It’d been a long night. 

Nick wearily made his way through the crowding corridors as the day shift came into the lab, all light and life, weightless and unaware.  Like the horrors of last night were scary bedtime stories tamed by morning.  Like violent crimes were less gory, less terrifying, during the daytime, and maybe they were, Nick sometimes felt.  But he was done his work for now, on his way home and to bed, the sour smell of blood still stained into his freshly showered skin and horrors flashing before his eyes like he’d just seen them.  It took Nick two years as a CSI to realize that he was supposed to feel this way after a shift, that it wasn’t just him being the odd man out.

Four homicides in a three hour span, four separate confessions immediately following.  Usually that made his job easier, but without any lab time, without putting forth any real thought and effort and trying to wrap his brain around a mystery, the shift seemed to drag on for days.  Sara teased him about the confessions that night and the “rough” task of having to complete his paperwork.  Nick tried to take her ribbing in good spirits but it was hard when she was knee-deep in the evidence room and spoke without looking up from the assortment of grotesque items splayed out, surrounding her.  He envied her.

“Grissom, no!  Absolutely not.  The department is maxed out, and I need every available CSI on this--”

Nick didn’t stifle his groan at hearing Ecklie’s voice come from Grissom’s office.  With the way the night had gone, of course CSI’s would be called into overtime.  But Nick’s pager hadn’t gone off and he was ten minutes late leaving the building; perhaps no one would--

No.  Nick couldn’t do that to the team, couldn’t do that to the ones already left behind.  Couldn’t leave Grissom a CSI short.

He slowed outside Grissom’s office, settling against the doorframe.  Ecklie’s back was to him as he leaned across the desk and stared Grissom down.  Judging by the patient, placating looks returned by his supervisor, Ecklie wasn’t getting anywhere.

“I’m taking care of it,” Grissom said calmly, leaning to the side to acknowledge Nick’s presence with an appreciative nod.

Ecklie scoffed and turned swiftly on his heel with an intake of breath--

But Grissom was already saying, “It’s covered, Conrad.  That’s why I have Nick here.”

“At your service,” Nick didn’t miss a beat, folding his arms and smiling his put-on smile, top teeth all showing.  Ecklie’s shoulders sagged forward in a defeated slump and he stormed past him.

Alone, Nick took the seat that Grissom indicated.  “What’s up?”

Grissom let out a heavy breath and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face.  Apparently Nick wasn’t the only one who had a long night.  “We’re on mandatory overtime.  The department needs help, and it looks like it’s falling on CSI to do that.  You’ve heard of the Reynolds case?  There were two more homicides yesterday on Bentley, and ballistics has just matched the bullets to the gun used in the Reynolds shooting.”

Nick heard of the case already, even though it wasn’t exactly the talk of the department.  A married couple, the Reynolds, were murdered two weeks ago with no apparent motive.  Which was odd, sure, but not unusual. 

“So why are we--” Nick trailed off, confused.  The mention of Bentley caught his attention - that road was near Warwick’s apartment, but other than that, he couldn’t understand why this warranted the overtime.

Grissom sat down and faced him squarely, saying matter-of-factly, “They’ve only just matched the gun to one that was used in a big bank robbery and kidnapping twenty years ago.  Turns out the Reynolds were prime suspects back then.  Neither was solved, and now the couples’ daughter – no, alleged daughter, who had been clamouring for her inheritance since informed of her parents’ death, has disappeared.  There is no birth record, so she could be the kidnapped victim.”

“One big mess.”

Grissom mouthed a “Yeah,” and tilted his head a little, examining Nick.  “Are you up for this?”

It was a strange question for Grissom to ask, Nick thought, but he was never, what Nick would call, a predictable man.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked gamely.

“This is the swing shift’s case, with primary backing from the day.  We’re at their mercy.”

“Cleaning the labs behind them?” Nick inquired with a smile, not quite keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. 

