by Emily Brunson

(c)2002

Chapter One

He started packing the day after the guys finished repairing his living room ceiling.

It didn't start out as actual packing. Just cleaning, going through things, marveling at all the shit he'd collected and kept lying around, collecting dust. And there was a lot of dust. Between Nigel Crane and the construction team he'd hired, even the dust was dusty.

A part of him was aware, though. Probably the same part of him that, when it came time to decide on a replacement door, chose one made out of metal. The same part that had him installing a security system.

Jane Galloway would've understood.

Work was all right. Nobody gave him shit about the newsletter anymore. There were a few cases that really absorbed him, gave him something concrete to think about.

But mostly Nick though about nothing at all. Or at least that was what he told himself.

The same day he spent investigating a double homicide -- jealous husband, cheating wife, boyfriend caught with his pants down, literally -- he realized he wanted out.

Everyone had been so fucking understanding. He figured maybe that was part of it. And Grissom, with his well-intentioned but totally awful explanation about how it hadn't been Nick at all, no, it had been some fruity scientist's theory brought to life by a lunatic.

Oh, it wasn't me, was it? Nick wanted to say. If it wasn't me, then who was it? You saying I just represent something? You boil it down to a theorem and suddenly it doesn't have anything to do with me?

It was hard to work with Grissom now. Hard to work with everyone. And when he woke up in the middle of the night, just about every night, with broken dreams of black-rimmed glasses and his own brains spattered all over his walls, he pretty much found it hard to work, period.

Catherine treated him like he was made out of spun glass. Way too understanding. Grissom was a fucking Vulcan, without any trace of understanding that Nick could see. Warrick, everybody -- too much. He hated going to work. Not the work itself, but the feeling. Like he had a bull's-eye painted on his back. Two times now. Two endless spans of time spent looking down the barrel of a gun and thinking about exactly what that bullet was going to do to him. Because he knew, oh yeah, crazy Nigel had it right. Nick knew.

He put the condo on the market two weeks later. He had to fight the buyers off with a stick; it was a good neighborhood, nice place, and he sold it two days later. That put him in serious packing mode, so he took off a couple of days, spent a long weekend alternately packing and throwing things away. A lot of things, in the long run. That's what they were, really: just things.

It was Sara who figured it out, when she cornered him at work and asked him if he'd moved.

"Do you blame me?" he asked bluntly.

The pitying look on her face made him feel almost dizzy with anger. "No," she replied with a sigh. "Look, Nick -- If you ever need to talk about --"

"That's okay." He made himself smile at her. "But thanks for the offer. I mean that," he added when she frowned. "Thanks."

He walked away before she could push any more than that.

But word got around, oh yeah, the grapevine was healthy and bearing lots of fruit. By the next day everybody knew Nick had Moved Out. Nick had Freaked, with a capital F, and that stands for FUCKED, my friends, Nick LOST IT.

The next day, his face burning with obscure shame, he asked Grissom for a couple of weeks off.

"Will it help?" Grissom asked him bluntly.

Nick shrugged. "I think so."

"It might be better if --"

"Look," Nick interrupted, his heart suddenly galloping briskly in his chest, "if you're gonna say something about getting back on the horse, you might as well save it. Been there, done that. It isn't helping."

Grissom regarded him with what Nick reluctantly recognized as understanding. "I was going to suggest a month," he replied mildly.

And damn it, he was by god NOT gonna cry in front of Gil Grissom, even if he felt like it right now. For the first time. Oh yeah, felt like it. "That'd be good," he said in a strangled voice.

By the time he got to his car, he didn't feel like crying anymore. Just getting away. What a goddamn relief.

He thought he'd visit a friend in California, but one day of Jim's relentless frat-boy good humor and Nick was ready to strangle him. He bowed out with a lame story about going up the coast to catch a seminar in forensic archeology and escaped.

Instead of Seattle, he drove southeast. Two days later he passed the Richardson city limit and let go of a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Home, then. Texas. Parents, friends, familiarity.

His folks were mystified but wildly happy to see him, of course. His work meant he didn't get home as much as they wanted -- or he wanted, for that matter -- and so he did the family thing, hung out with his dad and worked on the Mustang that would never be fixed up to his father's satisfaction, had lunch with his sister, complimented his mom very honestly on her cooking and ate like a pig. Met up with some friends and did Deep Ellum a few times. Got drunk more than a few times. It didn't help, but it felt like something he wanted to do, so that made it okay.

