The Conference
By Emily Brunson
©2005
The worst thing about the world is that sometimes unspoken prayers are answered.
Which could also be seen as the best thing about the world, depending on your point of view, and which particular prayer gets the nod.
At the moment, staring at the blank ceiling in his slightly stuffy hotel room and sliding his feet restlessly against the crisp bleach-smelling cotton sheets, Gil Grissom is torn between worst and, possibly, best.
The headboard in the adjoining room bumps the wall again. What is this, the twenty-first or twenty-second time? He’s been keeping count, although he was distracted right after number eighteen, when his lamp fell off the bedside table, and he might have skipped one or two.
The bump is accompanied by a laugh, and Gil stares at the white ceiling and thinks about next year and the different hotel he will book, the one with thicker walls. The one where he will not have to lie in his own room and yet for all intents and purposes be sitting in the chair next door. He can hear everything, loud and clear, and it’s plenty for him to have a few mental images to go along with the soundtrack.
Plenty.
And isn’t it all faintly ironic? Funny the ways in which things work out. Because all other things being equal, he wouldn’t even be here. If this were last year, he’d be miles away, in a room with beautifully thick walls, contributing a few sound effects himself. But no. No, last year’s fling appears destined not to carry over into this year’s fling, and the party he was supposed to spend all night at – like last year – didn’t even happen, thanks to last-minute cancellation. So someone’s relative died. Big deal. This conference only happens once a year. And that party has been a standard item since time began.
But no party. No sloe-eyed ballistics boy from Chicago. Doesn’t look as if the Chicago contingent will even show up this year, except Trewinski, and Gil would rather hammer a scalpel up his left nostril than spend any more time with that artifact than he absolutely has to.
So despite his brave words on the plane this morning, he is not away from his room tonight. He is not unavailable. He has not turned his cell phone off. Instead he’s squirming on his cold, appallingly empty bed in his bland, un-soundproofed room, staring at his ceiling while Nick – who knew no one here, he said, or at least not many, and man, he had to get ready for tomorrow’s presentation, so have fun, Griss, see you sometime – was evidently hosting a goddamn orgy in his room next door.
Damn liar. Get ready for that presentation, my ass. Unless he’s planning on demonstrating something to do with particular types of trace evidence, he’s not getting ready for anything but knocking the paintings off Gil’s walls.
Someone groans, someone with a voice too deep to be Nick’s, and Gil shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. He hasn’t even gotten to the really good part yet. The good part, in a bad sort of way, that goes something like this: he had no fucking idea Nick was queer. Under other circumstances it might have made him feel awkward, or bad in some intangible way – hell of an investigator, didn’t even pick up on the signs – but he’s pretty damn sure he’s not the only one of Nick’s colleagues to miss that particular revelation. He’s met Nick’s DATES, for Christ’s sake, at least a handful of them, and all were unmistakably female. At least they appeared to be, and even if Gil didn’t know back then to check for Adam’s apples, he still figures he would have noticed something. But he didn’t. No one did. Ergo, those were women, and Nick dated them, and yet at this conference where Gil was supposed to get well laid himself, Nick is in his room with someone, a masculine someone, and possibly more than one, quite likely from the different timbres of the voices, and having a very lewd and lascivious time, too.
Nick gives an all-too-audible breathless laugh, and then makes an odd sound, something between a squeal and a moan, and Gil thinks: That’s what Nick sounds like when he comes.
Gil rolls over and puts his pillow over his head.
Sleep arrives finally, sometime after another of Nick’s porn-star wails, and Gil awakens late the next morning, feeling hungover and headachey. Blearily he listens, and thinks, At least the soundtrack is finished, before crawling out of bed and trudging to the bathroom.
After his shower, he puts on slacks and a knit shirt and aims himself at the hallway and hopes the restaurant downstairs is still serving breakfast. Two men share the elevator with him, jabbering about spatter patterns and infrared, and Gil grits his teeth to keep from asking them to shut the fuck up already. He has half an hour before the first of his panels today. It isn’t until the elevator doors open on the lobby that he realizes he’s left his notes in his room.
Fuck it. If he can’t extemporize for half an hour on blowfly larvae, he really IS in bad shape.
The restaurant is open. He looks around, and spies Nick in the corner, busily forking eggs into his mouth and scanning the convention program.