“No, Greg,” Grissom bit back fairly, turning his attention to the opened files.  “I want you to check out the bank.  Just the outside of it.  Then stay there for a few hours and stake it out.  If nothing happens after – say, 6 hours, phone in and head home.”  He paused for a moment before adding, “Just a theory I have.”

“Stake out a bank that was robbed twenty years ago,” Nick said slowly.  Sounded just as stupid when he said it out loud.

“The bank’s on Bentley.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to put you with Warwick on this,” Grissom said lightly, like it was nothing. 

Like he wasn’t testing Nick’s reaction. 

Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Nick’s hands squeezed together on his lap, and after a few moments loosened quickly.  He hoped Grissom hadn’t seen him do that.  He stood and turned towards the door, and was halfway out when he called back, “Sounds good.  We’ll get right on it.”

He didn’t look back.

***

Nick found Warwick sitting on the locker room bench, Doctor Robbins leaning against the lockers. 

“He should be home in bed,” the doctor commented upon his entrance.

Nick held up his hands, a protective stance.  “Hey, now.  If Warwick’s not well, I’ll just go to Grissom and find someone else to--”

Warwick, who, Nick just noticed, looked more tired and worn than he could ever remember seeing him, held out a hand pleadingly.  “No,” his lips formed, but no sound came out.

“He can’t speak.  His throat is very raw,” the doctor bluntly explained, staring at Warwick disapprovingly.

Nick made a ‘huh’ sound and tried to say casually, “Basketball game, right?”

Warwick swiveled on the bench to glare at him.

“As I understand things, he attended part of a game last night,” Doctor Robbins confirmed.  “And came straight to work from there.  I should also mention he’s complained about his throat for the past week but nothing I’ve given him has done anything.  Of course, when you don’t get any of the prescribed rest...”

Warwick muttered silently.

“That’s right, I am not your mother,” the doctor replied with exaggerated patience.  “But for today, Nick is.”  He held out a bottle – generic throat spray, Nick identified as he took the medication.  “He won’t let me release him from mandatory overtime--”

“Come on, man,” Nick pleaded, giving Warwick a hard look that was returned instantly.  “You already say that I talk too much.  You’re gonna put up with a one-sided conversation for –what, six hours?  And if you’re in pain--”

Warwick shook his head fervently, like a little boy promising to be good.

Nick’s eye caught a wall clock, knowing he didn’t have the time needed to convince his friend.  Or find Sara and Catherine to gang up on him.  Catherine would be enough, his mind supplied.

“Fine, fine,” he gave in, ignoring Warwick’s look of justification towards the doctor, who just rolled his eyes and left quickly.  “Get your stuff.”

Warwick slammed the opened locker door and stood, looking at Nick with his trademark green-eyed stare.  His head tilted down, eyes looking straight on, thumbs tucked into the belt holes of his jeans.

“Hey, it’s not my fault,” Nick commented helplessly, arms splayed out. 

Warwick rolled his eyes and shoved past him.

“Wait up!”  Nick grabbed his tact vest and followed fast, though Warwick was already at the stairs, tapping his foot impatiently. 

Yeah, this should be fun, he mused gloomily.

***

Twenty minutes into their stake-out, Nick was already catching himself fidgeting in the driver’s seat of his truck.  He stopped himself playing with the window, tapping on the wheel, cleaning the coin dispenser with his fingernails, and organizing his CD collection, but it was when Warwick placed a cool hand on his arm that he realized he’d been singing Hank Williams loudly and off-cue, without the accompanying music.

“Sorry,” he said, a little embarrassed.  “Can’t help it.  I’m trying to keep myself talking the ear off ya.”

Warwick was staring at him, the same look as before – head down, eyes forward, and he held out his hand and waved in quick succession.

“What?  You want me to speak?” Nick asked, doubtfully. 

Warwick nodded.