Grissom left a message for him the second week he was home. How'd the guy know where he was? Fucking spooky Griss, more of a psychic than that asshole guy in Nick's condo had ever been. Nick didn't return the call. Nothing to say.

He stopped doing much, that third week. He'd done everything he was supposed to do, and now his parents were getting a little curious about why he wasn't going back to work yet, and why he hadn't called Grissom or Catherine or Sara or Warrick. He slept a lot, stopped drinking after one hellacious hangover that had him re-enacting college by spending the entire next day sick as a dog.

But mostly he just existed, breathing and not doing much else. He wasn't hungry. Wasn't interested in much. He was there, and that was all that he could manage.

"What's wrong, Nick?" his dad asked one night, his tanned face creased with worry. "What's going on, son?"

"Nothing," Nick said remotely, and changed channels on the tv. Digital cable, not satellite, what a relief.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Don't worry."

But his dad did worry, and his mom, pretty much his whole family, and what had been comfortable, safe, was suddenly stifling. He packed the next morning without knowing he was going to leave, and damn it, there were tears in his mom's eyes when he hugged her goodbye, but what the hell was he gonna say? The truth? What WAS the truth? He'd lost his nerve? Had the balls scared off him by a lunatic and thought he might find them again in Texas, only he hadn't, and now he'd have to keep looking? Yeah, that'd fly. He could live with being scared. After a fashion. But he couldn't live with scaring his folks, any more than he already had, and so he split.

The day he was supposed to return to work, he called Grissom.

"Is everything okay? Where are you?"

Nick had to swallow, glancing around the pissant Maine boontown he had come to this morning. "I'm okay," he lied. "Sorry about today. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Take whatever time you need. Look, why don't you let us take you to dinner? Catch you up on things?"

Because I'm 3,000 miles away from you, Nick almost said, and found a hard, painful grin on his face. "Maybe tomorrow," he said guilelessly. "But thanks."

"Any time, Nick."

He took the ferry over to Nova Scotia and didn't call the next day. Damn, there wasn't a soul on the planet who knew where he was now. It was a weird, good feeling. A *free* feeling.

The next afternoon he stared at the phone in his motel room and felt the tears finally come back. Only this time there wasn't any stopping them. Grief flattened him, smashed into him like a Texas tornado, and he lay on the creaky bed and curled up and cried, cried so hard he finally had to stagger to the bathroom and throw up. And then cried some more, realizing he would sell his damn SOUL to talk to someone, to not be so goddamn alone.

He hit the speed-dial on his cell phone and tried to stop crying long enough to talk.

"Nick? Where the hell are you?"

Grissom didn't sound pissed. He sounded *worried*, and boy, that was all the damn tears needed to get started again. "Sorry," Nick said in a watery, foggy croak.

"Jesus, Nick, are you okay?"

Didn't even sound like Grissom, either. Never heard him sound worried like this. Will marvels never cease. "No," Nick croaked. "I don't think I am."

Sounded like Grissom was walking. "Where are you? I'll come get you, okay, just stay put."

His nose was running. "Canada. I'm in Canada."

A pause, then Grissom's thunderstruck voice: "CANADA?"

"I'm sorry," Nick whispered, flailing for the Kleenex box.

"Where are you? I'm coming to get you, all right? Where in Canada?"

You don't have to do that, he wanted to say. I'll be back soon. But horrifyingly he didn't say anything like that, instead all he could come up with was a watery "Okay. N-Nova Scotia."

"Christ. Tell me you're going to be okay until I get there, Nick. Tell me."

Okay? Of course he'll be okay, why wouldn't he be? "I'll be okay," he said waveringly.

"Tell me you're not gonna do anything to yourself. Can you do that?"

"Do anything?" he echoed, confused.

"Promise me you'll go to a hospital if you -- " And another wonder: Grissom's voice broke. Holy saguaros, Batman, the Las Vegas Vulcan sounds positively -- scared.

"I'm not gonna kill myself," Nick said, suddenly utterly terrified. But what if he was? Was he? Was this why he was here?

"Swear it," Grissom snapped.

"Okay, I swear."

"I'll be there tomorrow. Just -- don't do anything, Nick. Don't."

I won't, Nick wanted to say. But the words wouldn't come out, and he had no idea why.

He fell asleep around 3 a.m., but Grissom called a couple of hours later. And again, when he hit Boston, which was around noon Nick's time. And yet again, in Portland.

