Title: The Very Ecstasy of Love

Summary: Greg's learned a lot of things in Vegas, from a lot of people. But he's learnt the most from Nick, and he's learned the most about love.

Rating: T

Pairing: Greg/Nick

Genre: Romance

Spoilers (Chapter Two): I-15 Murder, Boom, Face Lift, $35K O.B.O, Burked, Overload, Scuba Doobie-Doo, Slaves of Las Vegas, Organ Grinder.

Disclaimer: I do naatt own anything.

Author's note: This story is a WIP based around canon moments in CSI. It's a little series on the things Greg's learnt about love through his scenes with Nick on the show. Each chapter represents one year for the CSIs. Note: a year, NOT a season. So this chapter, year 2001, is the second half of season one (January to May), and the first half of season two (September to December). Enjoy!

I'll admit it; my first New Year's Eve party in Las Vegas was the most interesting one I've ever been to. Okay, so maybe not the most interesting. But, nothing can beat spending New Years at a rave with your best friends in college, so it's not really fair to compare.

No one forgets their first time on E. Especially if your first time on drugs was also your first time doing... well, other things.

See, even I can be subtle.

But, I digress. That's a story for another day.

So, the New Year's Eve party with the CSI team in 2000 was the most interesting one I've been to sober. (Champagne doesn't count. And anyway, I only had a couple of glasses.)

Well, only a couple of glasses until the sixth person glared at my enthusiasm for the New Year, and reminded me that nothing changes overnight. I didn't mind too much when Grissom said it, or even Brass. They've been living and breathing death for a long time. Crime rate is not something that changes over night, even I know that.

(I don't know if you've noticed, but I called the New Year's party interesting, not fun.)

But when Nick followed me out onto the balcony, and gave me such a scathing look that I could feel the enthusiasm draining away—well, what would you do, if the guy you'd been trying to impress for the better part of a year looked at you like you were some immature kid who wasn't worth his time?

You'd get drunk, right?

So I got drunk, and while it did help to dull the sense of sarcasm and irony that was oozing off of everyone that night, it didn't keep Nick off my mind. I was annoyed; I don't see what's wrong with hoping for a change once in a while; believing that something good has got to happen sometime.

Nick politely informed me that it wasn't any use hoping. That he'd probably get called in to a crime scene before the clock stuck twelve anyway.

He wasn't called in, but I didn't point it out.

When we saw the fireworks from the balcony, everyone cheered, even Nick. It was the first of January 2001.

The New Year.

I wanted to tell Nick that I didn't expect things to change overnight. That I wasn't asking for just one night.

I was asking for a year, and here it was, at my disposal. A whole year.

It wasn't until Catherine boldly declared that she had already broken her resolution, that I realized I hadn't even made mine. I closed my eyes, and I sipped champagne from my glass, and a glimmer of my enthusiasm returned.

My New Year's Resolution: prove Nick wrong. Things can change, and I'm going to change them.

This year, it's my turn to teach Nick a thing or two about Love.

January 2001

The only way to make things change, is to work hard. And I've been working very, very hard to get Nick to see me. See me, and the Love, which I've noticed has been having a field day.

It climbs into me all the time when Nick's around. It jiggles things about, and makes me say funny things, but come on, who wouldn't act like a goddamn idiot when a foreign substance is squeezing your lungs in the tightest embrace possible? (Love seems to think this kind of hugging is comforting.) I suppose I should be grateful, Love only twists up my intestines occasionally, usually when Nick's wearing those wonderfully tight jeans or that lovely black sweat shirt that drives me crazy.

Jesus Christ, Love can be annoying. But most of the time, It's just trying to have some fun. And sometimes, It can actually help. Occasionally, It goes up to my heart and strokes it a little, calms it's beating, makes it puuurrrr.

And when It does things like that, I can be smooth and suave and say things like, my saliva's getting on you; your saliva's getting on me. I thought he was going to kiss me, I knew he was going to kiss me.

He didn't.

But I contented myself with a few calming words:

Slow and steady wins the race, Greggo.

You've got a whole year, man. A whole goddamn year.

It was the case that was getting to him; I reminded myself of that. Everyone knows Nick's got a superhero complex, that's all. That's why he didn't kiss me, that's why he only sort of flirted back.

He was worried about that girl is all, that Kristy Hopkins.