“Seriously.  You want me to start speaking?” Nick was teasing now, and Warwick just shook his head and looked out the passenger side window, but he was smiling and that was all Nick needed.  “Because once I get going, you know I don’t stop.  We’ll start with the small talk, the weather and current events.  You know.  Move on to work topics, and then our coworkers – did you see what Catherine was wearing today?”  He was on a roll.  “Then I’ll delve into some story about my high school days, that’ll lead to my family--  What, no?”

Warwick was holding out his hand again, shaking his head.  He looked tired but amused, and Nick tried to ignore the warmth he felt at that.

“How’s about I head down to that donut shop we passed and grab us something to eat?  Hungry?”

Warwick nodded.

“Alright.  Coffee and sandwich sound good?”

Warwick tilted his head, his eyebrows raised.

“And something sweet,” Nick said knowingly, opening his door and stepping outside.  “Anything goes on, don’t do something stupid.  Text me and I’ll call for back-up.”  He held up his phone and waited until Warwick did the same before he left on foot.

Two hours later, their meal and two coffees each consumed, Nick had covered the weather, local news and some baseball, though he knew Warwick was primarily a football and basketball fan.  What was Warwick going to do about it anyway, he said more than a few times, and was answered with a light tap on his head each time.

Another hour later, Nick realized that he’d run out of safe topics to talk about.  He always was the talker – Warwick always claimed so, anyways, and it wasn’t fair that now he was the only one of the two that could speak.  Hours and hours of small talk to the one person that knew his bullshit and saw through it.  Though it wasn’t exactly a mystery why Warwick was putting up with that now.  In his place, Nick would, too.  Anything to avoid real conversation.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Warwick’s hands wrapped together tightly, knuckles white, and knew that, like Nick, he was trying hard to cope with the situation.  He understood, all too well, and for a moment forgot that he was the ”situation” and reached out instinctively to pat his hand, to reassure him.  But Warwick jerked a little, and that was enough to bring Nick back to reality.

“Sorry,” he said, in his blunt way, thinking that he’d always been bad at pretending that something didn’t exist between them. 

Sometimes – like when Warwick wasn’t around, it was easier to erase history and forget that they had something together, years before.  When Sara Sidle was in San Francisco, Warwick Brown gambled too much, and Nick Stokes never had a gun in his face.  Never was buried underground.

“I just want you to know that I... I understand.  About the voice thing, and about how hard it is to be here, right now, with me.”  Warwick examined his hands closely.  “I mean, imagine if that was me,” Nick added with a little self-deprecating chuckle.

That seemed to snap the spell a bit, Warwick unable to help but smile at that, though he still looked at his hands.

“See?” Nick smiled back warmly, pointing a finger at him.  “We’ll get through this.”

***

Hour five approached, and Nick forgot that he was supposed to censor some topics. 

“I have to say...” he drawled quietly, “I’m happy for you, man.  Happy for you and Tina.  She’s pretty amazing.  You two, you’re good together.”

And that was all he said, all he said for the remainder of their stake-out, but Warwick didn’t acknowledge him.  He just put on one of Nick’s George Canyon CD’s – after pointedly rolling his eyes at Nick’s taste in musicians, resuming his usual practice of staring out the window as it played softly on the back speakers.

***

“Well, time’s up.  I’ll drive you home,” Nick joked after hanging up the phone with Grissom.  Warwick’s building was less than a half-minute’s walk away, but Nick gamely backed up and turned around to park directly outside of his building. 

Warwick scoffed lightly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going through all the trouble, just for you,” Nick joked.

And promptly wished Warwick would leave so that he could bang his head off the steering wheel and be done with it.  It was always like this with Warwick, ever since they broke up.  Ever since Nick tried to remain friends with him.  The teasing, the flirting, it all came so easily.  Most days he couldn’t even remember why they weren’t together anymore.

Oh yeah, a silent voice reminded him.  Tina.

No, it was unfair to blame her for their situation, Nick knew, but he couldn’t help but wonder... Wonder, after being buried alive, what would have happened if Warwick hadn’t had a ring on his finger when he woke up in the hospital...