"I gotta rent a car. You okay?"

"Tired," Nick mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Tough. I haven't slept in 52 hours. You gotta talk to me, or I'm going to drive off the road into the Atlantic."

So he talked, without any idea of what he was really saying. Telling Griss about California and Texas, and how he sorta wandered northeast until he hit Canada. Wondering if his car was still there in Portland.

Grissom sounded pretty fucking tired himself, but he kept Nick on the phone until he saw the motel, and then there was a knock at the door and Nick reeled over to open it.

"Hey," he said to Grissom's astonished face. And passed out cold.

Chapter Two

It wasn't much of a faint, but it was embarrassing anyway. Except he didn't really feel so much embarrassed as apologetic, because Grissom had a funny, grim look on his face that Nick had never seen before.

"I'm okay," he said, trying and completely failing to get up on his own. It took Grissom to haul him to his feet again, and even then the ground was doing some kind of gross pitch and yaw thing straight out of Perfect Storm, and it took all his energy not to puke, never mind walk unaided.

"No, Nick, you're not okay," Grissom retorted tersely.

That made him feel like crying again. Shit.

"Why'd you have to run? You should have told us."

"Told you what?"

"That -- That you were --" Yet another surprise. Grissom, stammering.

"I don't know." It wasn't a lie. Except for the part that was.

Grissom sat down in the single chair and reached up to rub his eyes, and Nick took in how tired he looked. Tired, kind of old. There seemed to be more silver in his hair these days. With a weird twisting feeling in his gut, Nick felt a sudden nasty hope that he'd put some of it there.

"Feel like you could eat something? You look like you dropped a few pounds, and unless I miss my guess, it's because you haven't had anything to eat. Sound about right?"

Mutely, Nick nodded.

"I don't suppose there are many delivery establishments here, huh." Grissom's voice was its dry best, and Nick forced a smile. "Okay, I'm going out for food. You'll be here when I get back, right?"

Nick nodded again.

Grissom regarded him steadily. "Your dad called me," he said.

"Oh."

"Your folks were pretty scared. Scared us, too."

Wow, how embarrassing. He felt his face heating up. "I just needed some space," Nick mumbled, looking down.

"I understand that. I do," Grissom added at Nick's startled look. "Although I don't think I've needed *this* much space."

"I didn't plan it," Nick said hoarsely. "Just kinda -- ended up here."

Grissom nodded slowly. "Then stay here, and I'll be back in a few."

"Okay."

He fell asleep, somehow, and the next thing he felt was a touch on his shoulder. With a garbled shout of terror Nick threw himself off the bed, only to fall over on the *other* bed and just sort of lie there, stunned.

"I'm sorry." Grissom sounded sorry, too, standing there with a sack in one hand and the key in the other, and a stricken expression on his face. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Nick tried to grab a breath. "S'okay," he squeaked, avoiding Grissom's all-too-intent gaze.

"I got Chinese. It was that or pizza."

The old Nick would have asked him why in the hell he didn't get pizza, but this new and not particularly improved Nick didn't much care, it seemed. He sat in the middle of the bed nearest the table, hands shaking too bad to manage chopsticks, trying to eat a little kung pao chicken and feeling Grissom watching, watching. Eating and watching.

When the food was not exactly gone but sufficiently picked-at, Grissom sighed. And here it comes, Nick thought, his stomach clenching. This wasn't *logical*, Nick, the Vegas Vulcan would say. Only Griss didn't really seem very Vulcan-ish these days, did he?

"You scared the shit out of me, Nick," Grissom said in a soft, weird voice.

Nick gave him a startled look. "I know," he answered hollowly. "I didn't think about that. I wasn't -- thinking much for a while there."

Grissom leaned back in his chair, and Nick didn't miss the way it was suddenly Grissom who didn't quite meet his eyes. "Feel any better?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Feel like coming back to work?"

Nick swallowed. "I don't know."

A tiny smile played about the corners of Grissom's mouth. "Just feel like -- being in Canada, is that it?"

"Something like that."

"Sara told me I should drag you back by your hair." Now the smile was a grin. "Catherine asked me if we could call the Mounties. I didn't think that would be necessary."

"No, no Mounties."

Grissom nodded slowly, picking at leftover rice. "So what now? Stay here? Work our way west?"

Nick's eyes narrowed. "'We'? Don't you have to go back?"

"Yes, I have to go back."