Nick, who looks obscenely refreshed. Nick, who shows absolutely no signs that he spent the lion’s share of the previous night performing salacious acts with what sounded like three-quarters of the Peking Circus’s trapeze artists.
Nearly snarling, Gil stalks over to Nick’s table and slumps in a chair. Nick gives him a bright look, eyebrows raised. "Oh, hey Griss. What’s up?"
Gil glowers at him. "Nothing," he says sullenly.
"Oh." Nick’s expression closes down a fraction, becoming a little cautious. "Party no good?"
"What?"
"Last night." Nick twirls his fork in the air, chewing. "The one you went to. You know."
Gil stares at him. "Party."
One of Nick’s eyebrows climbs near his hairline. "Musta been pretty good," he remarks dryly.
With all the alacrity of sap in a February sugar maple, Gil’s mind processes the remark. Nick thinks he wasn’t there last night. Nick believes Gil was at the party. The one he talked about, the one that didn’t happen.
Nick has absolutely no idea that Gil overheard the circus act.
Gil utters a sharp cackle, and Nick blinks at him. "Fine," Gil says expansively. "Party was great, thanks."
Nick nods. "Cool."
"And how was your evening?"
Not even a blink. "No big deal. Had to go over my notes. I mean, that thing’s not until four, but I’m kinda bad with public speaking, you know?"
He has to take a moment to admire it all. He has had no idea – ever – that Nick was such a consummate actor. There is no trace of guile, no wink-wink nudge-nudge. Nick’s smile is as open and charming as always, not a whisker out of place.
I’ve got your number, Gil thinks, and nods when a waitperson asks if he’d like coffee.
"So you’re at ten, right?" Nick asks after polishing off his potatoes.
Gil surveys his cold cereal without much appetite. "Right."
"Okay, here’s what I was thinking." Nick turns over the program and reveals today’s schedule. "You don’t care if I skip out after the first half-hour, right? Because there’s the thing on blood trails at the same time, and I wanted to ask Jimenez about that study he did last year."
Gil looks at him. "You’re coming to my panel?"
"Sure! I mean, the first half." Nick peers over the program. "That doesn’t piss you off or anything, does it? That I’m bailing?"
Gil musters a tired smile and dips his spoon in his bran flakes. "Not at all, Nicky. Don’t worry about it."
He finishes the cereal while Nick prattles about where he has to be, when, including plans for lunch with Rafe Kennedy. That surprises Gil; Kennedy is an old school buddy, making a pretty good name for himself over in Minneapolis/St. Paul, and Gil hasn’t even known he was attending this year’s conference.
"You know him?" Nick crows when Gil mentions as much. "Aw, cool! Then come to lunch with us, okay?"
"Sure," Gil says slowly. "Sounds good."
Nick glances at his watch. "You done? Because it’s like, five till."
Gil pushes the bowl away. "I’m done."
His panel goes fine. As he suspected, he didn’t need the notes. A few questions are even pretty interesting, and Westbrook is surprisingly well-informed about entomology, considering he’s primarily a trace man. They exchange cards after the session, make vague allusions to keeping in touch via email, and that’s that.
He sits at the back of the room for the metadata panel, paying enough attention to keep up but not enough to ask any questions of his own. He’s preoccupied, and his headache hasn’t gone away.
How on earth does Nick know Rafe? He’s never mentioned him before. But they’re going to lunch, which suggests a certain amount of planning involved.
Gil thinks about Rafe’s brilliant blue eyes and easy New Orleans-bred swagger, and his mind immediately superimposes a vivid picture. Nick and Rafe, in that bed touching Gil’s hotel-room wall. Nick and –
He sits up sharply, drawing a loud breath. Way to jump to conclusions, Gil.
And as it happens, lunch is really pleasant. It’s good to see Rafe again, really good, and as fertile as Gil’s imagination has suddenly become, there is no trace of anything untoward between Nick and Gil’s old friend. It turns out they’ve never met in person, only corresponded via the forensics listserv, and this is really an excuse to talk about a paper they’ve sorta-kinda cooked up together.
"Condom trace evidence," Nick says enthusiastically. "We usually stop looking after seminal traces, right? But we’re thinking about doing this study of other trace stuff. Nonoxynol-9, cornstarch, that kind of thing."
"Spermicide?" Gil asks.
"Kinda limited to the biggest labs," Rafe admits. "Most won’t have the mass spec to find it. But it could be handy."
