Title: Losing Battle
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, things would be different.
Spoilers: "Weeping Willows"
Author's Notes: Thanks to shacky20 for the title, and for reading millions of drafts.
"C'mon, G. You know what I can do with my tongue when I'm properly motivated."
Greg bites his bottom lip and glances toward the opening that leads from the locker room to the hallway. "Believe me," he chuckles. "I know. But Grissom can't spare me. Sara had court this morning, and she won't be in 'til later."
I lean closer and growl, "Just tell him you have an emergency. You never call off. He'll buy it."
Grinning, Greg shifts from one foot to the other. "I want to, Nicky. Believe me. But I can't."
Letting out a breath, I nod. "That's cool," I say. I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try. Ever since Greg and I got stuck on separate shifts, we've been fighting for some alone time together. And lately, we've been losing the battle. "So, I guess I'll crash and make sure I'm up when you get home this morning. I'll have breakfast ready about nine. Cool?"
Greg winces. "Actually, you can sleep in, Nicky. I sort of promised Sara I'd run to the mall with her after our shift. We figured we'd grab pancakes after."
I narrow my eyes. "You're going shopping with Sara? Why?"
Squirming in place, Greg says, "Our friend, Jenna, is getting married next Friday, and we're going to go together on a gift."
"Who's Jenna?" I ask.
Greg runs a hand through his shaggy hair. "She's a paramedic. Sara and Jenna are good friends. Sara introduced us while we were on that case with the old man and the staple gun. Her husband-to-be used to surf out in California." He gazes at me for a moment, as if he's trying to gauge the likelihood of me exploding on the spot. "So, we're getting them a gift."
"Okay," I say a little too quickly. "Whatever."
"I just can't get out of it," Greg says, placing a hand on my upper arm.
"I said whatever, man. It doesn't matter."
"Maybe I can call off tomorrow?"
I step away from Greg. "Maybe," I say. "I'm outta here."
I stalk down the hall, lost in thoughts, when Warrick falls into step beside me. "Hey, Nicky. Guess who has a date?"
I'm not in the mood for this. "You?"
"Yeah, me," he grins. "I'm taking her to that piano bar I was telling you about."
"Good for you, man," I say.
"How about you?" Warrick asks, patting me on the shoulder. "Nicky have plans?"
Damn. He would steer the conversation to me.
"Oh, yeah," I say.
About then, Catherine swoops up from behind us, and drapes her arms across our shoulders. "I could really use a drink. You wanna join me? I'm buying."
Warrick shakes his head. "I'd love a drink," he says. "I already made plans, though."
"You did?" Catherine asks, disappointment lacing her voice.
Warrick mutters something and races off for his date.
"All right," Catherine says, turning toward me.
Me? I just want to get out of this lab as fast as I can. "Raincheck," I say as I hurry toward the exit, "Raincheck."
Almost as soon as I get into my car, I regret that I blew Catherine off. She sounds like she's had the kind of day I've had. We could probably use each other's company. With one hand, I reach up and knead the sore muscles of my left shoulder. With my other hand, I fumble in the glove box for my cell phone. I figure I'll call Cath and tell her my plans changed, and I'd love to get a drink.
But on the other hand, I'm not sure how in the mood for company I am right now. Besides, we'd probably be sitting there for about five minutes before Catherine would say, "Y'okay, Nicky?" or "Wanna talk?" And let's just face it—I'm not in the mood to emote.
Nah. Better to spend the night sulking about G all by myself.
I drive to a little bar I know near my house. It's a mostly country and western redneck crowd, so I figure there's no chance I'll be running into Catherine. And it's near enough to my house that I can leave my car and walk home if I drink too much.
The second I walk in, I'm greeted by a gust of cigarette smoke and sawdust. I cover my mouth as I walk past a table filled with loud, old, hacking men. When I reach the bar, I slide onto a stool and order a beer. It's probably best to forgo the mixed drinks tonight.
I reach over and hook my finger onto a bowl of peanuts and drag it toward me. Peanuts, beer, smoke, country music…Dad would be proud.
I'm there about an hour, and I'm feeling pretty tipsy, when a slightly familiar, not-bad-to-look-at woman plunks onto the stool beside me. She looks me up and down, her eyes glazed with alcohol. "Nick Stokes, right?"