"But --"

"I didn't say I have to go back right now."

Nick snorted, shaking his head. "Gonna babysit me for a few days?" he asked harshly.

"Guess so. If that's what it takes."

"I'm a grownup, you know. I can --"

"--Take care of yourself, yes. I know." Grissom eyed him steadily. "But you've had a hell of a time, Nick. I'm not your babysitter."

"No, Grissom, you're my boss," Nick shot back.

"I'd like to think I'm your friend, too," came Grissom's soft reply.

Nick shrugged. "Okay, you're a friend. But I don't know what I want to do, okay? I don't --" He had to swallow; his throat was as dry as toast. "I don't know if I want to go back."

"That's fair. I can't say that I blame you."

"Oh really."

"Yes, really. Look, what is it with you and me about this? I've cut you every bit of slack at my disposal, not to mention --"

"I know," Nick interrupted, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "I know. I'm sorry," he added stiffly.

Grissom didn't say anything else for a moment. Finally he said, "I've got to go get a room. Don't think they'll fill up, but you never know."

It felt like his heart was bleeding. What else could hurt his chest this bad? "Nah," Nick said as casually as he could. "Got an extra bed right here, and it's paid for. Why don't you stay here?"

When he met Grissom's eyes Griss looked uncannily calm. "Sure. Okay. If that's what you want."

And it WAS what he wanted, there was the real hell of it. Because it was Grissom he'd called, when the shit hit the fan, wasn't it? Out of all the people he knew, the people who loved him, or cared about him, it had been Griss whose number his finger had dialed. So yeah, that was what he wanted.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "It's what I want."

Chapter Three

He's going to die. There's no question of if, but only when. Will he pull the trigger now, or wait a couple more minutes? Help's on its way, but it's going to be too late, way too late, he's never going to know how late because he's going to be dead, dead like he wasn't last year but almost was, dead like the vics he's photographed, gone, just a case number, nothing

Crane lifts the gun and Nick screams, doesn't even bother with crying because it's too late, the gun's going off and there's this weird feeling in his head, a hollow thump and this horrible lack, a vacancy where his brains used to be and

"NICK!"

He came to screaming, mindlessly struggling against whatever it was that was touching him, holding him, oh God it was Nigel, fucking NIGEL get your fucking hands OFF me you perv

"Nick, it's okay! It's okay, it's me, Grissom, listen to me. It's okay. Just a dream, all right? Just a dream."

Panting, heart banging against his ribs with panic, Nick fought for a second, and then Grissom's wonderfully calm, sane voice penetrated.

"Shhh, it's okay, Nick, it's all right. It's just a dream. He's not here. Just me."

Nick took in a gigantic whoop of air, and tried to sit up. "Wha --" he said dizzily. Grissom? But Grissom was in Vegas, and Nick was -- where, exactly? Maine, right? Wait, no, this wasn't Maine, this was Canada, Mounties, hair-pulling. Grissom.

"Gil," he gasped, and burst into tears.

Grissom didn't budge. Holding him, hard when he tried to break away because this was too fucking embarrassing, he hated to cry but he hated crying in front of anyone more, and yet he just didn't have the control, didn't want the fucking control. What he wanted --

-- was Grissom, there, and here he was, and it was okay, maybe not completely, but a shitload better than it had been. So he pressed his face against Grissom's chest and stopped thinking about it, and let go.

When he could think again, he became aware of two things. First, Grissom's tee shirt was soaked. And second, as screwy as it sounded, as unexpected as it was, Nick felt better, safer, than he had in weeks, right here.

He put his hand on Grissom's wet shirt and grimaced. "I'm sor--"

"It's okay. Relax. It's okay."

So here was a picture, a part of his mind told him. The part that sat back and offered its own lively commentary on everything. All cuddled up with the boss, ain't that sweet. Why don't you just call him Daddy and get it over --

"Shut up," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, sliding his arms shamelessly around Grissom's waist and closing his eyes to the feel of Grissom's hand stroking his hair. "S'okay."