Gil listens without a whole lot of interest to what is admittedly a pretty damn good idea, and studies Nick covertly. Again, there’s nothing to see. Nothing but Nick’s bright, expressive eyes, his energetic body language. He’s handsome in his red shirt, that easy grin –
Well, for Christ’s sake. He might as well stop looking for Nick’s own trace evidence. It’s clear that Nick evidently finds a night filled with pretty much nonstop acrobatic sex to be far from exhausting.
Gil glowers into his iced tea and nods when Rafe asks him a little querulously if he likes the research idea.
Post-lunch, they go their separate ways, Gil promising Rafe he’ll stay in touch and Nick that he’ll be there at four, yes, with bells on. And then he takes the elevator back to his room, toppling onto the bed and not even bothering to toe his shoes off before closing his eyes.
It’s ten after four when he awakens. Something in his body already knows he’s late; he’s rolling off the mattress and lumbering to the bathroom before he knows exactly what he’s late for.
Taking a leak, he thinks, Oh. Nick’s panel.
Oh shit.
He skids into the room at twenty after, and catches Nick’s half-hurt, half-glad look before he slides into a chair. Rafe’s on the panel, too, in the middle of a funny story Gil’s heard at least a dozen times before, the one about the guy with the artificially created hemipenis, and Gil sighs and slumps a little.
Nick doesn’t do a half-bad job with his material, either, and fields a few questions without looking nervous at all. When it’s over, Gil skulks over to congratulate him, but Nick’s all smiles and doesn’t seem to mind Gil’s tardiness.
"Hey, Grissom. Have you met Starla Henderson?"
The perky blonde standing at Nick’s elbow gives Gil a smile almost as bright as Nick’s. "Pleased to meet you, Dr Grissom," she says. Her hand is cool and her grip firm. "It’s an honor."
He mumbles something, and when Nick is relatively alone Gil blurts, "I’m sorry I was late. I fell asleep."
"Aw, man, it’s cool." Nick’s expression is sunny; it really is okay with him. "You missed me getting my notes out of order when we started. So not much."
"Still."
"Don’t worry about it." Nick’s look turns sly. "Just watch out for those all-night parties, dawg." Something or someone catches his eye, and he lifts his chin. "Hang on a sec," and walks away.
Dawg? Gil blinks after him. Did he just call him DAWG?
He’s still bemused when Nick comes back, says, "So I guess that’s it for me today. What’s up for you?"
Gil regards him and shakes his head. "I’m done."
"You wanna grab some supper?"
"It’s still a little early, isn’t it?"
Nick shrugs. "Well, there’s this place over by the harbor I wanted to try. It’s kind of a walk. Plus I gotta get stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Presents. I promised Sanders I’d get him a tee shirt. And Warrick wanted shot glasses."
Gil utters a soft laugh. How very …. Nick-ish. "Sure. No problem."
Nick, he soon discovers, is a member of the highly annoying school of shoppers. They look at hundreds of tee shirts. It’s seven o’clock before Nick finds one that will work, and even later before Warrick’s glasses join their party.
"If I just grab something, they’ll know," is Nick’s placid reply when Gil can no longer refrain from commenting on his insanely picky shopping. "And they’ll give me shit about it." He glances at his watch. "Oh. Wow."
"Exactly," Gil grits.
"Hang on, it looks like down that street there’s –"
Gil grasps Nick’s elbow, yanking him in the opposite direction. "Enough. You can get the rest tomorrow. I want crab cakes."
"Mmm, crab."
"Exactly," Gil repeats.
The Baltimore harbor is swarming with people, because it’s a beautiful evening, and they have a surprisingly short wait at the restaurant before they’re seated. The crab cakes are as good as Gil remembers, better, maybe, and after the food and two glasses of white Zinfandel, his mood is distinctly improved.
"So you got another panel tomorrow?" Nick asks. The wind has ruffled his short hair and put color in his cheeks; he looks disturbingly radiant. Or maybe it’s just the wine.
"Two," Gil corrects. "But I’m only chairing one."
"Cool. You know what? I think I’m gonna bail on the afternoon sessions. Hit the Maritime Museum instead."
Gil finishes his second glass and eyeballs the waiter. "Really? It’s nice."
"Wanna come with?"
"My second panel’s at three. Sorry."
"No problemo. I got some more shopping to do anyway." He catches Gil’s baleful look and grins. "Which I wouldn’t subject you to."
