Hiding in the Rye

Summary: In his efforts to get closer to Nick, Greg uncovers a violent secret about Nick's past, and suffers the consequences for it. Can Greg convince Nick that what he feels is not a sin? Nick/Greg slash.

Author's Note: This is a trilogy. Rather than post all three one-shots separately, I am posting them all here. They are all quite different from each other, but all of them aid in the progression of the story. Enjoy part one, told through Greg's point of view. This will not be updated daily, but will definitely be updated weekly at the latest, as there are only three updates. It may be updated before the week is over, so keep an eye out. A shout-out to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta.

Part One: All Hyde and No Jekyll

One could argue that there were many ways in which I wanted to get inside of Nick Stokes, but probably the most important one to me was getting inside his head. Throughout all our years working together, he would often switch attitudes in the middle of a conversation, but it only happened when we were having a serious discussion. Once or twice, it would happen on a case. I tried as best I could to ignore it when I triggered it, because frankly he scared me whenever he got that way. But I never gave up trying to get closer to him. I always figured I was deluding myself thinking that maybe I could convince him to fall for me, when he's been straight his whole damn life. But if delusions were all I had, I'd take them over reality. I could always pretend, so long as I never actually said anything out loud.

"In college…" I began one night on our way out of a bar and onto the strip. It was back when I was still a tech, and he still considered me the comic relief of his life. "Did you ever do anything crazy?"

He cocked a friendly eyebrow at me. "As in… what? Drugs?"

I nodded, but that hadn't been what I meant. "As in drugs," I conceded. "As in… strip poker or a sexual truth or dare or binge drinking…"

"I may or may not have done some marijuana," Nick said carefully.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh please, marijuana isn't a drug."

He laughed. "It is according to the DEA."

"So you smoked pot. Who didn't?" I paused, trying to figure out how to word it so it didn't sound obvious. "But if you did pot, then maybe you experimented with a few other things."

Nick shook his head. "Sorry, Greg, I was unadventurous in college. Why, what did you do?"

Men, I thought lightly to myself, but said instead, "A couple things… You know, the average experimenting stuff kids are supposed to do at that age. Alcohol, drugs… sex…"

"I heard you didn't lose your virginity until you were twenty two."

I emitted an exasperated sigh. "Is there anyone Sara didn't relay that information to?"

While technically true, you can do any number of things and still call yourself a virgin. Girls do it all the time. But I didn't tell Nick this.

"So don't pull my leg, Greg, you didn't do jack sexually in college."

He was teasing me, not accusing me. It was playful, not spiteful. "Alright, well, did you?"

He looked up momentarily, a pensive expression on his face as the bright lights cast a neon pink halo around his head. He shrugged. "I don't really know what constitutes as experimenting. I had sex, if that's what you mean." He smirked at me.

He wasn't catching on. And it was bad of me to press the matter, because I could be looking for a black eye, but I needed to know, I needed an answer to fuel my ever growing fascination. I needed something to cling to, even if it was false hope. "Well, I mean… what kind of… people did you have sex with?" I wondered if he would notice my careful omission of the word 'girls.'

He stopped walking and I didn't notice until after I took a few more steps. I turned, and his smile was gone. I knew immediately that I had been too forward

His left eye twitched. "What are you asking me Greg?"

Shit, I thought. Why did I have to ask? "Um… were they hot?" I covered quickly. "The girls, I mean, did you sleep with, um… cheerleaders or physics majors or actresses or what?"

He relaxed slightly before shaking his head. "Girls…" he reiterated.

I nodded forcefully, desperate to reassure him. "Girls."

"Why didn't you say girls?"

"What did you assume I meant?"

We stared at each other as the crowd passed by on either side. My eyes were wide, verging on afraid, but also deathly curious. His were sharp, pointed, and far away, and I wasn't sure what he was thinking. I would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

"Just girls," he said quietly. "I have no interest in anything else."

His voice was cold, almost disgusted, and it made my heart plummet into my stomach. It sloshed around for a moment as the acids began to chip away at it, but I didn't want to lose it so easily. Swallowing hard and forcing it back to its proper place in my chest, I tried to gather my courage instead of turning around and running.

"Of course not," I said, my voice unintentionally cracking and I coughed. "I mean, why would you?"

"Exactly," Nick said, nodding. "Why would I, Greg?"

"You wouldn't, that's what I just said!"

I saw his hands clench into fists and watched the monster in him surface behind those swoon-worthy brown eyes. For a moment, I wondered if he would hit me for my suggestion. He moved forward quickly and I instinctively stepped back, but he stopped himself, his foot rooted to the ground as he spoke, his voice a low, steady growl.

