Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow
By: clio21000
Disclaimer: Sure, they're mine. I bought them from a nice man who also sold me a bridge in London and some magic beans.
Rating: Surprisingly tame – maybe PG-13 for mention of sex and boy-love?
Summary: Three relationships: looking back and looking forward as Season 6 begins. Somewhat dovetails with my earlier story, "Homecomings," but will definitely make sense even if you haven't read that one.
Post-GD5, post-BIM; GSR, CW, NG (very mild slash – don't like, don't read).
PAST
They had been friends and colleagues for almost ten years.
Catherine had confided in Warrick countless times in those years, telling him the deep dark secrets that no one else, not even Grissom, knew. She had told him about her coke addiction, and how hard she had struggled to kick it.
"For Lindsey's sake," she hastened to explain.
Warrick looked at her measuringly, his green eyes cool but not unsympathetic. "There's nothing wrong with kicking it for your own sake," he had said.
Over and over again, she had told him her laundry list of problems: how hard she was trying to raise Lindsey right, how Eddie was manipulating Lindsey's emotions and Catherine's bank account, the trouble with the banks and her mother and sister and Family Services and Lindsey's teachers and the lawyers. He never seemed to grow tired of listening to her, never blew her off or belittled her. He had always offered intelligent advice or simple, unquestioning support.
Warrick had held her as she sobbed after Holly's funeral, had cried with her. Both had claimed responsibility for Holly's untimely death, and neither had tried to comfort the other with empty promises of "It's okay," and "It's not your fault."
She had never snapped at him the way she had countless times at Sara, Grissom, Nick, even poor Greg. Something about his calm, even gaze always settled her temper.
He had never once mentioned the fact that she had been a stripper in her past life. But then, she had never mentioned his gambling addiction. It wasn't that she was ignoring it, or didn't want to pull up the past; it just didn't matter. Warrick was Warrick, no matter what he might have done. And he let her just be Catherine, no matter what she had done.
They had flirted at work: "Can I get you a towel, sir?" as her eyes skimmed his shirtless chest, and "I was probably just telling you that to get you to service my needs at the time" with a wink, and "Your eyes are your best feature." She sought him out to work with more than anyone else except Grissom, and even when they weren't assigned to work together, found her eyes tracking him as he worked. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't watched the smooth contours of his body as he bent and examined and collected. In her experience, Warrick was the only man who could make casting a mold look hot.
Warrick had taken her out after her promotion, allowing himself to be pleased for her despite his disappointment at losing Grissom's guidance and mentorship. They had eaten dinner at an Italian place, more formal than the family restaurants she tended to frequent when she had Lindsey in tow, but still relaxed enough that she didn't have to get all coiffed and dressed up. Then again, she never felt like she had to whip herself into a styling frenzy to try to look younger than she was for Warrick.
After dinner, she and Warrick had glided around the restaurant's dance floor. They had danced a little closer, held each other a little tighter than was absolutely necessary for friends and colleagues.
Warrick had always adored Lindsey, playing games with her, distracting her, sheltering her from the ugliness of her parent's marriage. After the divorce, he had dropped by for dinner at their little house almost once a week, setting the table with Lindsey while Catherine cooked, or whipping up his own specialties – cinnamon waffles, homemade spaghetti sauce, Waldorf salad – while he coaxed Catherine to sit down with a drink and put her feet up. After dinner, he'd help Lindsey with her homework, or allow himself to be talked into a basketball game in the driveway.
Catherine had stood in the doorway countless times and watched through the screen as her daughter alternated between giggling and nodding solemnly as Warrick offered pointers and shooting tips. She leaned her head against the doorframe and pretended that they were a happy little family, that after the game was over she and Warrick would tuck Lindsey in and then discuss work together, cozily curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, that they'd sleep spooned together with Warrick's big hand on her hip and his breath warm on the back of her neck. She pretended Warrick was hers and Lindsey's and no one else's.
Warrick had gotten married.
And Catherine cried, making soggy pools on her pillow and trying to figure out which one of them had lied. Had Warrick lied to her, or had she lied to herself?
PRESENT
Greg's hair care products cover every inch of their bathroom counter, and Nick knocks a few bottles and tubes over in his rush to get his face over the bowl of the sink before he throws up. He fumbles madly for the light switch, feeling the darkness closing in around him and crushing him, then breathes a sigh of relief as light floods the room. The next second the sigh is replaced with a retch as he loses his dinner and probably what's left of his lunch as well, clutching his stomach with one hand and the edge of the sink with the other as he heaves twice, threes times, and finally stops, panting. There's a whisper of sound behind him and he glances up, meeting Greg's eyes in the mirror.