Outside the restaurant, Nick gazes out over the water and says, "Want to go back to the hotel? Have a drink?"
Gil pauses. "I have – plans."
"Oh." Nick gives a quick game smile. "Gotcha. Well, I think I’m heading back. Rafe said there’s always some kind of bull session in the big conference room, every night. Might pick up something handy."
He’s walking away while Gil digests that. What exactly is Nick going to pick up? More to the point, who?
Well, this is intolerable. There will be no repeat performance of last night’s misery. He may or may not get laid, time will tell, but he will by God not be lying there listening to Nick’s catch of the evening making Nick warble like goddamn Nellie Melba all over again.
Nope. Not happening.
He winds up in a bar, knocking back Sidecars and staring at everyone else having a marvelous time. He’s never felt so alone in his life. Aloneness isn’t normally a problem. So why is it, tonight?
He wishes the Chicago boy were here. What was his name? Raul? Rodrigo? Something like that.
He orders another Sidecar, and watches the men dance.
At midnight he changes venues, and endures forty minutes of brain-thumping noise masquerading as music before he wearily decides it’s not worth it. It’s too loud for chatting up, the boys are too young, he is too old, and he’s not even drunk. He’d be better off sleeping than going through the motions like this.
He gets back to his room a little before one-thirty, and stands very still just inside the door, listening. Silence. Nothing but blissful, air-conditioned silence.
Maybe Nick went to the other guy’s room this time. Fine with him. Means he can get some sleep.
He’s showered and brushed his teeth, and has his hand extended to douse the bedside lamp when a door slams. A nearby door.
The first thump sloshes the water in the glass beside his bed.
Gil closes his eyes and whispers, "Shit."
It occurs to him, by the time Nick and his paramour(s) have settled into a dismally familiar rhythm, that he has a couple of options. Pounding on the wall is one. Finding another hotel is the other.
But pounding on the wall will reveal his presence, and some anxious part of him does not want to do that. Some lingering secretive part. And it’s two in the morning. Where exactly would he go at this time of night?
Nick yodels something distinctly orgasmic, and Gil presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and mutters a few more curses.
The rush to get to his nine-o’clock panel the next morning gets him going; he’s late again, thanks to the party in Nick’s bed again, and he’s in the elevator trying desperately to remember which panel he’s doing first when Frank Taylor says, "Gil, your shirt’s on inside-out."
Gil glares at him, and Taylor shrugs. "Just figured you’d wanna know. Mr. Chairman."
"Thanks," Gil grits, and changes his shirt in the restroom in the lobby.
Nick isn’t there. It annoys him that he notices this. Annoys him sufficiently that Carl Werber has to repeat his question three times, and even then Gil can’t quite come up with an appropriately informed, erudite reply. He mumbles something and feels only relief when Taylor smoothly enters the fray.
Where the everlasting Dionysian hell is Nick? Sleeping in? Still at it?
Gil gulps a glass of water and tries not to see Taylor’s amused look. Fucker.
There’s time for a Danish in between sessions, but then he’s immersed again, regretting immensely the morning last year in Seattle when he let himself be hoodwinked into taking the president’s seat on the conference board. Just two years of duty, but it means he has lots of minutiae to handle, and he isn’t good at minutiae, couldn’t care less, actually. Looks good on his CV, maybe, but that’s about all. The board luncheon drags on for two full hours, replete with fulsome compliments to all, mutual back-slapping, and he eats his rubbery chicken Divan and wishes violently to be someplace else.
Rafe stops by his table when the neverending meal is finally done. "Hey, did you hear?"
"Hear what?"
"The three-o’clock got cancelled. Joseph F—"
"Good," Gil says thinly, and throws his napkin on the table.
Rafe regards him with surprise. "But didn’t you want to hear wh –"
"Thanks."
Free. He’s free, no commitments until the award banquet tonight. Hallelujah.
The harbor isn’t nearly as crowded today, at least not so far. He stands by the water and inhales the scents, feeling his cranky tension massaged away by the sturdy breeze. Much, much better.
It isn’t until he approaches the ticket kiosk that he realizes he’s at the Maritime Museum. Isn’t this where Nick had said he’d be going today? Then again, Nick had said he’d be at the morning panel, and wasn’t. Oh well. Fine.