The lab rats seem to think he's interested in her romantically. But, come on man, this is Nick we're talking about. Nick can do so much better than a prostitute. I'm not worried.

Nick and a prostitute. As if that will ever happen. Ha ha.

February 2001

He fucked her. He fucked her and left me to stare at his semen under a goddamn microscope.

Fucking hell.

March 2001

Call me an idiot. Call me immature. Call me stupid and crazy and roll your eyes and shake your head.

Just do it.

Yes, I make up girlfriends and dates and yes, I'm a fucking idiot.

But don't look at me like that. Stop for a second and think. You've felt it before, haven't you? You've felt the Love crawl into you and sleep curled up next to your heart. You've felt Its hands cool on your forehead, and warm when your hands are freezing.

Well let me tell you something. If the night's cold enough, even the devil's hands are warm.

Love's a fucking devil, let me tell you that. All temptation, and all sell me your soul and I'll give you what you want.

And then It takes it all away from you.

You know what the worst part is? It's still there. The Love is still there inside of me and It won't leave me alone. It stays away from my heart, because It knows that if It comes anywhere near my thoracic region, my heart will lash out at It and hurt us both.

So It hides in my head instead. It hides near my brain, and my ears and my eyes and my nose and my mouth. And it controls everything. So now I can only think Nick, and hear Nick, and see Nick and smell Nick and speak Nick.

But I can't feel Nick. My heart, empty. My hands, empty. I can't touch him.

Nick can't see. He can't see anything. He can't see me. He won't see me.

Sometimes, if I'm in the right mood, it's almost funny. It's almost funny how, even if he does ever look at me, he won't really see me.

He'll see the guy who has a new girlfriend every week. He'll see the guy who reminds his 'girlfriend' so adamantly, that no, I love you more, and is on a date with a new girl just a few days later.

He'll never know that I date men not women. He'll never know that I don't tell someone I love them and go on a date with someone else.

He'll never know that I want him to fuck me against the GCMS, I don't care if it breaks.

He'll never know, and it's my fault, because I am the guy who makes up girlfriends and dates to pretend he's not hurting.

Nick, I just want you to know, no, I love you more. I just want you to know that my all my toes are shorter than the big toe, and I don't have green eyes, but I could dye my hair blond if you want.

I just want you to know that I still try my best to get you to flirt back and smile like that.

I just want you to know.

The summer makes me tired. It's hot and sweaty outside, which is actually a plus point for me. I get to sit in an air conditioned lab and watch Nick come in all hot and flustered.

And then it rains. July rain, not the fucking ice water we get in February. Nice, summer rain, like back in California. Except the CSIs, Nick especially, don't like the rain. Fucks up their crime scenes, I guess. For me, summer is pleasurable. Heat is something I only have to suffer through when slipping from home to car to lab to car to home again. Rain is something I can watch from the windows, and if I do decide to get wet, I have warm clothes waiting for me in my closet or locker.

And my precious little DNA samples are locked up safe in the lab no matter what the weather is like.

But it hurts me sometimes, to see Nick come in from the rain wet and annoyed, clutching just a few meager bags of evidence. The rain has washed it all away, and just like that, it washes away my good mood too.

Suddenly, I don't like the rain anymore.

On those Summer nights, when I can feel the desperation floating off of every CSI as they leave for me to process barely half of the usual DNA samples they bring in, I want it more than ever. I want to feel what they feel; I want to feel that same frustration when a case gets screwed up.

I want to feel anything.

The lab rats don't get it. They want to be safe in their little glass walls, where no one can touch them. A fucking museum.

And the CSIs, they don't even see me.

I just want them to look at me, and see someone capable of doing what they do. Of helping people.

I just want him to look at me, as a friend, not an 'entertainer'.

I don't want to be the fucking Fool to his Duke.

I just want—

The summer makes me tired.

September 2001

Now that I am too tired to care, I am able to analyze things with a certain amount of amused objectivity. Well, let me rephrase that to make me sound less like a depressed mental case.

I just have a good sense of humour, is all.

Which is what I've been trying to explain to Love. It can't keep trying to make me unhappy all the time just because it doesn't get what it wants. It needs to stop sulking and realize that, even if things between Nick and I aren't going the way I would like, Nick is not my life. I've still got friends to go clubbing with over the weekend, new music to discover, Sara and Catherine to flirt with, Grissom to annoy.