Greg doesn't speak, but merely goes to the linen cabinet and pulls out a washcloth. Nick closes his eyes in silent relief when Greg lays the cool, wet cloth against the back of his neck. He stays as he is, forearms now resting on the edge of the counter, brow pressed to the smooth porcelain, eyes closed. Greg's hand rubs small, comforting circles on his back, working firmly but gently against the tense muscles. Nick tries to get his breathing back under control, fighting to turn the short, panicked pants into deep, regular breaths, and now Greg speaks, soothing him with a quiet litany of comforting words.
"Easy, baby, easy. You're fine. You're fine. Deep breath. C'mon, Nicky, you can do it, take a nice slow deep breath. That's it, good job. Easy, baby, easy. Take another, good. You're fine, you're right here with me, I'm right here. Nice slow breaths – good."
The tightness in Nick's body slowly ebbs and he removes the washcloth and stands upright, sighs a breathless thanks, and melts into Greg's arms. He's mildly horrified to feel tears seeping out of his eyes and soaking the T-shirt that Greg had been sleeping in, not because there's anything wrong with crying in general, but because it's been almost six months, damn it. Is he ever going to stop crying, stop having the nightmares, stop remembering and panicking and reliving it?
"I was back there again," he says shakily, the words faltering. "It was dark and tight and close and I was all alone. I was back there, and all I could think was that I was dying and I'd never see you again."
Greg wraps his arms a little tighter around Nick, and Nick thinks how strange it is that he can't stand close, confined spaces, but can't get enough of being buried in Greg. "But I'm here, Nicky. I'm right here, so it wasn't real. If I'm with you, you can't be back there, can you?"
Nick shakes his head against Greg's shoulder and lets out a short shuddering breath. "No. No."
"You're fine. I'm right here with you, in our own bathroom in our own house, and neither of us is going anywhere." Greg's hands move smoothly over his bare back again, tracing the planes of his muscles, fingertips gentle and sensitive against his skin. Nick remembers Greg saying back in the early days of their relationship that Nick's skin was his favorite part of Nick. He closes his eyes now, remembering a morning, only a few weeks after they started sleeping together, laying facedown on his bed, half asleep and sated, while Greg's hands stroked his back.
"You have such gorgeous skin," Greg had said softly, almost reverently. "It's so smooth, such a nice golden color." He had chuckled softly. "Not like mine, all pale and with all these beauty marks."
Nick had propped himself up on one elbow and kissed the three small marks that made a triangle on Greg's right cheek. "I like your beauty marks." He did, and he still does; he's counted and kissed every one of those marks time and again since that morning. Greg has 127 beauty marks sprinkled across his creamy, pale skin.
Now there's rough, scabby scars on Nick's skin from the fire ant bites, and those flaws suddenly bother him. "Do you still love my skin?"
Greg's hands slow on his back and Nick can tell he's confused. "Uh – what?"
"When we started going out, you said you loved my skin," Nick clarifies, "Because it was so smooth and tan. Well, it's not anymore – there's those rough, red scars all over it."
Greg hums a little, understanding, and nods his head slowly, his hands resuming their patterns on Nick's back. "Baby, I don't love your skin because it's smooth and tan; I love your skin because it's yours." He begins to walk, guiding Nick back into their bedroom, back to their bed. He tucks Nick in like a child, stroking a hand down his cheek and smoothing his hair, then turns to pull off his tear-soaked T-shirt.
Through his sleepy haze, Nick hears the sharp intake of breath as Greg lifts the T-shirt over his head and knows exactly what it means. "Are your scars pulling?" he asks, sitting up.
"A little," Greg admits. He heads for his side of the bed. "But don't worry about it right now, okay? You just need to sleep."
Nick shakes his head. "No way, G. You take care of me, I take care of you, right? Lay on your stomach." He grabs a bottle of medicated lotion from the second drawer of his nightstand and pours some into his palm. While Greg shifts onto his stomach and tucks his arms into his sides, Nick breathes on the moisturizer pooled in his hand, warming it before rubbing it into Greg's skin.
Skin grafts need to be rubbed with medicated lotion to moisturize them every day; Nick's been doing this every night since the explosion, for almost three years, for a long time. He knows all the soft, pleased noises that Greg makes when he feels the dryness and twinges of pain ease, knows exactly which motion to use to smooth the lotion into Greg's back without damaging the delicate skin. For the weeks that followed his hospitalization, when Nick could barely move his swollen, aching limbs, getting the moisturizer on Greg's back was an awkward team effort; Greg got around the edges, covering as much of his own back as he could reach so that Nick only had to move enough to rub the lotion into the very center of Greg's back. Nick smiles slightly as Greg sighs blissfully, glad that he can take care of Greg again, then frowns as a thought occurs to him.
"G?"
"Mm?"
"Who did this for you when I was in the hospital and out of it for so long?"
Greg turns his head to the side so he can smile contentedly at Nick. "Sara."