He hadn’t lied; he likes this museum. Not as grand as some went, but it suits him. But wandering around, he finds himself scrutinizing the handful of patrons more closely than the exhibits. No sign of Nick.
It’s really starting to grate. What was he thinking? Granted, conventions are usually the place for letting one’s inhibitions off the leash for a day or two, but Nick’s really living it up. How many men does he intend to screw this trip? And wasn’t the entire purpose behind the department’s springing for this trip the learning opportunities inherent in the event? Never mind both he and Nick are panelists this year and their presence is pretty much a given.
The museum feels stuffy and boring. He sighs, and heads for the exit.
Where he almost runs over Nick, hitting the door straight-arm.
"Whoa," Nick says, catching Gil’s arm. "What are you doing here?"
Gil brushes needlessly at his shirt. "My panel this afternoon was cancelled."
"Ah."
Gil stares at him. In contrast to yesterday’s blithe affect, Nick looks distinctly frayed around the edges. Eyes a little red, grooves dug deep at the corners of his normally mobile mouth.
Well, well. So the wanton libertine finally feels the pressure. Hah.
"How’s the museum?" Nick asks without much enthusiasm.
"Fine, fine."
Nick sags. "You know what? I think I’m gonna take a pass."
"But you’re already here."
"Maybe just walk around and look at the water."
"Want some company?"
"Sure," Nick says, brightening a tiny bit.
They walk, strolling really, no hurry. The crowds are thickening a bit, heading toward happy hour, and Gil lets Nick lead them around the clots of people, avoiding getting too close. Nick is silent, hands jammed in his pockets.
Finally, a tiny bit winded, Gil says, "Let’s get something to drink."
He chooses a little bar about a block off the harbor, full but not packed, and he orders a Sidecar and listens to Nick ordering a gimlet. Nick’s drink is gone before Gil’s done much more than sip his own, and Gil frowns.
"Everything all right?"
Nick is glancing around for their waiter. "Yeah."
Delicately, Gil says, "Missed you this morning."
Nick gives him an alarmed look. "Yeah. Um, sorry."
When nothing else is forthcoming, Gil makes himself nod. After all, it isn’t as if Nick hasn’t listened to him proselytize before. Many, many times before. Hell, he’s probably already heard everything Gil said this morning, and more than once. No big deal.
It doesn’t quite ease the little jolt of what he’s now beginning to recognize as flat-out jealousy
Too busy screwing some guy – or some guys – to go to some boring lecture on crap he does for a living anyway, Gil, can you blame him?
and says, "You look tired. Long night?"
Nick turns an extraordinary shade of brilliant red, and Gil clamps down on the urge to snarl. "Um." Nick gulps his second gimlet and nods. "Kinda, yeah."
"Out late?"
"Couldn’t sleep."
I’ll just bet, Gil thinks savagely. Couldn’t be because you had COMPANY now, could it? Nicky?
Nick gives him an uncertain look. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, why?"
"Because you looked sorta….um."
"What?" Gil barks.
"Um. Funny."
Gil swallows an ice cube and coughs. "Funny – " he gasps "—how?"
"Nothing, man," Nick says evasively. His gimlet is gone. "So, you going to the thing tonight?"
Gil clears his throat. He can feel a little twitch in the corner of his left eye. "Yes."
"Cool."
"Are you?"
"I brought a suit, but I was sorta thinking…"
"Something better to do?" Gil asks sweetly.
"Nnnot really. Just seems like a lot of effort."
Especially when you’ve spent two nights in a row doing erotic gymnastics, hmm? "I see."
"You sure you’re okay?"
"Yes."
"Because when you get pissed, you get this tic in the corner of your eye."
"I’m not angry," Gil says, ticcing.
"You sure?"
"God damn it, Nick, I’m not angry!" Gil bellows.
The bar is suddenly ringingly silent. Nick’s mouth forms a perfect little "o," and he raises a defensive hand. "Oookay."
"Sorry." Gil clears his throat again. "I’m really not."
"Yeah. Okay."
"Really."
"Want another drink? It’s on me."
"Yes."
This time Nick gets up and goes to the bar to get their drinks. He has, Gil is pretty damn sure now, chosen those trousers for the way they hug his ass. He has a particularly fine ass, nicely rounded, muscular –
He puts his finger over the twitch in his eye, and forces himself to look out the window instead.
