Riddles
A series of naughty scenes
by Emily Brunson
(c)2002
III.
What does man love more than life
Fear more than death or mortal strife
What the poor have, the rich require,
And what contented men desire,
What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves
And all men carry to their graves?
He barely saw Nick the rest of the week. On purpose, of course. There was no feasible way to absent himself entirely from the lab, even if he'd wanted to, but he did his level best to ensure their contact was limited, and always chaperoned by one unwitting person or more.
The smirk on Nick's face, occasional but all too clear, showed him his machinations weren't exactly subtle. But that mattered less than the bare fact of keeping himself away from Nick as much as possible.
The entire situation took on a surreal quality. With time and distance he could say to himself, That was an aberration, a momentary lapse in judgement brought on by anger and proximity. Nothing more. But nothing changed the fact of his reaction to Nick's infrequent presence. Like a crystal goblet resonating to one particular pitch and no others, his nerves went haywire the minute he saw Nick's face, or just glimpsed him down the hall. Anywhere. Those brief moments made his breathing quicken, his heart speed up, and his dick dismayingly hard.
It didn't help the already sorry state of affairs that Nick was intent on playing that particular trump card for all it was worth.
Was that good-ol-boy demeanor really such a facade? There wasn't a cell in Gil's body that believed it could be faked that perfectly; therefore it wasn't, completely. And yet there were the facts. Facts like their two heated, dizzily furious encounters.
How did you balance the one against the other? It didn't balance. Couldn't.
Fact was, far from being the open book he appeared to be, Nick was a conundrum. And it was to Gil's shame that that particular puzzle had an allure he hadn't attributed to a living human being in so long he couldn't remember ever doing it.
By Friday he felt like a walking, talking, wide-open nerve ending. And he wasn't hiding it well, either. No one escaped the sharp edge of his tongue, deservedly or not. He did his best to control it, but he was fraying, and the fact that he knew the answer to the problem only made him more determined to overcome the need for a cure at all.
Which of course meant that on Saturday morning, when decent folks were having leisurely breakfasts and pondering the delicious expanse of weekend opening up before them, he found himself at his car, tired and irritable and altogether unprepared for the source of his frustration appearing at his side.
"Wanna get something to eat?"
He gave Nick what he prayed was his most withering look, and snorted. "No," he said briefly, opening the door and flinging his briefcase in the back. "I'm going home."
"Maybe you need a massage."
The amused tone made him immediately angry, and it didn't help knowing Nick already knew that. "Oh really."
"I'm just saying. You look really tense."
Only anger gave him the strength to meet Nick's knowing eyes. Anger was the answer. Without it he wouldn't be able to stand it. "Maybe you're right," Gil said frostily. "In any case --"
"You said you didn't want to play any more games. So why don't you stop playing? If it's just an itch, scratch it, man."
"Is that what this is to you? Scratching an ITCH?"
Nick shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Oh, for God's sake --"
"Look, if it makes any difference, I'm sorry, all right?" Nick's eyes, sullen again but somehow wounded as well, flickered back up.
Gil smiled, even though amusement was not on the agenda for this particular encounter. "No, you're not."
"Didn't hear you complaining."
"You heard me trying to keep this from happening again, Nick. That's what you heard."
Nick rolled his eyes. "Right, tell me you don't pop a boner just thinking about it." His own smile was bitter and bright with that same mix of anger and hurt.
"I can't do that. But that doesn't mean it's right."
"Fuck right. What about what you want?"
"Goddamn it, Nick, where's the pod? Where is this coming from?"
"Answer the question. What do YOU want?"
Gil stood there, breathing a little too fast, and stared at him. What did he want? If he really wanted to bail, wouldn't he have done so by now? Which meant the events of the past week had essentially been voluntary, as much as he'd like to think otherwise. Which in turn meant --
"Forget it," Nick said harshly, his expression gone stony. "Doesn't matter. Yeah, go home, Grissom." He turned away.
"You called me Gil a few days ago," Gil said.
Nick was walking away, digging in his pocket for keys. "Won't happen again."
