NOTES: Slashy fluff, first-time, etc. Did I mention slash? Because it's all about slash, all righty? No angst, a bit of minor drama, a few guns waved around, and slash. Rated R for some smoochin'.

The Ruse

By EB

©2004

"What are we doing here?" Nick whispers.

"Just a little detail work." Grissom's leaning over, fiddling with the lock.

"Shouldn't the cops be doing this? Why are we doing this?"

"Because I'm impatient. And because John Carnahan doesn't have time to sit around while the cops work their way around to it." Grissom takes a key out of his pocket.

"You have a key?"

"Yes." Conversational. "I do."

"Where the hell did you get a key?"

"Where do you think?"

"Oh."

His heart is going like a goddamn jackrabbit. This case is ridiculous. Nick's not going to argue that Carnahan's in serious need of some help, but this is going way beyond the pale. Gil Grissom, illegally entering a business in search of evidence? Nick's brain is going to explode.

Nick leans over. "We could get in serious trouble for this!" he hisses.

"Yes. We could." Grissom smiles cryptically, and the door swings open. "But we won't."

"There are goons all OVER the place, man! Not to mention if Brass –"

"Brass doesn't need to know. Clear?"

Facing that steely blue gaze, Nick swallows and finds himself nodding.

The room's just a room. Not much, for a place that has such powerful secrets locked in those innocuous file cabinets. Then again, Nick's found that more often than not, the worst things seem to come in the most prosaic of packages. He minces along in Grissom's footsteps, practically holding his breath.

"Isn't there a security system? Jesus, aren't we about to get fifteen guys jumping out of the woodwork?"

Grissom shakes his head, making his way over to the far right cabinet. "This is the inner sanctum. No one's supposed to be able to get here in the first place."

"So how did we?"

That gets him a startlingly boyish grin. "Smoke and mirrors, Nicky," Grissom says. "Smoke and mirrors."

Okay, that's about the lousiest non-explanation he's ever gotten from Gil Grissom, which is saying something. He feels like an imbecile, but that too is kind of familiar; Grissom leaves him in the dark more than half the time anyway. Why should this be any different?

Except usually they're not illegally entering one of the many businesses of a mob syndicate, looking for that one tiny piece of evidence that will exonerate a guy whose testimony in exchange for such a ruse will be worth, uh. Lots.

"Can't he just go state's evidence?" Nick asks fretfully. He's practically wringing his hands. Every word about illegal entry and search and seizure he ever got from his academy instructor back in Big D is suddenly echoing stridently in his head. This is wrong, this is so completely and insanely wrong.

"It's complicated." Grissom walks calmly to the file cabinet and takes out another key. He's put gloves on, Nick notes with zero surprise.

Whatever he's looking for, it takes a few minutes. Nick's starting to seriously consider taking up nail-biting again. Tonight he's pretty sure he could chew them down to the ulna. "Hurry," he whispers, glancing over his shoulder.

"Watch the door."

He'd really rather not watch the door, since that's the direction they'll shoot first, but he goes over and peers out. Nothing. Okay, so he won't be visiting Doc Robbins' steel table quite yet. But that doesn't mean it won't all change in a goddamn heartbeat.

"Come ON," he moans, glaring in Grissom's direction. "You got his keys but he didn't tell you where this shit IS?"

"Someone's been through these files," Grissom replies in a tetchy voice. He sounds like a librarian, scowling at the mystery somebody dumped in the non-fiction section. "These don't belong here."

"Oh God." Nick closes his eyes, and then opens them fast to take another very careful look down the hall.

After about twelve hours or so – which his watch stubbornly insists was only about two minutes – Grissom makes a satisfied sound. "Got them."

"Thank God. Maybe we don't have to die tonight."

Grissom's folding some papers and stuffing them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "No one's going to die, Nicky. Stop being so nervous."

There's a sound outside. Nick's heart jumps so high he's pretty sure it made his eyes bulge out. He sneaks a peek in the hallway. There's a shadow. He spares a millisecond to pray he doesn't piss his pants, and whips around. "Somebody's coming!"

Grissom regards him expressionlessly. "Really?"

"REALLY!"

"Shit."

Nick backs away from the door. He only thought his heart was going fast before; this, now, this is fast. Hummingbirds' hearts probably beat this fast. Right before the hawk swoops down and the heart doesn't need to beat anymore.

"Come here."

Grissom still sounds so infernally calm. But his movements are fast, precise, like a surgeon. Stripping off the gloves, stuffing them in his pants pocket. Jacket follows, slung over a chair. "Come HERE!" he hisses, when Nick just stands there, gone tharn like a goddamn rabbit.

Nick lurches over, and Grissom grabs his wrist, pushing him against the tall row of file cabinets. "I'm going to say this really fast, but I want you to remember it later, all right?" Grissom asks. His eyes are lethal.

Nick nods. "Okay."

"I'd never do this if I didn't think we were probably going to die in the next two minutes. Understood?"