"Why would you ask me that, Greg?"

"I didn't ask you anything," I told him. "I was just making conversation. So marijuana, huh? How was that?"

I watched as the beast within him subsided and he relaxed. The smile returned to his features, softening them, and he was the Nick Stokes I knew and loved again. Not the one that terrified me.

"What, you never had it?"

"Well, everyone's trip is different, isn't it?" I replied, putting on my own happy mask and trying to still my desperate heart. "So what was yours like?"

That night on the strip wasn't the only time I saw him change in a matter of seconds because of something I did or said. When I was still new at the whole CSI thing, we were paired on a case together. It struck Nick hard because it involved a little boy found in a dumpster, evidence of sexual assault. I knew that kids' deaths were one of the few things that really bothered Nick, but on this particular case, he took control, and wouldn't take anything I had to say into consideration.

Catherine seemed to notice. She told me to drop it and then had a quiet word with Nick privately. After that, he seemed a little calmer, and he let me talk. I suggested we take a closer look at the father.

"Why?" Nick said suddenly. "It's the nanny that was with him every day, and she's the one who saw him last!"

"Nick, it was penetration," I said slowly, knowing I was treading on thin ice.

"Foreign object," Nick said automatically, as if he had expected my protest.

"But we don't have that object," I told him.

"We could find it," Nick said. "We might have just missed it. We must have missed it. It was her, I know it was."

"Would you get away from the nanny? She has an alibi anyway!"

"Yeah, a flimsy one. She says left town that night? No one to corroborate, is there? Convenient that the mother she went to visit has Alzheimer's." Nick seemed obscenely bitter, and his teeth were clenched, and he began to worry me again.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked finally. "Why are you determined to peg this on the nanny, who is female and has an alibi? Most child molesters are male, especially where there's penetration involved—"

"But some are female," Nick hissed.

I stared at him a moment as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. I fought the urge to reach out and wipe it away. "But generally speaking, female molesters leave little evidence. They don't work the same way men do. They're generally softer, more manipulative, better at making the kid think… Nick, are you OK?"

He jumped to his feet and ran a shaking hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed down. "Yeah… yeah, I just need some… some coffee or something."

I really hoped that the conclusions I was jumping to were wrong, but I couldn't help but consider them. "Nick…"

"I'm fine, Greg!" he snapped. He sighed then shook his head. His next words were in a quiet whisper. "I thought I was over something. I'm clearly not. That's all."

"Do you want to talk about—"

"No."

I watched him, nervously, expecting him to explode or melt down or hit me or do something. But he just stood there, staring at the table with the files scattered on it, breathing heavily. A few minutes later, I saw Catherine walk by and she noticed us through the windows. She appeared in the doorway.

"Nicky?" she whispered.

"Yeah?" he returned, but did not look at her.

"I just spoke with Grissom. He has a new case for you. I'm going to take over here."

I looked at Nick again to see his reaction, not knowing what to expect. If I'd been pulled from a case, I might have been a little annoyed. But instead, he just closed his eyes, swallowed, and nodded.

"Yeah," he said, looking up at her. "OK."

He moved past her and out the door and she watched him leave before turning back to me. "OK, Greg. Would you bring me up to speed?"

I blinked, feeling Nick's absence. I tried to shake it off. "Oh yeah, um… right." I sat down at the table again and spread out the files.

I never did figure out what was bothering him, but I did have my suspicions.

And then, I went to visit him at home, on his last day of leave after he was buried six feet underground in a Plexiglas coffin. I knocked on his door. He didn't open it, but I heard the chain slide in the lock and fall against the door. I was shaken, and I needed to reassure myself that he was alive. At the time, I still had the nightmares that when we dug up that coffin it was just in time to see his brains splatter the inside of it.

I pushed the door open and saw Nick sitting on the couch in a pair of black slacks and a white wife beater. There was ample dark stubble on his face and I wondered when the last time he shaved was. This was before he grew his moustache. But this was different than that facial hair disaster. When did grow the moustache, he would keep the hair above his lip neatly trimmed. It would be intentional and he would take care of it. The rough hairs that covered his face now were unkempt and wild. He wasn't even trying to control it.

"What do you want?"

I was caught off guard. The demand was gruff and unwelcoming, but Nick just took a swig of his beer and picked a book up off of the coffee table. He leaned back and opened it, his eyes skimming over the pages. Whether or not he was actually reading, I couldn't be sure.

"I'm worried about you," I said honestly. "I didn't expect you to look this bad."