Nick nods. She's both men's best friend, the only person who knows about their relationship, even now, even after all they've been through, even over three years down the road. It's fitting, he supposes, but he's still unspeakably glad that he can take care of his Greggo again.
Greg reaches up to pull him down, coaxing him to lay back. "Close your eyes, Nicky. Go to sleep."
Nick slides back under the covers, fighting as his fear returns when he thinks of having the light off again. When the light's off, it's too dark, the air is too close. The nightmares are too real.
But Greg doesn't reach over to turn the bedside light on his nightstand off. He merely closes his eyes and snuggles in against Nick's body, chest-to-chest in his favorite position, tucking his head under Nick's chin. He presses a kiss to Nick's breastbone, and mumbles, "Love you."
Nick smiles. He drops his own kiss on the top of Greg's head, combs his fingers through hair that's surprisingly soft, and thinks about taking care of each other for the rest of the night, for years to come, for the rest of their lives. "Love you, too." He sleeps.
FUTURE
If Grissom dials Sara's number, she'll answer her phone. Her voice will be smoky and even deeper than usual with sleep, and she'll say, "Grissom?" in confusion. She'll think she needs to come in to work early, and he'll be tempted to hang up or say he pressed the wrong speed dial button or make up an emergency that indeed requires her to get up and come in. But he'll take a deep breath and say, "Sara," in pleading voice instead.
And he'll imagine that Sara's sitting up in bed, more awake now and maybe even a bit concerned. "Gris, what's wrong?" she'll say, and he'll close his eyes and revel in the fact that she can still call him by his old nickname, that this formality that's sprung up between them is a barrier but not an impenetrable steel blockade.
"Sara," he'll say, and he'll debate between trying to sound sane and just blurting out everything he thinks and feels and wants from her. So he'll decide to stall. "Do you remember when you asked me out to dinner?" he'll ask, then wince, because perhaps making Sara pissed off by dredging up humiliating memories isn't the best stall tactic he could have come up with.
"Yes," she say, and now her voice will be clipped and tense.
"I was losing my hearing," he'll blurt, and wonder where his usually tightly-reined control over his mouth has gone.
There will be silence on the other end of the line, and he'll know that Sara, ever the good scientist, is quickly piecing together every time he appeared to ignore the team or misunderstood them or was simply moodily silent. He'll worry that the silence is growing too long, and he'll begin to babble to fill it. "It was otosclorosis. It's genetic. My mother had it. She's deaf. That's where I learned sign language. Remember that case at the Deaf College? But I had surgery for it. I'm fine now."
Sara will breathe slightly shakily and ask, "Why are you telling me this now?"
And he'll wonder the same thing himself, but answer, "You've told me so many of your secrets recently. I want us to be friends again, and if we're friends, that means that I need to tell you some of my secrets, too, right?"
She'll let a surprised, slightly hysterical chuckle escape into her phone, then say, "Sure," her voice pitched higher than usual.
"Sara, I need to ask you a question," he'll say, and clench his hands and take a deep breath, because he'll know this is the real reason he called.
"Okay," she'll say in that same dazed, disbelieving tone.
"Why haven't you left Vegas yet?"
She won't ask him to clarify, won't make empty claims that she doesn't understand what he's asking. Instead, she'll clear her throat and say calmly, with a do-or-die edge in her voice. "Why did I come to Vegas in the first place?"
He'll understand; she's putting the ball in his court. He either has to acknowledge this or she's going to let the ball drop. It's now or never – if he doesn't answer her with what they both know to be the truth this time, he doesn't think she'll ever give him an opportunity again. "For me."
There will be a rustle of cloth or hair or skin on the other end of the phone, and he'll conclude that she's nodded. "I haven't left for the same reason."
"Okay," he'll breath. "Okay." He'll let his imagination run wild for a few moments, building dreams of the future on that one sentence Sara has just uttered. He'll think of dates and kisses and marriage and babies, of his echoing townhouse filling with Sara and Sara's belongings and Sara's throaty voice and lemony scent and long limbs. He'll think of sex, of course, wild and exultant and passionate, but even more he'll think about holding each other afterwards and sleeping with their arms and legs entangled and Sara's head pillowed on his chest.
"Do you want to come over?" Sara will ask hesitantly, and the hesitance in her voice will tear at him because he'll know that it's him, his fears and his rejection, that have put that hesitance there.
But he won't burn her again. "I'd love that," he'll say, and then throw caution to the wind and add, "I love you."
The dazed disbelief will be back in her voice, and he'll smirk a little that he's been able to throw her so off balance. "I love you, too, Gris," she'll say.
He'll hang up the phone and head for his truck in the lab parking lot, then head for Sara's apartment, and head for his new life.
That is, if Grissom dials Sara's number.
FIN