I nod, as my brain tries to put a name with the newly-arrived woman's face. After a few seconds, I say, "That's me…It's Becca, isn't it?"
She grins. "You remember me. Surprising."
"The thing is," I say, leaning forward. "I'm not sure where I remember you from." Holding up an empty bottle of beer, I say, "Of course, I've had a few of these."
Becca scoots her body forward. Raising her voice above the Hank Jr. song that just came on the jukebox, she says, "Day shift. DNA. I covered for Mia when she was out of town."
I point at her, as though her words carry startling significance. "DNA. I like DNA. I used to like DNA."
Narrowing her eyes, she giggles, "You like DNA?"
"I used to like DNA," I say. Shrugging, I shake my head and laugh. "I don't know. That doesn't make any sense."
"I think you're a little drunk," she grins.
"I'm workin' on it." I wave the bartender over. "Hey, we'll have another beer and one of those thingies there that Becca's drinking."
Becca smiles. "Well thank you, sir."
I laugh, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because no one ever calls me, "sir."
After a couple minutes, the bartender returns with our drinks. Becca picks her up her glass, takes a sip, and then plunks it down onto the bar, splashing vodka and orange juice all over the counter.
She looks at me and grins. "Oops," she says.
"Oops," I say, laughing. Leaning forward, I say, "You're making a mess, Becca."
"I'm usually very neat," she says.
"Well, it's good to be neat since you work with evidence."
Becca stares at me for a few seconds, and then she bursts out laughing.
I narrow my eyes. "What's so funny?"
She shakes her head. "I have no idea, Nicky-boy."
I take a sip of beer, and then a sudden thought occurs to me. "I hope I'm not on call," I say.
Becca grins. "That would be bad." After a few seconds, she squeezes the fingers of my left hand and asks, "So why the bender? Bad case?"
I glare, not at Becca, but at life in general. After a few seconds, I wave my hand. "I'd tell you, but it'd sound like the lyrics to a country song."
"What?" Becca grins. "You have your heart broken?"
"Shattered," I say, mentally picturing Greg ambling through the mall with Sara. "You think someone cares, and then you find out they don't."
She pats my arm. "You got shot down," she says.
"Yeah, I sure did," I nod, popping a cashew into my mouth.
Jutting out her bottom lip, she says, "Poor, Nick. Well, I won't shoot you down."
An hour or two or three or five later, I rub my eyes savagely, trying to fight off the hazy thickness that's been creeping up on me.
Becca places a hand on my shoulder and whispers, "I've probably had enough."
"I haven't," I protest. And I haven't. I want to drink until the image of Sara laughing at one of Greg's joke is cast out of my mind.
Becca dips her index finger into her drink, then she reaches up and draws a line on my bottom lip. I sit frozen, almost in awe at her audacity. Then, almost without warning, Becca slips her finger into my mouth.
"Maybe we should take your drinking binge back to your place," she says into my ear.
Uh-oh.
I'm sure that when morning hits, I'll be questioning the wisdom of this decision. But right now, sitting on my couch with Becca, two half-empty bottles of beer, and two more on deck seems like a good idea.
"So," Becca says, scooting her body closer to me.
I shift a little, trying to create some physical distance between me and Becca. "So," I say.
"Have you met Stacy?" Becca asks, tracing the veins on my hand with her index finger. "Trace? Morning shift?"
"Uh-uh," I say, shaking my head.
Becca scoots closer, and I can smell the vodka and orange juice on her breath. She lays one hand on my thigh, causing me to flinch slightly. "Stacy and I were talking yesterday," Becca says, "About how hot you are."
I let out a short laugh. "That's nice," I say. I glance down at Becca's hand on my thigh. It feels so alien sitting there. It's not like I didn't know this was inevitable. Even in my current drunken haze, I knew exactly why I was bringing Becca back to my place. But now that she's here, the reality of the situation is starting to hit me.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Becca," I whisper.
She looks at me, amusement ghosting across her face. "Why? We don't work the same shift. And it's not like you're seeing anyone."
I take Becca's hand in mine and remove it from my thigh. "I am, actually."
She giggles. "Oh, come on, Nicky. The lab has the best gossip chain. Everyone says you're celibate."
"I'm not celibate." I say. I clear my throat, in a vain attempt to cover the fact that my voice just raised two octaves.