"How'd you expect me to look?" His eyes rose above the edge of the book and nearly knocked me off my feet.

"Better than this," I admitted. "When's the last time you shaved?"

"Few days ago," he muttered, turning back to his book. "Did you just come here to check on my hygiene?"

"Hygiene is a part of health."

"The doctors say I'm fine."

"Sanity is a part of health too."

"Fuck you." It wasn't an angry utterance, just a bored and jaded remark as his eyes remained on the pages of his book.

I dared to take a step closer. He didn't respond, so I moved closer still. I was much nearer to him now, but he didn't acknowledge that I had moved at all. He simply took another swig of his beer and swung his feet up on the coffee table.

"What are you reading?"

His head didn't move but his eyes rolled up to look at me. He lifted the cover, which read The Catcher In The Rye.

I smiled. "Ah. You know, that's the only book I finished in my tenth grade English class. Is it a favorite of yours too?"

Nick didn't reply. It was clear he was trying to make me go away, but I wasn't about to make it so easy. This new Nick, this dark, angry Nick wasn't what I wanted, and I wasn't content to leave him like this. I wanted the happy Nick back, the jovial, joking, sweet, friendly Nick. I needed him. It wasn't so bad when he would periodically turn into Mr. Hyde, because Jekyll would always return again soon enough. But this… this was bad. It was as if Hyde had slaughtered Jekyll and now inhabited his carcass.

"Have you read it before?" I probed tentatively. Again, Nick refused to acknowledge me. I bit my lip. "Would you please talk to me, Nick?"

"I have nothing to say," the Texan stated simply as he turned the page of his novel. "Now shut up. Holden is talking to his sister. I love this part."

"What is it, a fucking movie?!" I finally burst out, all the tension and the terror escaping through my voice. "You can put the book down and finish it later!"

"But I want to finish it now," Nick said pointedly, but his eyes still refused to look up at me.

I gritted my teeth, a cold sweat beginning to trickle down the side of my face as I tried to tame my fury. "I know you're going through shit right now," I said, as quietly and as slowly as I possibly could. "I get it, I really do. Almost dying, that's gotta be… I don't even know. I mean, there was the lab explosion, but—"

"Do you really think it compares, Greg?" Nick asked icily. "Do you really think that you can even begin to try and sympathize with what I went through because you got blown through a window? I've been thrown through a window too, you know. I fell two stories. Do you remember that?"

"So what is this, the who-had-the- worst-near-death-experience game?" I cried. "I don't want to play that with you, Nick. I know you'll win. You always win. But for once, would you just look at me and realize for a split second that this affects us too? Your friends? Us, who had to watch you on the fucking camera, holding that goddamn gun, and there was no amount of shouting, or crying, or clawing at the screen that could make you stop, that would bring you home?"

To my surprise, Nick began to laugh as he finally closed his book and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, looking at me with mirthless eyes and a dark expression. "It's funny, you talk about how hard it was for you. Listen, Greg, I didn't ask you to come here and deal with my problems. I can do it on my own—"

"You clearly can't because you're fucking angry!" I burst out, although with my volume and language it was the pot calling the kettle black. "I hate it when you're angry, Nick! It scares the hell out of me."

"You shouldn't see me angry," he whispered, and now he sounded almost apologetic. "And I'm sorry, when you do. But that's why I take this time off when I get this way. That's why I want to be alone. So I can sort through it, and so I can go back to work, seeing you guys again, and be positive, be hopeful, be the good, reliable guy that you've come to know." He gestured at the door with his book. "So if you could just…"

I looked at the door for a moment, and seriously considered fleeing. The more I stayed in this frozen apartment, the colder I became, the larger the lump grew in my throat, and the more the fear filled my stomach. I was worried that if I stayed there much longer, I would turn into him, this monster who had taken over my friend.

"I miss you…" I whispered. "Please, Nicky… I want…" Was now the time? "I want my best friend back." Well, it was a start.

His eyes softened then, and for a moment I thought I had succeeded in picking out the pieces of Jekyll in the sea of Hyde. He took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling a moment, as if afraid to look me in the eyes. "I was… raised to believe that men aren't…" He seemed to run out of words, or courage, or both, but either way he shut his mouth and seized his book again, opening it up. "I don't want to talk about it."

But I had seen a glimmer of the man that I loved and I wanted it back. I clutched it and held onto it like the first star in a dark evening, praying that there would be thousands more to come. "You were raised to believe that men don't talk about things?" I probed with a weak smile.

