Ceilings
by Karen /s
Pairing: Nick/Gil
Rating: R, at most
Summary: CSI's Nick Stokes is trying to deal with the aftermath of his own personal stalker.
Spoilers for season two's, `The Stalker'.
Note: This is a rather new fandom for me. I wrote this to see if I could get Nick to talk to me. <g>
Ceilings
by Karen /s
He watches the rain tonight and smiles.
He wouldn't normally, knowing that morning would most likely find him wet, cold and pulling overtime.
But that's not the case tonight.
Cradling his ribs carefully, Nick turns from the hotel window and the smile fades away. He walks back to the unfamiliar bed. It's big and comfortable...but also cold and lonely. He knows he's safe now; Crane is nicely locked away. But still he jumps at the smallest noises, and finds himself taking silent peeks at the thankfully whole ceiling.
Unlike the one back at his house.
Stretching slowly, he turns on both bedside lamps and then frowns at his anxiety. Daylight had been easier. Maybe it was just because of the fatigue, or maybe the nice white pills from the pretty lady doctor. He prefers not to think about the real reason-- about the warm security of his lover's arms, because that would mean remembering that just yesterday morning everything had seemed sane and whole. Making love meant being filled with something much more pleasurable than the thoughts of some sick fuck watching everything he did. It meant closing his eyes because he was going to come, not because someone besides Gil might be looking back.
And Gil...wanting to hold and touch and take it all away, but knowing that more than just Nigel Crane's eyes could see too much. So he stays away, visiting and calling no more than any other concerned boss.
Nick isn't sure which one of them is the bigger coward.
So he's here alone in this anonymous room, noshing on painkillers and pizza, wishing that home still provided a safe haven from prying eyes. Wishing that the thought of merely going home didn't bring nauseating flashes of death and near paralyzing fear.
He could sleep some more, but there was just something about waking up screaming and wedged into the corner behind the door that just didn't bear repeating. Again he picks up his cell phone and has the number almost dialed before gently closing the case. The look in Brass' eyes as he carefully took the pistol from Nick's hands was bad enough—it would be impossible to face in his lover's.
He rolls slowly out of bed and makes it to his feet with only a slight grunt. The window seems closer this time... he really has to hand it to whomever invented Vicodin. The rain is heavier now; if he relaxes just a bit the lights on the strip look kind of like diamonds. He jumps a little as a door slams somewhere nearby and then freezes at the footsteps overhead.
He will not look up.
*
Fuckfuckfuckfuck...that one was the worst yet. Nick wipes his mouth wearily and leans sideways to sit against the bathroom counter. He opens his eyes to find himself staring at the roll of toilet tissue. He thinks it's actually an apt simile for his life right about now. The memory of the peep hole in his own bathroom ceiling leaves him dry heaving into a towel.
*
It's finally morning, and come hell or high water he's leaving this room.
It takes time but he showers as best he can, and then dresses in one of the few shirts he seems to have left. Grabbing his shaving kit, he opens the door and then stops dead.
And smiles.
Nick walks quietly over to the bed and manages to sit down without falling on the sleeping figure stretched across the surface. Gil looks beyond tired and the small deep-throated moan triggered by whatever he's dreaming leaves no doubt as to just how much the last few days have taken from him.
And just that fast Nick's fear eases to where he can breathe again, and no matter how far apart they are, neither one is alone. He carefully shifts to lie down next to the other man and smiles again as he is gently pulled to lie against a warm chest.
He no longer needs to look up.
End