Well, Gil isn’t the only one at the convention to notice the fuck-me-now pants, is he? But unlike the others – and he’s starting to think that there have been LOTS of others, envisioning a parade of horny men through Nick’s door like the line for some of the better tittie bars on Rutger Avenue – Gil has not seen that wonderful ass outside the pants. No, he has to settle for the PG-rated view, while untold others are afforded the real deal, Nicky in all his unclothed and very noisy glory.
It’s not fair. It’s not RIGHT. Nick will never even SEE those men again. Whereas Gil is Right. HERE.
Of course maybe that’s the idea. Maybe Nick doesn’t want to see those men again. Maybe this is Nick’s usual convention tactic. Get it all out of his system, go back to Vegas refreshed, keep it all inside until next year.
The thought penetrates the dull red haze of anger lingering in his brain. How sad is THAT? That maybe this IS what Nicky’s doing. Screwing men while he’s out of town, because he doesn’t have the nerve to face his leanings when he’s home?
It softens him up a little, and he smiles almost nicely at Nick when he returns with fresh drinks. Nick still looks a little wary, but answers that smile with one that makes Gil’s heart give a plangent leap in his chest. God, the power of that SMILE….
"So I guess I could go," Nick says hesitantly.
"Go where?"
"The banquet thingie. Tonight."
"Oh." Gil nods briskly. "Yes. You could. In fact you should."
"You think?"
"Definitely." Gil takes a drink. "Most definitely."
And there, he thinks, I can keep an eye on you. Both, in fact. Because I’m going to see just what it is you do, late at night.
Nick just sips his drink and smiles.
"Was I supposed to bring a tux?" Nick tugs at the collar of his shirt. "I don’t HAVE a tux."
"A suit is fine."
"YOU’RE wearing a tux."
"Yes."
"So how come you didn’t tell me to bring a tux?"
Gil regards him. "You don’t have a tux."
"But –"
"Don’t worry about it. Come on."
They aren’t seated together; Gil is over with the high mucky-mucks, and Nick is stuck in the middle of the room, although he appears to have met at least two of the people he’s sharing a table with. Gil shuffles his speech cards anxiously, hopes no one expects him to speak for more than a minute or two, and glances at Nick’s table. Rafe has joined them, and Nick’s smile looks a lot more relaxed now. Good.
His speech only lasts a little under a minute, but no one looks as if they’d expected him to go on longer, so he sticks his cards back in his breast pocket and orders a drink. Instead of plastic chicken they’re having petrified beef for the meal, and he pokes listlessly at it, listening while Taylor jabbers about funding for his research project to Gil’s right and Hector Munoz tells a series of truly, horribly off-color coroner’s jokes to his left. Pretty good ones, actually; he needs to remember a couple for Al.
In the center of the hall, Rafe has his arm over the back of Nick’s chair.
It’s actually interesting, in a kind of terrifying way, the surge of black anger that fills his throat. KNEW Rafe wasn’t as innocent as he pretended. Think I don’t know the way you operate, Rafe? I’ve BEEN there. Pretty soon now you’ll lean over and say, "This is really boring, let’s go get a drink, whaddaya say," and there’ll be two or three at some bar you know, and before you know it you’ll have his PANTS off, and –
"Gil?"
Gil’s head snaps around. Hector frowns at him. "You all right?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Gil snaps.
"Because when a guy your age starts getting that red in the face, it’s usually because he’s got a myocardial infarction."
Gil swallows. "My heart is fine. Just – thinking."
"Relax, man. Have another drink."
"They aren’t helping."
"That’s because you haven’t gotten drunk enough yet."
Faced with that sage advice, Gil can only nod.
He has time for one more Sidecar before Rafe leans over and says something way too close to Nick’s ear. Nick’s cheeks go red, and so does Gil’s vision.
"Excuse me," he says to the air around him, ignoring Taylor’s startled look as he shoves his chair back and stands. The room is noisy with conversation, cutlery, your basic drunken convention crap, and no one’s watching him. He strides over to Nick’s table, and says, "Nick?"
Nick’s still flushed, and Rafe’s look isn’t very friendly. "Hey, Gil," Nick says jovially. "Wanna sit –"
"We need to talk."
Nick gives him an uncomprehending look. "But I got pie –"
"The pie’s terrible. Come with me."
"Tastes all ri –"
"NICK."
"Okay," Nick says cautiously.
