My first story. I've been meaning to write for a while, about this pairing and that plotline and this show and that book... But it never really clicked. But now I'm inspired, ready, and willing. Reviews would be appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. Nor do I own the characters within.

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The lights around him blurred, fuzzed over, changed colors... Christ, everything was spinning. But wasn't that just how he wanted it?

Greg had had another dream. Gone home after a particularly rough case, took a nap... And had another dream. So here he was, drunk and shivering, slumped on a barstool, ignoring the people and trying to be fascinated by the whirling lights, plethora of sounds... But all his senses took in was the stench of sweat and alcohol on the breath of a multitude of drunken whores, and it made him sick. The lights gave another whirl, and so did he stomach, and he found himself stumbling and staggering across the room toward the porcelain goddess of salvation.

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Perhaps the only good thing about drinking hard and fast was that it was easy to get rid of before it did the worst of its damage. God only knew how much money he'd blown on then-puked drinks that would get him drunk without making him gag, sweet and fruity and fag drinks (NO.)

He stopped short in the darkened sideroad, anger welling up inside him. That was one of the reasons he was so docile in his fight against himself when it came to the bar- there were too many reasons to drink. And that lack of dignity was just another, brought to the surface by another fucking trigger, dug deeper by his lack of a foothold to drag himself out.

He knew the thought process behind it through and through, but it was still too easy to get sucked in, and weak as he was at this point...

He shook the thought from his mind, weary and defeated, and trudged on as if through a river of remorse.

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Three hours of pacing around one's apartment on an empty stomach, throat full of the sting of vomit and alcohol, occasionally gulping and sputtering at a carton of orange juice was hardly an ideal Saturday night. With an even more defeated gaze than before, he glanced around his woefull apartment, and thought just how wonderfully it mirrored his mind right now: cluttered, disorganized, trashed... With a dull grey cast to it, berift of life and light.

He needed out.

To the lab.

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He'd done what little paperwork was available for him to do, cleaned some equiptment, tidied the lockerrooms... And had received more than his fair share of strange glances from his coworkers. A few questions about his being there were all he got; he figured the look on his face was just about enough.

"This is ridiculous," he slurred, almost wishing for sleep, but terrified to even try. Exhaustion and alcohol were a bad combination, no matter if you threw up most of the latter. Scrubbing his palm across his face, he tottered into the bathroom, entered a stall, locked the door, and slid down the wall. "Ridiculous." Even his voice, he thought, sounded ridiculous. This was an all-time low.

The thought, paired with sleep deprivation, snapped something within him, and tears came, hot and fast and Jesus, you stupid fuck, you're crying. Again. What the living CHRIST are you doing? The internal monologue of beratement continued, and Greg didn't hear the door quietly sliding open. He didn't hear the soft pat of footsteps across the tiled floor, nor the opening of the stall next to him. What he did hear was a voice all too familiar, obviously at ground-level, head under the stall wall. "Jesus, Greg..."

"Go," Greg sniffled. He didn't want to see that face. Not now. He kept his hands before his face, his forehead on his knees, tears pooling in the creases of the grout below him.
And, being the beautiful person he was, Nick left.

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Greg had known how he felt about Nick for a while. It was long enough, he figured, for it to have grown to... Well, whatever it had become. Infatuation and obsession were too strong, love too personal and connected. Adoration too... Too soft. It simply was what it was.

Why do I push him away?

Because I can't have him see me like this.

But he would want to, he would want to help...

But he can't see me like this.

You idiot, you need help.

But I won't let him see me like this.

That doesn't much matter now. He's seen it. Christ, he's not stupid or ignorant. That's what you l.. What you can't get enough of. He's so perfec...

Shut up.

The two-sided banter drove him half insane, and he clutched at the hair on the sides of his head as the minutes passed, silent tears dripping. How long had passed since he had walked in and more than likely confirmed what he already knew? An hour? And a half? Greg would have liked to say he didn't care.

For the umpteenth time, he compartmentalized his thoughts, listed, controlled what he knew to make up for what he couldn't.

Things gone wrong.

James kid.

Parents freakout.

Rent due.

Grissom knows.

Psych eval in two days. Won't pass.

And Nick. Lack thereof.

He moaned softly, and missed the sound of the door opening again. This time the voice was higher up, muffled, but firmer. "Open up."

He hated being weak.

He hated being powerless to that voice.

But he was both.

Click.

The door swung outward, he stepped inward, and the door closed once more. Greg never raised his eyes. He scooted closer to the toilet, feeling the grit on the floor beneath the seat of his pants as he made room.

Nick slid down the wall with ease, slowly, and came to rest beside him.

They sat in silence for perhaps two full minutes, the stillness only broken once by a half-hearted sniffle and Greg wiping another tear, then resuming his arms-crossed, head-between-the-knees position.

Then he felt a warm hand on his back. "You can talk to me." The words didn't carry as much as Greg had hoped they would. The biggest wave that hit him was not relief, but a gut-wrenching fear that made him nauseous all over again. He choked the heaving of his stomach back down and shook his head wearily.

"Wouldn't make you a coward or weak." That was another thing about that man; he knew precisely what to say, minus the Jordan Almond effect. No sugar coating, but still easy enough to swallow without it.

"Can't," he managed to choke out, coughing up tear-and-allergy-induced phlegm and spitting it into the toilet. He resumed his position.

"Bullshit, Sanders."

The silence returned. It wasn't as awkward as he imagined it would be. Rather, it was a comfortable agreement that Nick was right, and this was ridiculous, but it had its reasons all the same.

"Get up. We're going." Greg didn't fight back, simply stared at the floor as he took the hand that was offered, a strong arm behind it pulling his limp body onto his feet. His knees and frontal thighs ached, and his legs shook as he walked, but he followed the backs of Nick Stokes' heels through a hushed lab and quiet parking lot, stepped into the truck, and stared at the mat beneath his feet as the purr of machinery lulled him somewhat.

"It's a lot," he muttered as they sat at a red light.
"I'm sure it is."

His tone wasn't sarcastic. It was simply truthful, accepting. Nothing more.

No more was said on the ride to Nick's apartment.

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Wordlessness reigned as they stepped into the apartment. Nick pulled a frozen dinner apiece from the freezer and threw one in the microwave while Greg sat on the couch, staring at his feet.

Nick soon joined him, sitting in a chair opposite him. Greg stared at Nick's feet instead of his own.

"I'm not going to lie to you. I'm worried about you, Greg. Quite a bit." His voice was soft, but firm and urgent. Greg felt himself soften slightly.
"I don't want you to worry." It was the simple truth.

"Then let the worry stop, Greg."
After a few moments of pondering, Greg raised his eyes from Nick's shoes, looked him square in the eye, and spoke slowly, steadily, and softly.

"You want to know," he stated more than asked. "I'm hurting. Copiously. It's repulsive how I'm dealing with it, and I'm ashamed. I've been falling apart. I'm a big boy, and I'm responsible for myself and my actions, and I fucked up, and now I'm afraid of getting on the right track."

He didn't look down. He wouldn't allow himself that dismal luxury. He felt a speck of pride glowing in the abyss.

"You want a handhold?"

"Don't tease me."
"I wasn't."

Greg paused, pondered the potential of the statement.
"Yes. Stay here. Get yourself on your feet."

Greg opened his mouth to speak, stopped short, and stayed gawping for a few moments as it sank in. He was saved by the beeping of the microwave, and he watched Nick as he slowly rose and strode into the kitchen to continue fixing the food. If relief could be sold, Sanders would have bought temporary stock.