he finally had it.
He abandoned his work on Nick's fly to grab him by the face and kiss him again, because there was nothing else he could do. "God, Nicky," he whispered, and was amazed at how much his voice broke. He felt Nick smile into his mouth, and melted at that and the feeling of Nick's hand slowing moving over his cock and then reaching in further to caress his balls. He could easily go into full overload right now, but that wasn't what he wanted. Pulling himself back together, he got Nick's own pants open, and gave himself over, just for a moment to the feel of Nick's cock in his hands. Nick edged himself a little closer, rolling his groin against Gil's, and there really wasn't enough room down there for four hands and two cocks, but the sensations were so wonderfully overwhelming.
Again, Gil pulled himself back mentally. He could give himself over to this, live in the moment and enjoy the sensations, but then he'd never be able to remember it afterwards. And he wanted every detail for the rest of his life.
Nick's eyes were barely open; just enough that Gil could tell he was looking at him, and every muscle in his body was tense. Gil leaned up to kiss his throat, and then kept his mouth there, feeling Nick's pulse under his lips, and listening to the gasping, wheezing, whimpering noises Nick was making as the moved against each other. It felt like he was being put back together; that every sound Nick made, every movement of his body, was building him anew; completely from scratch. And his heart was going to have to break, he realized, when he finally deciphered the words Nick kept gasping; it was garbled, and permutated into nearly unrecognizable forms, but he could put it together.
"God, Gil. I love you." Somehow, it was more powerful because he could barely understand it.
He wanted to bring Nick off first; to let this moment be all about him, and what he needed. It wasn't hard to find things to do with his hands that made Nick's breathing hitch and his rhythm falter, and Gil zeroed in, mercilessly, on him.
And Nick went to pieces; making the most wonderful symphony of sounds, each one an affirmation that lodged in Gil's heart and soul. He watched him ride it out, completely in awe of what was happening. And then Nick opened his eyes, kissed Gil, and pulled him over; shattering, shuddering, breaking.
Neither one moved after that, and Gil considered the possibility that he might never move again, and found it an acceptable idea. Except that the back of the chair was hard and unforgiving, and starting to dig into his back. He started to sit up, and felt something wet against his neck. He looked up, expecting to see tears in Nick's eyes, and was surprised that they were dry. That would mean-
"Hey," Nick said, his voice so amazingly tender, and raised a hand to Gil's cheek. "You okay?" he asked.
Gil wiped his hand on his pants, making a brief mental note to never, ever wear these to work again, because the first time he flipped on the ASL would be an embarrassing moment he'd just as soon not experience, and rubbed the back of his hand over his damp eyes.
"Yeah," he said, stunned. He'd never cried during sex before. Emotional overload, he thought. Too much stimulus to process. He reached up and kissed Nick. "I'm great," he whispered into his mouth.
"Do you mind if I stay?" he asked when they pulled apart. Nick grinned and kissed his cheek.
"I'm kinda hoping you'll never leave," he said, standing and pulling Gil up with him. Now Gil's back protested mightily their impromptu tryst, and Nick laughed a little. "Come on, let's get you more comfortable."
When he climbed into bed next to Nick, and pulled him tightly against his chest, he marveled at his life. He'd never be glad of what had happened to Nick, but he could be grateful for what had happened as a result. He drifted to sleep, hands soothing down Nick's spine, and just relaxed as, inside him, the final knots and tangles of his heart pulled apart and resolved themselves; all of them wrapping themselves around Nick.
And when they woke up, there was cold pizza for breakfast.