Die? Grissom thinks they're going to die? It's one thing if Nick thinks it; he contemplates his own demise at least four times a day, and eight on Saturday nights. But Grissom, the all-powerful wizard of – Odd? No. No, so that means this is serious, baby, this is as serious as it gets, not just good old jumpy Nick flinching at shadows, this is the real deal, Neal.

He tries to agree, but all that comes out is a high little squeak of air, like somebody playing with a balloon.

Grissom reaches out and yanks Nick's shirt half out of his pants. Nick looks down stupidly, and then resumes his open-mouthed gape.

"Were you ever in any plays in high school?" Grissom scrubs his hand over Nick's hair. It obliges by standing straight up, like he'd just hooked Nick to an electrical socket. "College?"

"Yes," Nick squeaks.

"Good. Then think of this as playing a role. Except the reviewers have guns. Okay?"

"Okay."

"It'll be better than dying. Right?"

"What –"

Grissom leans against him and kisses him right on the mouth.

Well, there's one thing to be said for unorthodox methods. They certainly get one's attention.

Nick makes a strangled sound, and Grissom kisses him again. With tongue.

Acting. Right? This is what he meant, Stokes, this is better than dying. So you have to make out with a guy. No big deal, right? Beats a bullet through the brain.

Actually, he's not quite sure what dying is like, but this is not that bad.

Grissom pulls back, just about half an inch, and Nick drags a gulp of air. There's something else, something, danger, maybe, he's a little unclear on that at the moment. It's much more interesting up close. Grissom's eyes are the most amazing shade of blue. Real blue, pure blue, bluer than anything Nick can ever remember seeing. His face is kind of flushed. And his mouth –

Nick doesn't have time to consider Grissom's mouth, because it's attached to his own lips again. And his arms have somehow levitated around Grissom's neck. Which is quite surprisingly comfortable, and brings him into even closer proximity with the rest of Grissom, which in turn is – not comfortable at all, and yet terribly distracting.

He means to stop and check to see if anyone's actually walked in the room yet. But for some reason he's moaning instead of looking, and Grissom's hands are hot and strong touching his waist, sliding up under his shirt and now Nick isn't even sure where they ARE anymore. The only thing he's sure of is that this is just about the best goddamn kiss he's ever had in his life, and it's from the most unexpected source imaginable. If Julia freakin' Roberts were to walk up to him and lay one on him he would not be more surprised, and frankly he thinks it probably wouldn't be this good, because NOTHING could be this good, this is going to give him a goddamn orgasm it's so good.

Grissom's knee slides between Nick's thighs, and Nick groans embarrassingly loudly, arching his groin against that strong leg and realizing dizzily that Grissom's got his hands on Nick's ASS, and Jesus it feels so goddamn good, don't stop, DO NOT

Somebody clears his throat, and it's not Grissom.

Grissom breaks that long, far-too-short kiss, and turns his head to the right. Nick blinks and looks left.

"Well, guess I don't gotta ask you what you're doing here." The guy is about eight feet tall, and almost that wide. He's so big Nick thinks he could probably sneeze and blow Nick's head completely off his shoulders. He's so big -- Nick runs out of comparisons and just gapes. The guy has a sly little grin on his face. It looks weird.

Somebody else walks in after him. This one is smaller, but alarmingly well-armed. Nick's seen what those guns can do. Very, very bad things. "What's this, a fuckin' party?" guy number two asks.

"Only I don't think we were invited."

"Who in the fuck are you?" the second guy demands. He doesn't appear to have much of a sense of humor. The idea makes Nick want to laugh, and he bites down hard on his lip to keep from spraying giggles. It's probably inappropriate to laugh hysterically when one is twelve seconds from death. Or maybe it's the best thing. He sure hopes he doesn't have to find out.

"Don't tell me. You're Kenny."

Grissom pauses almost imperceptibly, and then nods.

Goon number one's grin gets bigger. "The decorator guy, right?" he adds, and Nick suddenly wants to kiss him, too, except he'd really rather kiss Grissom again. And again.

"Right," Grissom agrees in a funny, raspy voice. He still has his hands on Nick's ass.

Goon number two isn't impressed. "So how the fuck'd you get in here?" he demands.

"Boss said this guy's supposed to get the feel of the place," Nice Goon tells him. "Coppa give you a key?" he asks Grissom, who nods again.

"Sorry," Grissom says in that same odd non-Grissom-ish voice. "I, ah."

"And what about that guy?" Evil Goon points at Nick with his gun. Nick's balls immediately try to escape inside his body, from the feel of it somewhere near the region of his Adam's apple. "What's his story?"

Nice Goon rolls his eyes. "Guess Kenny here was just showing his – special friend – where he works." He lisps the words, and holds his hand out, limp-wristed.

Evil Goon curls his upper lip. "Oh. OH."

"Yeah." Nice Goon loses a few points for curling his lip, too. "Ain't supposed to be in this part," he tells Grissom. "Not unless Coppa wants this part spiffed up, too. Does he?"