Nuzzling my ear, she whispers, "Prove it." With her right hand, Becca cups my chin, her thumb gently caressing my cheek. When I don't protest, she slides her left hand up my shirt and starts tracing a pattern up my spine.
I close my eyes. God, this does feel good. And don't I deserve to feel good for a while?
I'm sure Greg feels pretty good when he's with Sara. Otherwise, why would he blow me off? Why would he choose her over me?
Swallowing, I lean forward and press my lips to hers, allowing all the pain and anger and depression of the day to pour into that one action.
Encouraged, Becca pulls me closer and deepens the kiss.
All at once, I feel myself fall forward into a dark void. My heart starts to pound like crazy, and my lungs strain for breath. I can feel the muscles in my shoulders start to tighten, so much so I think they might snap. And my brain, my brain starts to scream, What are you doing? This would kill Greg.
"Wait," I mumble into Becca's mouth. I place my hands on her shoulders and start to push her away.
But before I have a chance, I hear the door slam behind me.
"What are you doing?" I hear Greg say.
"Greg, I…" My voice trails off. What can I say?
"What are you doing?" Greg repeats. He takes a step toward the sofa and glares venom at Becca.
Becca glances at me, waiting, I guess, for an explanation.
"You better go," I say, patting her on the shoulder. "Call a cab, okay?"
Nodding, Becca stands up and staggers toward the door. She stops about halfway there and turns back to me. "I'm sorry," she mouths, and then she hurries out the door.
"What the hell was that?" Greg snaps.
I stand up fast, but the alcohol in my system gets the better of me, and I fall back into a sitting position on the couch. "Greg, nothing happened. I swear."
Greg throws his keys onto the ground with a flourish. "So, you weren't just in a liplock with her? I imagined that? Huh."
I bury my face in my hands. "Nothing would have happened. She started kissing me, Greg. And you know what? It felt pretty good." I shouldn't feel bad, considering Greg blew me off. I really shouldn't. "What are you doing here anyway?" I say, "It's too early for you to be home."
"I had to change my clothes, all right?" Greg snarls. "What? Were you timing it, so you could sleep with her and not get caught?"
"I wouldn't have slept with her," I shout, forcing my body into a standing position. "How can you even think that?"
Greg laughs bitterly. "Because she had her tongue down your throat? Come on, Nick! You were hot and heavy."
"Well, you know what?" I say, taking a step toward him. "It felt good. Do you know how long it's been since I've felt like someone wanted me?"
"Oh, don't give me that," Greg shouts. "We have a great sex life."
I walk away from him. "This isn't about sex, Greg! She wanted me. She found me attractive. She couldn't keep her hands off me. Me and you? Sex is a habit."
Greg stares at me. "You never complained before."
"How can I?" I spit. "You're always with Sara!"
"Okay, wait," Greg says, shaking his head. "This is about Sara, now?"
I pick up a throw pillow off the sofa and pitch it violently across the living room. "You blew me off so you could be with Sara."
Greg throws his hands up. "You are such a whiner. I can't believe we're having this argument."
Well, that hurt like hell. I feel like I've been sucker punched.
Licking my lips, I say, "I'm a whiner because I want to spend time with my boyfriend?"
Greg turns his back to me. "I work with Sara, Nick. I didn't ask to be on separate shifts."
"No one forces you to spend all the extra time with Sara."
Spinning back to face me, Greg says, "I'm going to the mall with her. Call the presses."
"Yeah," I say, "And last week, you stopped for breakfast. And the week before that, you went to a movie."
He points at me. "You were at work when we went to the movie."
I glower at him for a long moment. "The point is, Greg, she gets more time with you than I do. Now you're picking out wedding—"
He cuts me off. "Oh, please, we talked about—"
"—gifts," I say, raising my voice above his. "You're picking out wedding gifts together, Greg."
"We talked about that," he says. "I had a commitment."
"With Sara," I say. "When do I get to spend time with you? I want to know."
Greg takes a step forward. "You know what, Nick?" Greg shouts. "You're trying to make this all about me! Well, you know? I wasn't the guy making out with some chick from a bar while his boyfriend was at work."
"No," I snap, punching the back of the sofa. "But if Sara gave the chance, I'm guessing you would."
Greg stares at me. "Screw you," growls.
"In your dreams," I say.
For several long moments, Greg and I stand there and let our words hang in the air. Finally, Greg shoots me a toxic look and silently stalks out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
THE END…?