He snorted and turned a page in his book. "No, I… There are so many things that swirl around in my head, Greg, and trust me when I tell you that you do not want to know my issues."

I dared to move closer still, my shins hitting the edge of the coffee table, slowly making my way to the couch where I would be able to sit by him, to breathe him in, maybe brush his thigh… "But I do. I want to know everything about you, Nick."

He looked up at me, his eyes almost accusatory. "Why?"

I shrugged. "I know I'm not your best friend, but you're mine," I confessed. "And wanting to know about your best friend is natural, isn't it?"

He grunted. "I guess."

There was nothing physically stopping me from moving to the couch and sitting by him, and yet some invisible ropes seemed to be holding me back, binding me to the spot. "Why do you like Catcher in the Rye so much?"

"Because I do."

I suppose it was a fair reply. "I don't want to leave you here like this."

"Well then we've come to an impasse," Nick said, trying to stare me down. "Because I don't want you to stay here."

But I refused to back down. Not when I had come so far. "What are you so afraid of?" I whispered. "Why won't you talk to me?"

His gaze faltered, but he regained his confidence quickly enough. "I just don't…" And he wavered again. I could see it in him. He wanted to tell me something, and I wanted to hear it. It was haunting him, like an old dirty habit or some ancient regret pressed between the curling yellow pages of a book he hadn't opened in years. And I wanted to read his story.

"You wish you could catch them."

Nick's brow furrowed at my words and he was obviously torn. "What?"

I smiled and dared to move to the couch now, but I didn't sit. I looked down at him a moment and he looked up at me. For the first time he showed that he was uncomfortable with our close proximity and moved slightly down the couch. Accepting this new distance between us, I sat down at the other end. But I still watched him.

"The children," I explained. "You want to save them from tumbling over the cliff. Just like Holden. You want to catch them."

His mouth was straight and his eyes were stony. "What children?"

The memory of the dead boy he had been convinced the nanny molested and murdered came to mind. It turned out that it had been the father after all, and the nanny and the mother had both been appalled and torn apart. A whole family ruined because of one man's selfish cruelty. If that could ruin a whole family, I wondered what simple thing it had taken to break Nick Stokes.

"I've seen you," I said quietly, "on cases with kids."

"The cliff is a metaphor for growing up, Greg, not dying."

I licked my lips. "What's the difference? The cliff is the end of innocence, and those children that we see have had their innocence stolen from them all the same." I badly needed to ask him who had stolen his innocence, even though I wasn't too sure what I meant by that.

Regardless, he was visibly disturbed by my words. "I think you should leave, Greg."

"So you've said, but I'm not going to," I returned.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It really would be better for the both of us if you just left right now."

I saw his knuckles whiten as they clenched the book. "I want to know why you're so angry all the time."

He didn't speak, his eyes low on the coffee table. He was trembling so slightly I didn't even notice until I stared at him long enough. His eyes were far away and glossy, a film of liquid coating them, and I knew that now, more than ever, he needed a friend, and I needed to hold him. I sidled over on the couch and he didn't protest. I was sitting right next to him now. I could smell the tangy musk of his sweat, and I wondered when he last showered, but I didn't care because I was near him and he didn't run away from me. My knee knocked against his. He looked up at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes wide.

I wasn't above begging. "Please..." I breathed, desperation in my voice. "Nick..." I tentatively reached out a hand and rested it on his knee. I squeezed it, reassuringly, hoping that this was how friends acted, and that Nick wouldn't read too much into it. I needed him to know that he always came first, above everything. I needed him to know that I wasn't giving up on him, and that I didn't care about the secrets he kept from me. I just wanted him to sincerely laugh again, because I loved that deep, booming guffaw more than any other sound in the world.

My mouth was dry and I swallowed to try and stimulate my saliva glands. Our eyes were locked, and he didn't waver. I saw a strange hunger in his eyes as he watched me then. His knees turned towards me and he dropped the book, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. We teetered on the jagged edge momentarily, each of us knowing that something was bound to happen and we were both destined to fall, but into what, I don't think either of us was very sure. Dozens of scenarios raced through my mind. I expected him to break down, to embrace me, to let me comfort him. I expected anything, other than what happened next.

Slowly, probingly, his hand reached out and lightly rubbed my upper arm. The sensation was so intense I had to fight to suppress a gasp of pleasurable surprise. I could feel the hairs on my arm stand on end at the electricity of his touch. Eventually, his hand moved over the sleeve of my T-shirt and up onto my shoulder, his finger curling around my neck, his eyes curious, lost and dark, and I wished I could read him better, and I wondered if I had fallen asleep because I could have sworn his lower lip jutted out and he leaned forward. If this was a dream, I prayed I wouldn't wake up soon. His hand was rubbing the back of my neck and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the moment that would never come.