He almost missed Warwick’s head jerking at his building.

“What?  You want me to come in?” he asked disbelievingly, though he was already unbuckling the seatbelt.

Warwick nodded slowly and groaned tiredly, like he was the one making things difficult.

“Er, sure.”  Nick locked the truck, and hurried to catch-up.

He knew he probably should say that he was exhausted (justifiably so) and head home, because all seeing Warwick’s place – no, Warwick and Tina’s home, would do is satisfy some small curiosity and create a big hole of hurt. 

Still...  Nick was curious to see what Warwick’s apartment looked like.  It wasn’t exactly new-new; he’d moved months after they’d broken up, and Nick hadn’t known he’d gotten a new place until Catherine mentioned something. 

It was a nice building, secure and bright in the lobby, and all the tenants they passed recognized Warwick and waved.

Nick wondered if Warwick still had some of the furniture they’d bought together.

Maybe he just needs some help moving something, or someone to explain things to Tina, he told himself repeatedly in the elevator, letting his mouth run with praise about the building, its appearance, the tenants, the neighbourhood. 

Secretly, he could barely admit to himself, he was happy at this small token of friendship.  Even if all Warwick wanted from him was a little help with something anyone could do, Nick was hungry for his attention and let himself proceed shamelessly.  After all, Warwick initiated it, and if Nick could store this little morsel of hope in his being and let it give him some comfort tonight... well, who was it hurting?

Warwick entered the first apartment right off the elevator, next to the stairwell, and turned to glare Nick into silence as he opened the door.

“Right, I’m not saying it,” Nick replied quickly, even as ‘murder central’ blared in his mind.  Like hell he’d ever let Warwick choose an apartment like this.

Back then.

Warwick turned his back to enter the apartment and Nick followed, immediately thankful his immediate reaction was hidden.  The apartment was slightly larger than Sara’s, though not by much, the kitchen immediately at his right and bathroom to his left, living room in front of him with, he assumed, a bedroom off to the right.  All at first glance.

But the apartment had a sizable balcony off the living room, the apartment higher than most in Vegas, and Nick knew that Warwick would have fallen in love with the view instantly.  It was dusk, and the colourful lights of the strip glowed in the near distance.

“This isn’t your apartment, is it?” Warwick looked at him.  “I mean,” Nick tried to clarify, using his hands, “this isn’t the apartment that you moved into after we...  No,” he confirmed, seeing Warwick shake his head. 

Then Warwick turned around to go into the kitchen (a short trip, Nick’s curious mind supplied), and Nick could let out the breath he was holding. As much as he tried to ignore the small size and location of Warwick’s new home, he couldn’t ignore the filth that surrounded them.  It didn’t make any sense.  They made the same salary, the one that allowed Nick to pay off his student loans and make a down payment on a house within a few years at full-time.  This was obviously the smallest unit the building rented.  Warwick hadn’t even had the same debt that Nick did; he was brilliant, Grissom-brilliant, though without the eccentricities, and had a full ride through college.  What was going on?

This wasn’t the Warwick he knew.  The Warwick that gave Nick the same lecture about organization five years before he gave it to Greg, about having his clothes at the ready and his vehicle organized for emergency calls.  The Warwick that once threatened – and followed through on twice, burning his gym clothes when Nick didn’t get into the habit of washing them daily.

Back then. 

“What’s going on?” Nick asked, and wasn’t surprised when Warwick didn’t turn back around from the fridge.

His shoulders were heaving up and down, and he appeared to make a decision about something.  He held two beers in his hands and he set them down on the countertop, gesturing for Nick to follow him.

Warwick was leading him on a tour, he realized.  In the kitchen, he pointed to dishes in the sink, opened the bare fridge to reveal beer and some leftover Chinese take-out, and then the floor, covered in muddy shoeprints. 

“Hey, I’m not your maid,” Nick kidded lightly.  “Never was.“

Back then. 

