Nick and Greg exited the large townhouse where the murder had taken place. Kits in hand, they glanced around the outside of the house, taking in the crime scene tape, the police cars. Greg stretched in the winter sunshine, relieved that, after eleven hours, they were finally done at the crime scene.
In just a second, it seemed, Greg's heart turned cold. The first shot echoed through him with such a forceful jolt, that for a moment, he was sure he was hit. But he was almost painfully numb, and so acutely aware of the blood rushing through his ears, that he knew it couldn't possibly be pouring out of him through a gun shot wound.
Bang. Bangbangbang.
He couldn't see the shooters. There was Brass, crouched behind his car door; further out, Officers Thompson, Adams. But who the fuck was shooting at them? Why couldn't he see their assailants?
He glanced at Nick, who, for just a moment, seemed just as shocked as him. Greg's hands were boneless; his kit crashed to the ground.
Bang.
Nick jerked at the sound, dropping his kit and reaching for his gun, without even a glance at Greg. He seemed so calm, so composed- ready to shoot, ready to shoot.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Without even thinking- he couldn't think, goddamnit, he grasped Nick's wrist. The gun fell from Nick's hand (bang) and he looked up at Greg, shocked. Greg tugged at his wrist, and took off running. He didn't, couldn't, let go of Nick's hand, even as he stumbled, trying to drag Nick's unmoving body behind him.
Nick started running, and all of a sudden, their paces were matched. The gun shots echoed harmlessly off the ground; all Greg could hear was the rhythmic thud of their feet on the pavement.
Gravesite, now. This pavement, a gravesite.
Greg yanked Nick around the site of the building- away- and pressed him against the brick wall, hard. Greg crashed against the older man, momentum and panic pressing him against the older man. Greg squeezed his eyes shut, adrenaline pumping through him so fast.
His lips pressed against Nick's fervently. Nick's eyes were wide with shock. Greg's lips crushd his so feverishly, that all he could taste was desperation, all he could feel were Greg's teeth grating against his. Greg's shaking fingers hooked around his belt loops, pulling and pushing at the same time. Their hips angled painfully, grinding against each other, bone touched bone.
Nick couldn't breathe, already out of breath, and now shocked out of his life. Somehting had jolted awake inside of him, and it wanted out.
He wanted to pull away. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to never have to pull away. He didn't need to breathe.
It was the single worst kiss of his life.
Greg pulled away, shoulders heaving, eyes too wide.
And in those brown moons Nick saw something more than fear.