And it kinda was okay, and he thought about how strangely great that was before he slipped back into the thankfully now-dreamless realm of sleep.

~~~~~

"So. Where to?"

Nick fumbled for his sunglasses. "Portland. My car, remember?"

"Right. Ferry?"

"Beats swimming."

Grissom laughed, and put the car in reverse.

Hell of it was, Grissom didn't seem to be anything but completely cool with waking up to Nick wrapped around him. And since Nick *wasn't* completely cool about it -- didn't know what to think of it, if truth were told -- that same coolness was extremely freaky in and of itself.

He'd had no idea how long Grissom had been awake. There was just the solid, unbelievably reassuring feel of a strong body next to his own, and then he was blinking at his boss, who he had evidently stuck to like a barnacle all night.

"Hey," Grissom said, looking sleepy and so not not-cool, Nick was immediately, extremely awake.

"Hey," Nick croaked, unbarnacle-ing himself. Even with the curtains drawn the sunlight was crucifying. "Shit," he mumbled, reaching up to rub his eyes.

"Don't. You'll make it worse."

"Uh," Nick responded idiotically.

"Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. In that order?"

"Uh."

"You're not a morning person, are you?"

"Are you?"

"Shower, Nick. I prefer conversing with people who are actually awake."

He took a long, blissfully hot shower and tried not to look at himself too much in the mirror while he dried off. Man, he looked worse than his high-school girlfriend had the morning after they broke up. Give raccoons a run for their money.

He put on his jeans and finally paid attention to how loose they were. Maybe Griss was right. He'd dropped a few pounds. He'd see to that, if he could just find his lost appetite.

When he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, Grissom had found coffee someplace and was talking quietly on the phone. Seeing Nick, he put his hand over the receiver and lifted his chin. "Catherine," he mouthed. Nick nodded, most of his brief content melting away.

In the tiny cafe adjoining the motel, Nick poked at eggs and potatoes and watched Grissom polish off a seriously huge omelette. "Most important meal of the day, huh?" Nick remarked weakly.

"S'really good. Want some?"

"No, thanks." He went back to poking.

A few minutes later Grissom sipped his orange juice and leaned back. "Eat, Nick," he said gently, another one of those tiny smiles on his face. "You said it, not me, remember?"

Nick forced a smile and made himself eat a bite. The little, nasty voice in his head sat up and said, You know, Nigel watched you eat. Sat up there and candid-cameraed the whole thing. Breakfast, lunch, whatever. Watched you take a crap. Watched you shower. Watched you jerk

With a revolted sound Nick shoved himself back from the table, scanning the room with absolute focus, looking for the bathroom. About one and a half minutes later he left what he'd managed of eat of breakfast in the toilet, and kept right on trying to throw up the lining of his stomach for a while after. When it seemed to be over, he clawed his way to a standing position, hit the handle on the toilet and reeled over to the sink. His mouth tasted utterly gross. He rinsed, and drank a little water, but when it gurgled dangerously he left it alone, too.

Just -- don't think about it. That's the ticket. Everything will be okay if you just. Don't. Think about it.

Back at the table, the dishes were thankfully gone, and Grissom had already paid the ticket. "Come on," he said mildly, touching Nick's elbow. "Let's pack up and hit the road."

Which brought them to now, and the sound of Gil's sweet laughter in the air, and back to the idea that this guy -- his boss, head honcho, brain trust -- had come three-fucking-thousand miles just to see if his sorry ass was still alive.

"Christ, this has been a real pain in the ass for you, hasn't it?" he asked, shutting his eyes.

"Yes, Nick," came Grissom's deadpan reply. "Major pain in the ass."

"Why didn't you send -- Sara, or Warrick, or -- " He broke off.

Grissom swung them out into traffic. "Would you rather I'd done that?"

Nick glanced at him, obscurely uncomfortable. "I didn't say that. I just -- They're not the boss."

"Humor me, and stop obsessing over it."

Nick caught his grin, and had to smile, too.

Chapter Four

Three days later they were in Quebec, and Nick was smiling a lot more.

"It's summer, right?" Gil asked, frowning at the clouds.

"Last time I checked."

"Huh. So we're just acclimated to Nevada, I guess."

"It's cold, Gil. It's 49 degrees. For June, that's cold."

"So it's not just me."

"Nope."

"Good."

"Of course you're from California, and I'm from Texas. What do we know?"

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Nick just grinned.

When he thought about it, he couldn't remember ever having quite as good a time as he had had, the past few days. Well, sure he'd had fun. But this was different, in ways that sort of made sense and sort of didn't. A different flavor of fun, maybe.