Warwick pushed him just as lightly but his eyes were sad.

He showed Nick the living room - all old furniture, nothing they’d purchased together.  No paintings hung on the walls.  Some boxes were lined in the corners.  

Oh. 

He led Nick into the bedroom, oddly larger than the rest of the apartment, though, Nick thought, that was probably due to the fact there was only one single sleeping bag and desktop light in the entire room.

Warwick turned back around, to watch Nick’s reaction.

Nick wondered how he could have missed this.  “Oh man, I am so sorry, Rick.”

Warwick mouthed a “Yeah,” heading back out to the living room.

He gestured to the old furniture – must have come with the apartment, Nick realized, and accepted a beer, watching Warwick rummage through a box.

Nick sat and waited, the beer almost too cold to hold between two hands, his belly turning with the implications of what he was seeing.

Don’t think it, his mind repeated the mantra.  Just-- don’t.

Warwick stopped rummaging, taking out a piece of paper and hurriedly handing it over.

Nick - nervous, nervous Nick stood up too fast, feeling a little dizzy.  It’s a picture of them together, six years before – kids, really, the thought crosses his mind, and it wasn’t long after that when he felt the red heat of shame spread across his face.  Tina found this, he knew without having to ask.  Tina found this, and because of him, they were no longer together. 

It was his fault.  Nick’s fault.

He stumbled back, landing hard in his seat.  No matter how many times in the past, whether it be measured in the years before he was buried alive or the months afterwards, Nick never wanted to be the reason Warwick couldn’t have happiness.

They sat in silence together for a long time, finishing off their beers.  Warwick almost had the label completely peeled off when Nick suddenly said, again in his blunt manner, “I’m sorry.  I know it’s not what you want to hear.  And I don’t know if you’re blaming me,” he stopped.  Warwick was shaking his head emphatically, and it was such a kind, untrue gesture that Nick just had to pause and breath at the friendship of it.

He tried again, his eyes looking but not looking at the faded coffee table in front of him.  “I don’t know if you blame me, but...  When you got married, it was just so shocking and I don’t know... It was a good thing I found out, because I’d almost...”  He stopped again.  It all seemed petty and pointless to say but when could Nick Stokes stop running his mouth?

“I told Grissom about us, you know,” he swallowed the last of his beer, catching Warwick’s incredulous stare and unable to help chuckling.  Yeah, he knew what Warwick was saying, even when he wasn’t saying a thing.  “Anyways, he’d already figured things out on his own.  Guess I was mooning over you a little too obviously.”

Nick set the bottle down on the carpet beside him, wiping his hands on his pants.  The beer was making him brave.  And stupid.

“Made me promise not to hurt you, can you believe that?” Nick chuckled again, nervously.  “He... approved, I think.  Didn’t tell me to stop seeing you.  Didn’t say anything nasty, like other supervisors might of.  Did he ever say anything to you?”

Warwick’s eyes were dark and questioning, and he hesitated a moment – watching Nick watch him, before shaking his head gently.

“Ah.  Guess he thought it’d run its course.  Guess it did.”

That seemed to be Warwick’s breaking point, the one that, Nick realized, he’d been building up to the entire day.  He jolted from his seat and scrambled to the kitchen so fast that Nick, lost in his own memories and thoughts, startled and wondered if the pager went off without him hearing it.

But Warwick came back with a pen and pad, quickly jotting something down.  He finished and read over what he wrote before shoving the pad under Nick’s nose. 

He sat down on the coffee table directly in front of Nick.  His back was hunched over, his legs apart and hands clasped before him.  His tired eyes seemed to contain something that was missing the entire day, missing... oh, for so much longer than one day.  Something Nick could only identify as longing.  Hope.  The hope of something, of someone.  Of happiness.

Nick let himself wonder, hope... 

They sat facing one another, less than a foot apart.

Nick tore his eyes away to read the pad.

I’m sorry.