I've got it pretty good…

If I'm being honest though, this week hasn't been too good to me. The case everyone's working has been tough and not without some bad memories. Known druggie, found dead with heroin at the scene. The CSIs are looking at an OD, but they're not too sure yet.

I just want it to be over.

And to think that I almost spilled my guts to Grissom of all people. I should have just kept my mouth shut, given him the DNA results and sent him on his way.

Short story or novel? That's what he asked me. Well, let me tell you something, Griss: it's a fucking trilogy, a quartet, I don't know…

New York City was only one year in my twenty five, but it drove me fucking crazy.

Oh, I was just going to tell you about another way to take heroin—a suppository up the coolee. You just stand on your head, and then you let gravity... forget it.

I just had to say it. Say it and then turn it into a fucking joke. Well, it wasn't. It's not. Not to me.

And thank God for Grissom and his inability to listen to me ramble. Thank God that he did just forget it.

But what if he hadn't? What if he had asked, Greg, how do you know so much about the various ways to take heroin? Greg, who do you know who was so desperate for a heroin fix that she took it up the vagina?

Or even something completely innocuous like, Greg, how come you've never mentioned New York to me before?

Funny, the things you can find out if you just ask the right questions.

It occurred to me, after that conversation with Grissom that my relationship with Nick is, in many ways, similar. It was a frightening revelation. Thinking about Grissom while thinking about hot and heavy Nicky is really not the way I like to start my day.

What I mean to say, though, is that Nick and I function on so many levels of subtext that it drives me batty. We take turns: first I'll say something to him, something simple and harmless, but my words will carry a meaning deeper that he can see. I'll be trying to tell me something, something important about me, but I won't know how.

Imagine that: Greg at a loss for words.

I'll hint at it, and Nick will ask the wrong questions or no questions at all. And then it's his turn to try and tell me something, and it's me asking the wrong questions.

We're spinning around in circles, and I'm sick of feeling dizzy all the time.

October 2001

When it's important to Nick here, I push further. When it's important to Nick, I push as far as I can; I push myself as far as I can.

That's how it is with love in your system. Two souls inside of your body and what can you expect? Twice as much happiness, and twice as much sorrow, and twice the excitement, the disappointment, the libido (winkwink).

Twice the courage too. Twice the I'll-do-anything-to-make-you-see-me.

But, it's been a pretty bad year. And bad years only seem to get worse, right? So, of course, when I push fucking harder and Leggo my Greggo, he's a CSI wannabe.

CSI fucking wannabe.

Well, let me tell you something, Stokes: when it's important to you, here, I push further. But when I've done working a double, and Grissom and Catherine are on my case, and I still stop by to get you a cup of coffee and a little inside information on your scuba diver, well, after that I really just don't want to push anymore.

And when I'm so fucking tired, and jittery from too much bad coffee, then I just want to ask you one thing:

What is it that's so important to you? It can't be me.

November 2001

God, Nicky why do you do this to me? Hover over my shoulder while I'm trying to work, and I can smell your fucking cologne—Armani Code almost, but stronger, muskier. And your breath next to my ear, What up Einstein? and the heat of your skin against my back—

What the fuck do you want from me, Stokes? 'Cause I can't do this anymore.

You drive me crazy. You twist up my insides, and you make Love so excited, It leaps around through my bloodstream, everywhere, all through my body so I cant even ignore It anymore.

Don't make me ignore It. Please Nick, don't make me have to ignore It anymore.

December 2001

So it's the end of the year, reflection time.

And it seems that I've acheived absolutely nothing this year. Nick's confusing my system, and Love's pretty upset these days too. It just lies curled up in my chest all day, pressing It's face against my heart, and kicking against my ribs. It's so hot in my chest, and everything hurts in there, so I can hardly breathe.

I try flirting with Sara, but it hurts even to laugh, and I'm almost relieved when she forgets all about our date.

And Nick walks by when I'm doing research for her, and gives me the strangest look, and I want to say:

Yeah, Nick. I used to do this for you, too, but do you even fucking care?

Please tell me you do. Please tell me you do, and if not, then please just stop looking at me like that.

Just stop looking at me.

This wasn't a very happy year for Greg =( Poor baby. But it's not MY fault after all; I'm just following canon. Feedback please?