I felt the burning claws on my neck first as his hand suddenly clenched, his nails digging into my skin and my eyes snapped open in time to see Nick's other hand swipe me, catching me in the jaw and sending my world reeling as I tumbled off the couch and into the coffee table, bruising my ribs as the side of it knocked into me. The coffee table moved and I was on the floor, Nick still on the couch looking livid, breathing heavily, and the next thing I knew, he had jumped on me and I brought my hands up instinctively to cover my face, terror engulfing me, almost more overwhelming than the agony as bells began to ring shrilly inside my ears and fireworks exploded behind my closed lids. Sheer heat erupted wherever Nick's fist made contact with my skin, blood rushing to the wounds, and I didn't understand what I had done wrong. Had I betrayed myself somehow? I shouldn't have touched his knee... I shouldn't have come here, I shouldn't have... But my thoughts trailed off into nothing as the only thing my mind was able to focus on was the blaring, throbbing pain that encompassed my head, arms and chest, and I cried out as loudly as I could. I called his name, I begged him to stop, I told him I was sorry, I told him I wouldn't do it again, and I told him I would leave him alone.

I continued to babble, offering any promise I could think of, until I realized that all I could feel was the old pain, and that there were no new explosions on my body. The war against me had ended, and the only thing left was to rebuild the battered landscape, but I knew I would never be the same again. I dared to lower my arms from my face and I opened my eyes, staring up at Nick, who had leapt off of me and backed away towards the wall, staring at me as if he was more horrified at his actions than I was. His jaw slowly dropped open and he was quivering visibly now, his eyes unable to leave me. And then, suddenly, gasping, he fled, running to his room and slamming the door.

Wiping the tears that I hadn't even been aware I had shed away from my rapidly swelling face, I painfully sat up and groaned as my bruised abdomen protested. I brought my hands back up to my face again as I noticed I could see less and less out of my left eye. I tasted blood in my mouth and discovered the source of it. My bottom lip was split. My nose was stinging and bleeding slightly, but it didn't seem broken. I raised my shirt and saw the scattered purple patches that were growing on my pale skin. I looked up at Nick's closed door, a part of me terrified that he would come back to finish what he started. Maybe he'll kill me, I thought worriedly. It was a genuine concern. At the time, I really felt that if Nick could give me that bad of a beating, he was capable of murdering me.

Bones cracking, I got to my knees, telling myself to suck it up, and I clenched my jaw as I tried to tolerate the pain. I saw the abandoned novel on the floor. I don't know why, but I picked it up and pocketed it. Eventually, I was on my unsteady feet. With one last look at the closed door to Nick's bedroom, I limped to the door, cradling what I really hoped wasn't a sprained wrist.

The next day at work, everyone had been surprised at my appearance. I was doped up on enough pain meds to pretend like it looked worse than it was. And though Catherine and Grissom had both asked, and I had given them my excuse, it was my discussion with Sara that I really remembered.

"Jesus, Greg, you look like shit!" she'd exclaimed as I entered the break room for coffee. She was sitting with Nick at a table. He was clean shaven again, and looked just like he did before he'd left. If I'd have known he was there, I wouldn't have come in. But I needed my coffee. And Sara's presence made me feel a little safer, oddly enough. So I just nodded at her.

"Yeah, I know... It's not so bad, though. Really." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick sink in his chair as he became more engrossed in the file he was looking at.

Sara, on the other hand, leapt out of her chair and made her way over to me. She looked appalled at my black eye and battered wrist. "What the hell happened to you? Who did this? I swear to God, I'll kick his ass so bad—"

"No," I interrupted quickly as I saw Nick wince. "I mean..." I shrugged, hoping I looked cute. "I was at a bar last night. Someone tried to tell me that Roger Moore was better than Sean Connery. I got a little carried away."

"A little?!" Sara cried.

I forced a triumphant looking smile. "We were both drunk and, hey, if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy."

It took a moment, but an amused smile slowly claimed her features as she shook her head. "The things you get in a bar brawl over... For future reference, Greg, James Bond isn't worth it."

I opened myself to say something witty when I heard chair legs scrape against the floor and Nick vanished out of the door to the break room. I blinked for a moment, then turned my attention back to Sara. "Hey, James Bond is worth anything," I said, and she laughed.

My wounds healed, but the rift between Nick and I seemed permanent. That is, until just over a year later...