“Oh, god.  No.  No, no.  Hey now,” he bumbled out, and suddenly Warwick was crying.  Well, no.  Not quite, Nick’s mind rambled the monologue as he smiled at the tenderness of it all.  Warwick’s kind of crying, one silent tear rolling slowly down his cheek.  In some ways – all the important ways, Warwick’s cry was more loving and heartbreaking than an all out sob.

Nick leaned forward, forgot the day and the past six years, forgot one prostitute, one lounge singer and one wife, and cupped the back of Warwick’s head into his shoulder.

It’d been so long since he held Warwick, Nick felt heartened and pained.  This was no fantasy previously denied.  He allowed himself to remember the strong scent of this man that he loved more than anyone he even loved his entire life.  The feel of strong hands against his back, the softness of his cheek against Nick’s stubbly chin.  Just to enjoy his presence without trying to forget the past, instead embracing the past, embracing Warwick, who was solid and real, felt like the most natural thing in the entire universe.  No fantasy – no memory, ever could compete with the love and appreciation Nick felt in the moment.  For Warwick.

‘I’m sorry’ Warwick had written, but it was Nick who felt sorry, felt like it was all his fault.  Because even when Warwick had been the one to distance himself, the one who finally let Nick go, it took two to make a relationship, and if Warwick was drifting – into erratic behaviour, into gambling, away from him, Nick should have stopped him. 

Damn it.

Nick wanted to say this aloud.  Instead he tightened his hold – a hold that, since their break-up, always felt awkward on anyone else, and said lowly into his hair-

“God, Rick.  Wanted to do so much.  Missed you so much.  Wanted to take you home, to my parents.  They’d have loved you.   My momma kept talking about you - still does, saying you were there for me when I was... you know.  When you came for me, when I was in the-- underground.”

He heard his voice break but kept holding on, kept talking.  “It was like she knew.  I wanted to tell her and everyone about us, even if it meant my job.  Another shift.  Different county.  Anything to be with you.”

Warwick’s breathing had steadied but his grip remained firm.

“I wanted to live with you.  Really live with you, not sometimes at your place and sometimes at mine.  Travel with you.  Or stay at home with you, always.  I got some of that these past few... god... six years.  I considered – still do – how lucky I am that you could still chat with me, talk to me.  When I was... underground, I—I could only think about your--”

Nick stopped, his voice too hoarse to continue. 

Heat was on his ear and he realized that Warwick was talking to him, encouraging him to continue.

“I could only think about your conversation with me in the locker room before, about being out with Tina, and--” Warwick tensed.  “No, no, nothing like that.  It was... comforting.  To know that you had someone special.  That you weren’t going to be held back by me, that you’d be taken care of.  Does that sound stupid?  Not that I’d think you’d be mooning over me,” Nick loosened his hold a little and sat back, unable to lift his head.  “But sometimes.... it makes a difference when you have someone to come home to after a hard shift.  And I wanted-- want that for you, even if it can’t be me.”

“You were there for me.  I know, I remember, sleeping in that hospital bed and waking up to you sitting in the chair next to me.  No matter the time, you were always there.  I overheard you arguing with Catherine to get some rest,” he grinned at that, and lifted his head to see the grin returned.  Their foreheads brushed together.  “It sounds funny, and I know it was foolish for me to think that I, well.  That I maybe had a chance with you.  To make things right.  Again.”

There.  He said it.  Nick Stokes, hopeless romantic.  He was going to have it engraved on his tombstone.  When he’d need it, in ninety or so years.

“Hey there,” the words came out so pained that Nick’s head snapped up, shushing him with a quick sound.

“Nicky,” Warwick tried again, his voice raw with pain.

Nick brought two fingers up to Warwick’s cheek and traced down the tear.  His heart was pounding so hard he knew that Warwick had to be hearing it, feeling it, too.  He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself from asking...

“Do I, Rick?  Do I have a chance with you?”

But fate intervened as he spoke those last words and before he could see the veil of understanding cross over the other man’s face, both their pagers sounded loudly.