"I was under the impression he did, yes."

"Okay. Well, make it snappy, then. We got a big crowd comin' in later, and they don't need to see no two guys suckin' face, you know what I'm sayin'?"

It's not even critical, really, he sounds as if he came in on Grissom and Nick doing crossword puzzles instead of – sucking face? Yes, that's precisely what they were doing. Wow. Nick blinks.

"I understand," Grissom says gravely. "I do apologize."

Nice Goon waves his hand. It's like watching a fifteen-pound ham fly through the air like a butterfly. Nick is mesmerized. "S'okay. But clear outta here pretty quick. Come on, Marty, we gotta do that thing."

"What thing?" Marty, aka the Evil Goon, is still holding that horrible gun in a position that makes Nick immensely nervous.

"The thing, you jackass."

Marty snarls again, but the huge gun is lowered. Nick's knees nearly buckle.

"Have a nice night, boys," Nice Nameless Goon calls, and waggles his fingers at them.

In a moment of synchronicity, Grissom's and Nick's hands lift in perfect mirror movements, waving back.

They leave, and Grissom turns slowly to look at Nick. His mouth works, but he doesn't say anything for a second. And Nick can't think of anything, either. His feet feel numb. He isn't completely sure he didn't have some sort of incontinence problem he hasn't discovered yet. And Grissom's hands are still groping his ass.

He doesn't actually mind that part so much. Although he really hopes the incontinence didn't happen.

Grissom's hands let go of his ass, and Grissom leaps nimbly back, as if Nick's body just delivered some sort of random electrical charge.

"Well." It still doesn't sound even remotely like Grissom's normal voice. If Nick were to pin it down, he'd call it, well, sort of high. And hysterical. "Let's go, then."

Nick pulls his shirt down. How'd it get way up there, anyway. And his pants appear to be half open. He tucks and buttons, while Grissom takes an inordinate amount of time figuring out which arm goes in which slot on his jacket. His precious papers are still right where he put them, about – when? Last year?

Grissom gives him an odd look, and then walks out. Nick belatedly checks himself. Nope. No shameful bodily emissions took place.

He tries not to think about the kind of emission he so very suddenly and desperately wanted to take place about two minutes ago, and scurries after Grissom.

---

"So all's well that ends well."

Nick hesitates, and then nods. "Guess so."

It's late, but not as late as they usually stay. It's not light outside yet, at least. Everyone but Sara has already left, though, and since Sara appears to actually live at the lab, Nick thinks maybe he should just stop counting her in the roll-call of departure times. Which leaves himself, and Grissom, strolling out of the building with John Carnahan's bits of paper safely albeit illegally stored in a nice tamper-proof evidence bag.

A night of firsts. The first time he's seen Grissom so totally disregard the laws he's been hired to uphold. Even if it was for a pretty good cause.

First time Nick's illegally entered a building since he's been in law enforcement. Well, maybe the second, but the first dangerous one.

What else? Oh, there's the thing about the first time he's kissed a guy before.

Yeah, that's kind of a big first there.

And has he thought about the fact it was Grissom he kissed? Who kissed him?

So well and thoroughly that Nick is still thinking about checking his drivers' license to remember what his own last name is?

Well, yes, now that you mention it. That was a first, too.

Fancy that.

They walk out to the parking lot. One of the sodium lamps has gone out, right over Nick's truck. He feels oddly reluctant to leave. "Well, good night," he says, his feet dragging a little.

"Night, Nick."

Grissom isn't walking very fast, either. They're sort of slumping their way out. And Nick slumps slower. Home. Yeah, check the email, have a sandwich. Drink a beer. Whatever. Yawn. He's not even hungry. And he really doesn't give a shit about his email.

Grissom stops. "Hungry?"

"Starved," Nick agrees.

"Me, too."

"We could grab a burger."

"Sounds great."

"Excellent."

"Your truck or mine?"

"Mine's right here."

Grissom walks over with him. Nick thinks the nice thing to do is unlock the passenger door for him, even though, well, he could just use the clicker to do it. But he goes over and sticks the key in the lock, and reaches for the handle, and Grissom's standing right there.

Right. There.

Nick turns a little, and it's so dark he can't see Grissom's face at all. But he's certain it has that same weird look as earlier. That strange, incredibly hot look, that made Nick feel, for a tragically short few minutes, like he'd just taken the first steps on a road he hadn't just missed before, but never even knew was there at all.

"Sorry about tonight. Earlier," Grissom says in a deep voice.

"Really?"

He can just make out the little smile on Grissom's lips. "No."

"Me, either," Nick breathes.

This time when Grissom kisses him, Nick doesn't think about Julia Roberts, or goons with ham-shaped fists and enormous handguns. All he thinks, before he stops really thinking about anything all but this, is that his old academy instructor was wrong about one important thing. Sometimes breaking and entering had its high points.

END