For one thing, Grissom's smarts were pretty interesting, if Nick got over himself enough to admit it. Griss had weird little factoids about everything under the sun. From the history of Niagara Falls to a bewildering treatise on the Canadian dollar that had made Nick's head hurt, the guy just had a shitload of info stored in his head. And far from being geeky and kind of weird, it was actually pretty cool.

"You need to go on Jeopardy," Nick remembered saying, a day ago.

Gil gave him a baleful look. "No, thanks," he said thinly.

"Why not? Make a ton of money, dazzle people with your intellect --"

"Don't go there, Nick."

"Face it, Gil, you're a fucking brain trust. Besides, it's not embarrassing to do Jeopardy. A friend of mine did it, couple years ago. Didn't win, but he did pretty good. You'd knock 'em out."

Gil just smiled. "Can you really see me on Jeopardy?" he asked, and Nick had to laugh, because no, he really couldn't, but shit, the guy was brilliant! Could you blame him?

But there were other things he discovered, too. Things like the fact that Grissom wasn't a Vulcan, after all.

"I'm sorry about the other night," Nick said later that day, in a diner in a minuscule Quebec town. His Nevada plates had caused quite a spectacle; even now he saw a few folks clustered around the back of his car, gawking. Anywhere else, he'd have been out the door, sure they were going to slash his tires or something. Here, well, he wasn't worried. Call it instinct, but these didn't look like the tire-slashing types.

Grissom glanced up from his plate. "Sorry about what?"

Nick put down his sandwich and considered the possibility that what the cafe called "ham," was known as "Spam" in the states. "In Nova Scotia," he said, wrinkling his nose at the sandwich. "I have -- bad dreams."

"Oh. Don't apologize." Gil was eyeing his own lunch with a similar look of opprobrium. "I'm just glad I could help."

And that was the hell of it, because Gil did help. And with a level of concern and honest caring that made Nick feel deeply and obscurely ashamed for the names he'd called Grissom in the past.

There hadn't been any more nightmares since Nova Scotia, that he could remember. But some bad moments, for all that. The creeping certainty that Nigel Crane's attentions had been based on something other than sheer emulation had made it very hard to just give up and move on. Nick felt more and more that -- weird as it sounded -- Jane Galloway had been the warmup. The appetizer. Nick himself had been the main course. And that was damned hard to stomach.

"You could be right," Gil had told him very matter-of-factly, the previous night. "I thought at first that you simply represented something to him. You were an avatar -- an archetype."

Nick looked at him. "And now?"

"I'm not so sure."

"More personal than that, huh."

"Maybe so."

Hadn't been quite as hard to hear as he'd imagined, but that was probably based on the fact that Gil had had his arm around Nick at the time, and that helped a whole lot.

Which led him to the third different flavor of this trip -- not the bubble-gum ice cream of laughter, but maybe something rich, and more sophisticated. Jamocha, maybe. If he continued the ice-cream analogy.

Every night there was a double hotel room. But every night so far, they'd only used one bed. And that was both alarming and something else, and between the two Nick wasn't at all sure which was more compelling.

Where to start? Why was this happening? From choosing Grissom to call instead of Sara or Warrick, to being wildly glad that Gil was there, to winding up in bed with him? Not that "bed" had any real connotations. It was just comfort. But Nick hadn't been comforted by much of anyone for a while now, and certainly not Grissom.

Certainly not a MAN, the nasty little voice inside him piped up helpfully.

Which still didn't explain why it just felt so damn good.

They didn't talk about it. At least there was that vestige of masculinity left to him. Grissom didn't make any comments on how Nick couldn't seem to sleep unless he stuck to Gil like a limpet. No rejection, no cute remarks, no censure. Nothing but an easy acceptance that had Nick guiltily wondering about Grissom's past -- and his own new-found tendencies -- and growing increasingly uncertain about -- well, just about everything.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Nick looked up and felt himself flushing. "Canadian, or American?"

Grissom shrugged. "Whatever."

"Just thinking."

"Yeah, that much I figured out on my own."

"What did he plea?"

Grissom frowned.

"Nigel. Guilty, not guilty?"

"Oh. I think his attorney's probably going with the insanity defense."

Nick snorted, giving up on the sandwich and focusing on his soda. "Think it'll work?"

"I don't know. Hard to say. The guy's at least somewhat insane."

"Somewhat? He's a fucking lunatic."