~~~~~~~~~~
Whatever he expected, which wasn't much considering the way things had played out earlier, it sure as hell wasn't Grissom standing at the door when he answered the bell.
The fast surge of adrenaline made his stomach turn. "What?" Nick barked.
Grissom didn't look furtive, or anything but kind of pissed, and majorly bothered. "I don't like it when people just walk away from me."
Nick shrugged. "Yeah, well, get used to it."
Grissom's foot stopped him from closing the door. "Are you always this rude to your guests?" Grissom asked in a deceptively mild voice.
"You're not a guest."
"Invite me in."
"Aw, Christ. Do what you want." Nick swallowed a ridiculous flare of -- something -- and turned away.
"I don't think I've ever seen your place before."
"Well, here it is."
"Nice." It felt like Grissom was undressing him, the way his eyes took in Nick's house, his stuff. Unexpectedly intimate. "Very you."
Nick crossed his arms. "Why are you here?"
"We need to talk," Grissom said baldly. His expression was utterly calm, unreadable.
"Right."
"I mean it, Nick. This can't continue. Not like this."
Nick raised his eyebrows. "That's not the same as not at all," he countered as coolly as he could.
Grissom's Zen-master veneer rippled a little. "No," he said, blinking. "It's not."
"So tell me what this is, huh?" Nick sighed and sat down hard on the sofa.
Grissom took a seat opposite him. "Honestly? I don't have a clue. I'll say this for you: Not many things surprise me anymore. You did."
"Yeah, well, I suck at riddles, but I can still hide a few aces up my sleeve."
Grissom frowned. "You know something? I really, really wish you'd get off that. It's over, done with, we're on to something else now."
"Say that again," Nick muttered, studying his hands.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
Nick forced a hard smile. "About how much I'd like a damn beer right about now."
The answering smile on Grissom's face wasn't hard at all. "So have one," he replied simply.
He got a beer out of the fridge, and then another. What the hell. Grissom nodded his thanks and held the bottle loosely, resuming his surveillance.
The beer tasted salty and so cold it made his teeth hurt. "I don't know what you want me to say," Nick mumbled after a very long moment of silence.
"Okay." Grissom sipped his beer and shrugged. "Tell me how long you're going to be pissed about the riddle."
Yesterday the tone would have been enough to set him off yet again. Today, though, it all seemed pretty silly. Stupid, in an annoying way. "I'll get over it," he replied briefly. "Always do."
Grissom nodded slowly. "So," he continued in a remote voice, "if I tell you I'd like to find out what sex might be like without wanting to rip your throat out at the same time -- What would you say then?"
All the cold beers on the planet wouldn't have been enough to stave off the heat that rose suddenly, scalding his face. "Uh." He had to swallow; the blunt question made his brain slow down to a trudge. "I don't. Know."
"It's highly unprofessional, of course," Grissom told him in a weird, light voice. His expression was wry. "But then, that hasn't stopped us before."
Now he was pretty sure his face would explode into flames any moment now, and the image was enough to make him snicker, for all that it was pretty gross. "Nope."
"And why do you think that is?"
He risked a look, and saw nothing but a little humor and a lot of attention on Grissom's face. No mockery, even though his entire body was tensed, absolutely ready for it. "Heat of the moment," he replied slowly.
"It's possible. Maybe something else."
Resisting the urge to roll the sweaty cold beer bottle over his hot cheeks, Nick said, "I dunno. Maybe."
"Maybe fighting gave us an excuse to do something we wanted to do anyway."
"Man." Nick stood up fast, almost dropping the bottle he held. "I think -- I mean, that's --"
Grissom stood, too, easy grace that made Nick feel clumsy, oafish. He put his beer on the table and stepped toward him. "Maybe talking's overrated," Grissom observed gravely.
When he edged into Nick's space it felt utterly bizarre. No rage to give him nerve, no indignation to make him feel righteous. Just -- bodies, in really close proximity. His heart sped up unsteadily. "Are you sure --"
Grissom's hand touched his waist, and he forgot how to talk. The beer bottle slipped out of his nerveless fingers about the same moment Grissom's mouth covered his own.