Title: Beautiful Boy
Summary: In the middle of a hard shift, Nick and Greg take a break outside in the parking lot. Nick's upset, Greg's insecure and it's the coldest night of the year. They both know that Vegas is full of sin, and unforgiving as hell, but it is worth toughing it out for?
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Hurt-Comfort
Warnings: Slash, language content
Spoilers: Very very very minute spoilers for Fannysmackin' and Meat Jekyll
Timeline: Post-season 11
Author's Note: This was completely completely COMPLETELY inspired by INXS' Beautiful Girl, but come on, how can you NOT get inspired by a song whose opening lyric is 'Nicky's in the corner, with a black coat on'. But anyway, somehow this story turned out to be more Greg-ish and less Nick-ish (even though that wasn't intended) because when I write everything gravitates towards Greg and it's pretty annoying actually. But, yeah, whatever. Enjoy!
Nicky's in the corner, with a black coat on; running from a bad home, with some cat inside. Where did you find him? Among the neon lights that haunt the street outside. He says, stay with me...
You're outside, leaning against the building wall, where no one but me will be able to find you. You're wearing a long, black trench coat that I've never seen in my life, which is pretty fucking weird considering I live with you. Your collar is turned up against the wind and your hands are stuffed into your pockets. It's cold tonight.
You look up when I walk up to you, but our eyes barely meet for just a few seconds before you look away. I lean against the wall next to you, and we both stare across the lab's parking lot. I'd ask tough case? except I already know, and I wonder (as I always do) how even the simple cases can make you sad enough to escape outside, in the middle of shift, on the coldest night of the year, when even the hardest cases can't make me feel bad enough. I never used to be like that, but working as a CSI has made me grow up a little, and now it's hard to think that just a few years ago I was pretty much a twenty five year old kid. I hate this job for doing that to me. I fucking hate growing up.
Everyone's looking for you, I murmur without looking at you, and you just breathe out, I know, without looking at me. What are you doing here? I ask, even though I already know the answer. But it's what you need. You need me to ask you about it so you can talk about it. I'm running away, you answer, and your voice is almost lost in the wind. It's a half answer, but I know you're not avoiding the question (you wouldn't, because it's me asking). So, I'm running away has to mean something. Running from what?
The lab, the case... death? and you're not really making any sense (or maybe you are and I just don't want to think about it). So I joke, cause it's fucking easier than being serious. Well, (nervous chuckle, shaking hands stuffed into my pockets. It's because of the cold, I tell myself), you're gonna have to run further than the parking lot.
I'm nervous as hell, scared even, though I don't really know why. I hide behind a wry smile, but I needn't bother, cause you're not looking at me anyway. You once told me that there's unimaginable strength in showing how you feel, which pretty much means that you're a thousand times stronger than me, cause I find it difficult even to show you how I feel, let alone anyone else. I don't mean the lovey dovey kinda stuff, that's easy (I said the L-Word first, just by the way), I mean like, the fact that you haven't seen me cry even once in the six months we've been together. But I like to think I'm a little stronger than you sometimes, emotionally at least. No one would catch me crying in the locker room, and I've never punched a suspect. And if I could keep it together even when Catherine told me you had been shot, then I'd like to think I'm fucking stronger than you, and maybe a little better at my job too. (I'm not, I know. But I like to entertain the idea. Case in point: when you worked the alley after those punks beat me, you punched a guy, and that was before we even got together. But I stared at a pool of your fucking blood, a week after you first told me you loved me, and for those few hours that I was working your scene, my hands didn't shake, I didn't cry, and I forced myself to forget you were in surgery).
But you wouldn't call me strong. You'd say I'm passive, unaffected, pensive, or, if you were in a particularly bad mood, flippant, callous. But I'm not, not really. I just... don't want to look weak. Shit plan, I know, because I only end up acting like a second Grissom, and that's not strong that's fucked up. And anyway, no one looks at me the way they look at you. When you punch a wall, or blast a suspect, or cry while holding a vic's kid, pretty much the whole world looks at you with admiration in their eyes, even though you're losing it, because they all know you're trustworthy, and compassionate, and full of integrity, and those are the things that made me fall in love with you in the first place. I remember watching you cry into your pillow after a tough case, and thinking this is the man I want to be with for the rest of my life. So I don't really mind if you're stronger than me, because when you're playing superhero, I fall in love with you a thousand times over, and when you fall back on me afterwards, when you're too tired to play brave, I'd give up anything to help you get back on your feet.
You seem to think I'm silent because of something you said (what did you say again?) and you rush to clarify. I don't mean— no, I don't— I'm not running from my death. I'm not scared of dying, and that's funny, because I sure am. I'm scared of you dying too, so I'd appreciate it if you stopped jumping out in front of guns, and getting blown up. But I don't say it out loud, because you'd just get mad, and I don't want that. I just need to get away from death, you know? and you look at me to make sure that I do know, and I nod, because we've all had the same thoughts as you. Every single one of us has. Everyone inside the lab behind us knows how you're feeling. And I feel like, the only way I can get away from it all is to get out of Vegas, or at least beyond the neon lights, you nod in the direction of the Strip, and I can't see the lights, but I know they are there and that's bad enough. I hate the Strip. I feel like, all those lights should be brightenin' this place up, but they only seem to light up the darkness, you know, make it more visible, if that makes any sense. It's shit, really, and I wish I could just tear the whole place down.