Suspects on the run... three officers down... at the bank they’d staked out earlier...

They struggled out of their embrace without a second thought, both gunning for the door already readying their weapons.

***

A double shift and then some, plus some pointless running after the more-than-capable cops preceding them, then the follow-up at the lab and Nick having to explain that his account would have to do for both him and Warwick due to Warwick’s voice (and hadn’t Warwick smirked at Ecklie having to cope with that...!), Nick was so tired that he hardly noticed that Warwick had left for home without coming to see him.

Grissom had given them two days rest, which Nick mostly spent sleeping and trying to ignore the fact that he might have screwed up his friendship forever.

Back on the night shift, Nick completed his work as best he could – three homicides at one crime scene, one juicy mystery he’d be plugging away at all week.  He couldn’t ask for more.  In the locker rooms, about to call the night a day, he was lacing up his sneakers when Warwick entered and slowly closed the door over behind him.

It was strange, Nick found himself thinking, a sinking dread near overcoming his body, how the mind will allow one to forget...  One to forget that amends have to be made, he made himself finish.  He smiled apologetically at Warwick.

He opened his mouth but was halted by Warwick’s outstretched hand, palm up.

“Stop that, right now,” Warwick said, curtly but not unkindly, his throat obviously rested and well.  “I just wanted to say, well.”  He took a seat on the bench next to Nick, though he faced the other way.  Their shoulders were touching, but Warwick wasn’t looking at him.

“Would you believe that I’m surprised at how little you spoke the other day?” He started with, and Nick pushed him gently.  It was soothing to hear Warwick’s deep, calm baritone, especially when he was speaking to Nick.  “I just wanted to say that... you weren’t the only one who had been thinking, these past few months... Years...  God, losing you was the biggest mistake of my life, Nicky.”

Heart in his throat, Nick wouldn’t let himself think into what he was hearing.  He watched as Warwick licked his lips and rubbed his hands together nervously, and when Warwick took a deep breath before speaking again, Nick wouldn’t let himself imagine what he might say.

“I thought that you were better off without me.  You seemed to be doing well.  Even up for that promotion from Grissom.”  He paused, forming his words.  “See, every year, every year since you, I fell a little.  And it wasn’t your fault, not at all,” he clarified.  “It wasn’t much to notice at first – sure, the gambling.  Some other stuff, you know how it goes with that.  But it wasn’t enough to get me back to where I wanted to be.  Back to having you...” he gestured vaguely with his hands.  “You know.  Having you love me like I was.”

Nick wanted to tell him that there was nothing Warwick – his Rick, could do that would ever make him love him less.  But the words weren’t coming out.

It was Warwick’s turn to talk now.

“Actually,” he continued when Nick didn’t, “Hodges told me he thought there was something between you and Greg.”

Nick almost fell off the bench, and a laughing Warwick caught him by the arm. 

Man, he was going to kill Hodges.

“Love you, Nicky,” Warwick whispered softly, his hand remaining on Nick’s arm, green eyes meeting brown, an understanding reached.  “When you were... Oh god.  I just...  I was there with you.  I never could have survived without...  Love you, Nicky.  Love you so much.”

He grasped underneath Nick’s chin and brought him in for a kiss, a demanding kiss, a shocking sensation that ended far too soon for Nick to grasp what had just happened.

“You taking me back?” the coy deep baritone teased him, though Nick heard the question lying beneath.  “Can I... Can we...”

Nick smiled and breathed out.  The world had shifted back into place, he and Warwick were where they should be.  It felt like this was the only way they could end up, these two.  Together.

“Maybe we can try this talking thing with the two of us participating together,” Warwick joked.  His eyes were smiling bright, and Nick knew they shared the same feeling.  Like the past six years bent together, only a short pause.  “Dual effort, like a conversation, almost...”

Nick’s only answer was a toothy grin as he leaned in for another kiss.  He had enough with talking.

  

--The End--