"Maybe." Grissom made the same gustatory decision and put his napkin on the table.

"Will I have to testify?"

"No one will make you if you don't want to. But the DA won't have much of a case without you."

"Yeah. Figures."

"Either way, he won't go to trial for months yet. Don't worry about it." He caught Nick's second snort and amended, "Not too much, at least. Better?"

"Guess so."

Outside the diner some people were still gawking. Nick smiled a little uncomfortably and unlocked the driver's side door. "Is it just me," he asked inside the car, "or are we some kind of fifteen-minute wonder here?"

Grissom fastened his seat belt. "As Americans, no. But the car? Yeah. How many people drive this far up into Quebec?"

"Good point."

The cool weather continued, and that night Nick shivered when he crawled into bed.

With the boss, the voice told him with mock innocence.

Whatever, he thought, and pulled up the blanket.

Chapter Five

By the time they passed Thunder Bay, Ontario, Nick was getting tired of driving. Tired of the car, tired of traveling. Which somehow didn't quite translate to "ready to go home" quite yet, but which made him feel antsy, what his mom would have called "a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."

So he surrendered the wheel with a sense of relief, and tried not to think about anything at all.

"Tired of Canada?" Gil was smiling, like he'd been waiting to drive and was thankful Nick finally gave in.

"Dunno. You?"

"Sorta."

Nick frowned. "How long can you be gone?"

"Twenty minutes?" Grissom laughed, sounding so ridiculously young and, well, human, Nick couldn't help grinning, too. "Catherine's got things in hand. I think she's enjoying holding the reins."

"She's been waiting for you to get promoted."

"Then she's got some waiting to do. Because I'm not promoting anytime soon."

Nick smiled. "Glad to hear it."

"Know anyone in Minnesota?"

"Not a soul."

"Friend of mine lives outside Duluth." Gil made a face. "Nah. And we'd have to backtrack to hit Chicago."

"North Dakota?"

"Nope."

"Me, neither."

Gil glanced at a semi passing them at full blast. "What do *you* want to do?" he asked, facing forward again. "Any ideas?"

Nick slumped back in his seat. "Not really," he answered honestly. "Let's go back."

He could feel Grissom's sharp gaze on him. "You sure?"

"No. But what else are we gonna do? Calgary?"

"Whatever you say."

"Ever been to British Columbia?"

Grissom gave him another sharp look. "You do realize that's a hell of a long way from here."

Nick nodded. "Look, you know, I could drop you off at the airport, shit, I dunno, Minneapolis. You could catch a flight home. I'll be okay."

"You sure?"

Nick drew a breath to reply, and Gil continued, "Because I think you're better, Nick, but I'm not going to ditch you and find out you disappeared again. That's -- No."

"I won't disappear."

"No, because you'll be with me."

"Gri --"

"Weren't you calling me Gil a few miles back?"

Nick blinked at him. "Habit, I guess," he stammered after a moment.

"Call me Gil, okay? Because otherwise I'm going to feel like we're working, and this is my vacation, you know."

"God, I hope not."

"Why not? Road trip, see some serious country, good company -- what's not to like?"

"Let me count the ways," Nick replied dryly.

"Look, don't worry about it, okay? Just relax."

Riiight. He'd been sorta relaxed, but now his nerves were jittering like cold water on a hot skillet. Great work, Nick. Not only have you fucked up your own job, but now you're cutting into Grissom's, too. Gil's. Whatthefuckever.

"I sense you continuing to worry."

"What kind of strings did you have to pull to do this?" Nick asked tightly, feeling his jaw start to ache. "Don't tell me you didn't, because I know what kind of a place CSI is, and there's no way you could just disappear and people don't notice."

"Funny, that's exactly what I thought when you did it," Grissom shot back.

"Place isn't gonna fall apart because I'm not there. I'm a cog in the wheel. You're the wheel, Gil. You they'll miss."

Grissom's knuckles looked a little tight on the steering wheel. "Let me tell you a story, Nick. No, don't talk," he added when Nick drew a frustrated breath. "Just listen. Once upon a time there was this guy. Good at his job, well-liked and respected by his colleagues. A nice guy.

"One day something very bad happened to our guy. Something no one could have predicted, and no one could have prevented. And it hurt him a lot. And finally it got so bad that he took some time off."

"G --"

"Shut up. Now this guy's friends and colleagues were pretty worried about him. They understood what was going on, or at least they were fairly sure they mostly did, but they couldn't help worrying. After all, he was important to them. They *noticed* when he was gone. Like the hole where a tooth has been, the way your tongue keeps looking around for something that's not there anymore.