Several people wave at Nick on their way out the door. Each, Gil glowers at, aware he’s not acting very rationally, and not able to do much about it. Are they notches on Nick’s belt already? How many people in this room has Nick fucked, anyway? He’s only had two nights; how much can one man DO?
A lot, the nasty part of his mind informs him. You heard it, didn’t you?
"Is everything okay?" Nick asks plaintively, as they reach the hallway. "Did something happen?"
"Not here," Gil snaps.
"What –"
Nick’s wrist is surprisingly slim beneath his fingers. He tugs him down the hallway, in the direction of the bathroom.
"Gil, man, you’re freaking me out," Nick puffs behind him. "What the fuck is up with you?"
There’s no one in the restroom. Thank god. Gil swivels to face him. "How well do you know Rafe Kennedy?"
Nick stares at him. "Rafe? Uh. Sorta –"
"What was he saying to you?"
"Well, jeez, Gil, isn’t that kinda perso –"
Gil advances a step, and Nick backs up. "Rafe’s a trophy collector," Gil snarls. "Did you know that?"
"T-Trophy?"
"Very much so." Another step, and now Nick’s back is to the wall. "Now I could deal with the past two nights, all right? But if you’re going to work with this man – write a goddamn PAPER with him – you should know the facts."
Nick’s face is now quite pale. "Last – t-two nights?" he stutters.
"What you do on your own time is your own business, I realize that," Gil continues busily. "I just think there are times when friends jump in. To save you from yourself."
"Gris –"
"That IS what friends do, correct?"
"Sh-sure."
"Whatever else you do. Don’t sleep with him."
"Sleep?" Nick squeaks.
"Please."
"I mean it."
"Gil –"
Gil leans forward and kisses Nick’s open mouth.
And bounces back just as quickly, because he hasn’t planned to DO that, just happened, and Nick’s staring at him like he’s just grown an extra pair of eyes.
"I wasn’t g-gonna suh-sleep with him," Nick stammers, eyes wide.
Gil nods fast. "I see. Okay."
"He was –uh-asking me about – what model of suh-scopes we use."
"Oh."
Nick’s eyes have drifted down, staring at Gil’s mouth. "I juh."
"What?"
"Muh?"
"Say it, Nick."
"You kuh. Kissed. Me."
Gil nods slowly. "Should I apologize?"
Staring at him, Nick shakes his head.
"Thank God," Gil moans, and Nick meets him halfway this time. The first kiss was pretty terrible. This one is amazing.
"I’ve been going insane," Gil says against Nick’s mouth. He slides his hands under Nick’s jacket, feels the way Nick’s body trembles at the touch. "Goddamn it."
"You have?" Nick asks. He dips to busily explore Gil’s neck with his lips. "No shit?"
"No shit at alloohh, Jesus."
"Mmm."
They barely break apart when the door opens. Someone Gil doesn’t know, thank God, but the man gives them a startled look, and Gil grabs Nick’s wrist again and hauls him out.
"Where are we going?"
Down the hallway, Gil stabs the elevator button. "My room."
"Mine’s –"
"NOT yours."
"O-okay."
Inside the elevator he takes in Nick’s flushed, astounded look, and says carefully, "Maybe this is too fast."
"No." Nick shakes his head fast and firmly. "No, it’s not."
"I was so hoping you would say that."
Nick’s eyelids flutter. "Yeah?"
"Praying."
And then there’s another hallway, and Nick pressed up against his back while he wrestles with the key card, and the blissfully empty expanse of his room. Gil turns and says shakily, "Do you wa –" And oofs when Nick plants his hands in the center of Gil’s chest and pushes, straddling him when he hits the bed.
"I guess you do," Gil wheezes, before Nick swoops down and kisses him.
As it turns out, Nick’s unclothed ass is every bit as delicious as Gil’s imagined it would be. In fact all of Nick is downright luscious. At some point Gil looks up and regards him dazedly. "Did you really want the rest of your pie?"
Nick arches up and gnaws on Gil’s collarbone. "Fuck the pie," he says hoarsely.
It’s morning, and they haven’t slept. Gil gazes at the sunlight behind the drapes, and wonders at how very good he feels, in spite of it. Energized. Sleep is for the weak.
"What time is it?" Nick asks, his bristly chin pressed against Gil’s sternum.
"I have no idea." Gil laughs a little and slides his hand down the furrow of Nick’s spine. "I really don’t care."