What you're saying, I know it sounds like burnout but it's not. The truth is, you'd never quit, because for every minute you spend hating this job, there are a thousand more minutes that you spend loving it. But that's not me. I don't love this as much I thought I would when I started off. I've spent so many sleepless nights (the first thing Griss told me when I became a CSI was, you're never going to sleep again. At the time, I thought he was talking about the hours, but I know what he means now.) wondering what would happen if I just left Vegas, and started workin' as a university professor in California. But I'm too fucking scared. I mean, what if California isn't home anymore? What if it doesn't work out? What if everyone here hates me for leaving? What if you don't come with me?
And I don't know how to tell you that. I don't know how to tell you that I couldn't stand being in California if it meant being away from you. I don't know how to tell you that I'm only here because of you, because you're here, so I just say, the only thing this godforsaken city has given me is you.
You don't say anything, but you don't really need to. You just shuffle to the side a little, and drape a warm arm over my shoulders, a cloak of safety that I want to lose myself in. I slide my arm under your coat, around your waist, and you lean into me so that the side of your head is pressed against mine, and our bodies are aligned perfectly, so that I'm shivering but, at the same time, suddenly warm. You move your arm down my back, tracing scars with your fingertips through my cotton t-shirt, and I don't realize how cold I am until you start warming me up. When your arm is around my waist, you tug me towards you a little roughly. I get the picture, and I turn, so that we're chest to chest. You're leaning against the wall and I'm leaning against you. I place both my hands on your hips, untucking your shirt and sliding my hands underneath it. You shiver at my cold touch, but your heated, dry skin warms my hands, and I smooth my palms over your back and leave them there. You graze your lips against mine and then drop your head so that your forehead is on my shoulder. I lift my chin and rest it on your head, closing my eyes, and taking comfort in you taking comfort in me.
I'm here because of you, I remind myself again and again, and I don't know whether it makes me eternally grateful or just fucking spiteful. I like having you as an anchor to Las Vegas and the lab, but the truth is, I don't know if I want to be anchored here. I want to ask you if you'd come with me to California if I left Vegas, and if I were you, I would ask. But I'm not you, and that's basically the fucking problem. If I were you, I'd have no doubt that you'd come with me, and I wouldn't be afraid to ask. Hell, if I were you, I wouldn't want to leave in the first place. But I'm not going to ask, and I'm not going to leave and I guess I don't really mind being a fucking coward, because when I'm a coward I can be with you, but if I'm brave I might just lose you. So yeah, I don't really mind being less strong and less brave and less you, now that I think about it. And I don't mind stayin' here in Vegas, and helping you stay on your feet after a bad case, even if it means standing out in the freezing cold in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.
A few shivers later, your coat is around my shoulders, and I pull it around me tighter, breathing in the scent of Armani Code and you. I suddenly feel like crying, and I don't know why. I don't cry though, and your voice is echoing in my head again (You're stronger than you think, G, and there's nothin' stronger than showin' how you feel). But I can't, I don't know how, and somehow it's that thought that makes my face screw up against my will and tears fill my eyes. I press my face into the crook of your neck, but the tears don't fall, and I'm suddenly filled with an inexplicable anger at who I've become, what this job has made of me. Me, the guy who can't cry in front of his boyfriend; me, the guy who can scrape a ten year old's brain off the pavement without feeling sick; me, the guy who only has sleepless nights because he's wondering why it's not harder to sleep after seeing what he sees. And what the fuck is wrong with me anyway? I'm not who I used to be, and I'm not sure who I want to be either.
I close my eyes, and stare deep into my soul, trying to find some answers. Then you whisper I love you, and I stop and stare at you for a long time, even though I've heard you say those words to me dozens of times before. But it suddenly occurs to me, that you love me, which means I can't be all that bad, right? It means that the new, somewhat jaded, grownup me is good enough for you, and the thought brings me more relief than it should, and I kiss you again and again and again. I love you too doesn't seem to cut it, so I don't say anything at all, and then you're laughing against my mouth. I blink, and realize that this whole time, I was supposed to be making you feel better, not the other way around. But you seem okay now, and I feel just a little shitty, because I still I haven't told you how I feel, how I'm here because of you. But it's okay, because I'm so happy, because you love me, for real, and I don't know, I don't know.
I guess it's weird how I came out here into the cold feeling nothing at all, and then I started feeling pretty low, and now I feel so incredibly happy, as we walk into the lab with your coat wrapped around me. And nothing's really happened to make me feel this way, but you're here, and I'm here, and I guess I don't mind staying here for a while. And I turn to you, because there's got to be something that I'm supposed to say to you, but I can't think of what it is, and then Catherine's walking up to us, and asking us where the hell we've been, and I can't help but laugh really, really hard, and you're lookin' at me all weird, and then shovin' me forwards playfully, and Catherine's telling us to get our asses back into the evidence room, and we're working the case and your hand brushes against mine as we reach for the same photograph, and you look at me for longer than you need to, and we both draw strength from each other, and everyone's looking at us like they know what's going on, but we ignore them and work our asses off until we're way into our second shift, and Catherine's about to send us home when you find a lead and then we catch the guy and I'm laughing as you push me into the locker room shower and strip me bare, and I don't think I've laughed this much for a long time, and I'm washing your back and you're washing mine, and then we're going home and curling up on the couch, and sex is an option, but we're both too tired and it doesn't even matter anyway because you're asking me to come to Texas with you for a week, and I tell you that I'd go anywhere with you for as long as you want, and you say, me too, and I've got my answer, because I know that if I were to ask you to come to California with me right now, you'd get up and drive me there, and I realize that I don't need to go to California, I don't want to, because you're here and I'm here and we're together and I'm here because of you and I say it out loud this time, and you tell me that's okay, cause you're here because of me too and I close my eyes and drift off to sleep with you wrapped all around me, and I've never felt so safe in my life, and I think that I could be happy with you, here, forever.
Stay with me, beautiful boy.