"So one day his friends sat around a table and talked about what they should do. Because, you see, they had to do *something*. And they talked about it, and talked some more, and nobody knew what to do. But when one of those friends had an idea, everyone agreed." Grissom glanced over at Nick, his eyes thunderously dark. "That's the key, Nick. The moral to this little story. Everyone AGREED. This was the right thing to do. And everyone also agreed that if they all worked together, this idea would work.

"So stop worrying, all right? We miss you, Nick. I miss you. And I want you back. I don't want to sit around and do nothing while you're in trouble. I can't do that. And don't think we didn't argue about who got to come. Because there's not a person on our team who wouldn't have gone in a fucking heartbeat. No one. I practically had to sedate Warrick to keep him from going on his own, and Sara was calling for plane tickets to Texas before we even knew exactly where you were. You got that?"

His chest hurt so bad, he thought maybe he was having some kind of heart attack. "Yeah," Nick wheezed without strength. "I -- I got it."

"Good." Grissom looked at him again, and some of the fierce emotion cooled a little. "Shit, are we staying in Canada or not? Did we decide that?"

Nick smiled a tiny bit. "Not really. How far to Vegas from here?"

"Thirty hours?"

"Wow. That far, huh."

"Yep."

"Home, I guess."

"Home it is."

A few miles passed in silence; not a bad silence, but somehow fraught, for all that. Finally Nick asked, "Whose idea was it?"

Grissom snorted a little. "Whose do you think?"

Staring straight ahead, Nick replied, "I think it was yours."

"Damn right it was."

Another mile, and Nick drew a difficult breath. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He could hear the smile in Grissom's voice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You talk to Catherine today?"

Grissom spat out toothpaste and shook his head. "She'll call if she wants. She's got the number."

"We'll be back by Sunday. Maybe you oughta call her." Nick shrugged out of his shirt.

"Tomorrow, maybe."

Nick nodded, and tried to sidle out of the way as Gil left the bathroom.

It didn't work, and later he thought that that was pretty much the moment the slippery slope became less of a stumble and more of a freefall.

Grissom's hand came out, just an automatic touch, but his hand on Nick's bare waist was like a caress from a cattle prod. Nick gasped, stiffening, and Grissom's touch tightened with quick concern. Thereby compounding the issue.

"You okay? What? What's wrong?"

It felt as if his entire blood supply had cleanly divided in half. Half went to his face, the biggest fucking blush he could ever remember experiencing. And the other half went immediately and most embarrassingly straight to his dick.

"N -- Nothing," Nick mumbled frantically. "S'okay." He stepped back, trying to do -- something, not sure what, either break Gil's dangerous touch or else maybe, what, he had no idea.

"Hey. It's okay."

"No, it's not," Nick whispered urgently. "It's really not."

He almost *felt* it when Grissom finally got the message. Hopefully it was because of their proximity, and not because of the spectacular boner Nick was now sporting. "Oh. Nick --"

"I need to grab a shower." He tried getting around again, only this time Grissom blocked him on purpose.

"What is it? Tell me."

"NO."

"You --"

"I CAN'T!" Nick cried miserably, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Look at me. Do it, Nick, look at me."

Hot, absurd tears burned his eyes. He flickered a glance up and oh CHRIST, Gil's face was just too fucking close, it wasn't SAFE, didn't he get that? What did it take, a neon sign? "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

Then Gil reached out and pulled him close, and oh BOY if he hadn't figured out Nick's problem with Mr. Chubby by now this had pretty much given it away. But some rebellious part of him -- probably the part controlling his dick right now -- was overjoyed, so relieved it made him wordless, so intent it sent his own arms sliding around Gil's waist before his rational mind had a second to veto the action.

"Nick." Gil's voice sounded odd. Deeper, maybe. "It's okay. It's really okay."

It's not okay, his rational mind informed him coldly. It's most definitely not not not-okay.

Fuck that, his non-rational dick said, just before it sent him leaning forward, yearning with every cell in his body for something that he had no right to want. *I'm* in control here, not you, so fuck off.

The thing that shocked him then, the only thing that evidently had the power to break the spell of the non-rational, happened just after his lips touched Gil's. Because it felt so good he wanted to cry, but lookie here, Ma, Grissom's got a woody to match Nick's, and seems to be enjoying this -- say it, asshole, this KISS -- every bit as much as Nick is.

Which was the thing that suddenly made the rational take over, and had him pulling away with a broken, "No."