"Okay," Nick agrees. "Sounds good." His stomach growls loudly.
"You want something to eat?"
"Do we have time? The flight is at –"
"There’s time. Trust me."
Nick’s half-lidded eyes crinkle when he smiles. "All right."
Room service delivers the food about half an hour later. They eat on the bed, Gil in a robe and Nick unabashedly naked. Gil isn’t complaining.
"So," Nick says through a mouthful of brioche, "Not that I’m complaining. But."
Gil nods and sips his coffee. "But what happened?"
"Yeah."
"You know how conventions are. Time to let go of inhibitions."
Nick snorts. "If this is what happens at conventions, man, I’m NEVER turning down a chance to go to another one."
Gil lifts an eyebrow. "You’re an old hand at conventions," he says more lightly than he feels. The reminder of Nick’s first two nights in Baltimore saps some of the brightness from the morning. "Don’t tell me you haven’t figured that part out yet."
"Aw, I’m sorta boring, really." Nick pokes at his potatoes with his fork.
It’s Gil’s turn to snort.
"Really." Nick frowns at him. "Well, I mean, it’s not like I went to any parties or anything, like SOME people." The frown becomes a tiny smile.
Gil sighs. "There was no party."
"Huh?"
"There was a party last year. There’s a party EVERY year. Except this one."
Nick gazes at him, fork held frozen in midair. "So night before last, you didn’t…"
"Go out? No. I was right here."
"Ah. Bummer."
Watching him carefully, Gil says, "And you?"
"Nah, I was right here. Like I said, I got really nervous about that stupid panel. My first one, you know? I musta read my notes like, four hundred times. Had that shit memorized."
An uncomfortable twinge of darkness clutched Gil’s heart. "Really," he says slowly.
Nick nods and applies himself to his eggs. "Then last night, you know, I was thinking, hang out with some of the guys here, see what was going on. But like, nothing at ALL. So I had a couple of drinks at the bar, and that was it." He utters a rueful laugh. "TOLD you I was boring."
Lying. He’s LYING, and he knows I was right here the entire time. Gil sits up, clearing his throat. "Not that boring," he says uncomfortably.
"Well, for sure not all that exciting. Although last night…." He tweaks Gil’s thigh with his toes and grins, cheeks going a pretty pink. He tucks the last of his brioche in his mouth and leans sideways to look at his watch on the bedside table. "Oh, shit."
"What?"
Nick’s expression is suddenly aghast. "We better get a move on, man, our flight leaves in ninety minutes."
Gil stares at him. "It’s that late?"
"It’s nearly noon!" Nick wails, rolling off the bed.
In the midst of the Keystone Kops routine of both of them getting ready, Gil considers what Nick has said. Lying? But Nick isn’t a liar. He’s many things, a great number of which Gil is only now beginning to clearly perceive, but dissimulation isn’t one of Nick’s flaws.
But he’s heard it. He knows. Ergo, Nick has lied.
He swallows an acid ball of frustration, and starts flinging clothes into his suitcase.
Wearing his suit pants and his unbuttoned shirt, Nick emerges from the bathroom with Gil’s ditty bag. "Anything else?" he asks, shoving it into the carryon.
Gil surveys the room quickly. "That should be it."
"Come on, I gotta get my stuff."
Silently, Gil nods. A glimpse of Nick’s little rent-a-bordello, then. He’d hoped he could avoid that, but it appears he won’t be so lucky.
At least it’ll be empty. There is that consolation.
He shuts the door behind them and turns, and Nick says, "Where are you going?"
Gil looks back. "Your room."
Nick frowns at him. "Okay, well, it’s down here." He takes a step in the opposite direction. When Gil doesn’t move, Nick gives him an impatient look. "What?"
"This…" Gil waves at the room next to his own. "Isn’t your room?"
"Nah, man, when I got there it was still dirty. I called downstairs and they gave me another one. Down the hall."
Dizzily, Gil repeats, "Not…your room."
Nick shakes his head. "Nope. I mean, might be somebody going to the convention, but it ain’t mine. Look, we gotta shake a leg, all right? You coming?"
"I’ll be…right there," Gil says faintly.
"Cool." Nick darts forward and kisses him hard and fast, and then sprints down the hallway, open shirt flapping.
Sagging against the door to his own hotel room, Gil thumps his head on the wood a few times. Then he smiles slowly, and grins, and finally starts to laugh.
END