SquidgeWorld Archive

Approving Evidence
by Macx

The sky was a pastel pink which was severely encroached by a pale, yellow light, spreading out over the hazy desert, chasing away the cool of the night. Not that it really got very cold this time of the year. More like a fading heat that never went away completely. It clung to the houses and streets and people moving through the busy nights, seeking their fortune in the dozens of casinos, gambling halls and private rooms.

It was just past five in the morning as the black Tahoe made its way down the almost deserted streets off the Strip. A few early risers were already out and about, as were those just coming home from their shifts at work, their parties and gambling sprees. Catherine Willows deftly maneuvered the large car through the streets, occasionally glancing at her rather silent passenger. Nick Stokes sat leaning against the door, kept upright only by the safety belt as it seemed. Catherine allowed herself a little smile as she studied the younger man's face when she stopped at a red light – even though there was nothing to smile about. At least nothing humorous. Her smile was purely relief.

Nick's face looked badly bruised. There was a large, white sterile cover over the cut on his forehead and the discoloration stretched over one temple and down a cheek, where the skin had been scraped. He looked like roadkill on a bad day.

A baseball bat was a terrible weapon and Nick had been lucky that it had only been a glancing blow.

Catherine turned her attention back to the red light, which obediently finally switched to green. She turned at the corner of the street and headed down the quiet street to the only place she could think of getting the injured criminalist to. Nick had sustained more than just the blow to the head. Luckily, there were no broken bones, but the bruises along his shoulder and upper arm were painful, and the kick into the ribs hadn't helped much. Willows clutched the steering wheel, trying not to remember, but the memories came unbidden.

It had been a normal call, a crime scene of a B&E. The burglar had broken in through the back door, had gone through the possessions, leaving everything a mess. O'Riley had accompanied them to the scene and while he had talked to the lady of the house, Catherine had taken the woman's fingerprints and then dusted for foreign ones. Nick had processed the living room, where the thief had trashed most of the furniture. Vandalism on top of robbery. According to the woman, not much had been stolen, but the damage done was expensive.

The roar and the sudden yell had alerted both O'Riley and Catherine to the situation in the living room, and she had run after the burly sergeant. Apparently the husband had come home, drunk and far from docile -- entering through the back door -- and he had taken Nick for an intruder. Well, he had been, but instead of asking what the hell Stokes was doing, the drunk man had attacked. The baseball bat had felled Nick like a tree, and even a raised arm hadn't been much defense against the blows to follow. Semi-conscious, bordering on almost out, Nick had only had air for a yell of protest and help, then the blows had rained down on the hapless criminalist.

O'Riley had managed to wrestle the husband off Nick, to subdue and finally cuff him. Nick had been on the floor, unmoving, bleeding heavily from the head wound. Paramedics had arrived and taken Nick with them. Catherine had followed, shocked and horrified.

Mild concussion, bruises, the open wound on the forehead… She sighed explosively. Nick had refused to stay at the hospital; he wanted to go home. The doctors had agreed -- as long as there was someone with him. Catherine had told the man that there would; she was certain there would be.

A call to the person in question had confirmed it.

Willows stopped the car in the driveway to the townhouse she had been heading for and shut off the engine.

"Nick?"

"Hm?" came the drowsy reply. "'m awake," Stokes mumbled.

"Right. Up and at it then. We're here."

Nick blinked. The painkillers and the exhaustion, as well as the shock, were making him rather slow. So Catherine walked around the car and opened the passenger door.

"That's not my place," Nick protested, but he slid out of the car, clutching at the door.

"Nope. C'mon, Nicky. Let's get you inside. You need to lie down."

"Cath…"

"No arguments. You're going."

A heavy sigh could be heard, then Nick let go of the car door. He almost lost his balance and Catherine quickly caught him. They made it to the door, but it was a precarious process.

She didn't even have to knock or ring. The door was open and Grissom appeared like out of nowhere. Dressed in his almost customary dark clothes, though the leisurely variant, he immediately took charge of keeping Nick upright. Catherine trailed after her supervisor and friend, closing the door behind her in the process. She was a silent watcher as Grissom helped Nick into the bedroom, settled him down, undid the shoes and made the younger man lie back. Nick put up a token protest, but he was at the brink of total exhaustion and the fight was brief and without success.

Catherine took in all the little gestures, the expressions, and she knew. Had known for a long time now. Grissom was very gentle with Nick, touching him in a way no friend would. It was intimate without being sexual, it spoke of knowing the other man more than a friendly way. She smiled as Gil smoothed the cover over the exhausted man, asking softly if Nick needed anything. A mumble answered him and Grissom smiled.

"Sleep, Nicky," came the final instructions.

Both left the bedroom and Catherine dug out the prescription bag from the hospital. "Those are the painkillers and the antibiotic salve for the cut. The stitches have to come out in a few days if everything heals nicely."

Grissom took the bag with a nod. "Thanks. I'd appreciate the full story."

"And I'd appreciate a coffee," she replied.

Grissom's smile was tight but there was humor in it.

Fifteen minutes later found the two criminalists sitting on the new and, in Catherine's opinion, improved couch, drinking the hot liquid. Grissom had thrown in a few toasted waffles and orange juice. She was thankful; her stomach, too.

"Tell me," was all he said.

And she did.

There was hardly any expression on Grissom's face as she recalled the incident again, trying not to see it as she described the situation, but it happened anyway. Despite the almost blank face, Willows saw the pain and anger in the blue eyes, understood it, was empathic to it. Grissom's day off and a normal site had turned into a personal horror.

"Sara and Warrick and I'll take care of what's left of the crime sites," she finished. "Nick's off for the rest of the week, by doctor's orders, and probably a few days after that. The concussion's mild, but no risks."

Grissom nodded grimly. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Catherine gave him a warm smile. "I know you will, Gil." Better like anyone else, she added silently.

Blue eyes met and held hers, trying to understand her, trying to see beyond the words, and Catherine waited. They had never talked openly about it, but she knew Grissom was aware of her knowledge. She wasn't particularly shocked by it; nor was she surprised. Gil Grissom had long since taught her never to be surprised when it came to him. The man was an enigma and while he loved pulling something new out of his hat, Willows refused to be shocked by it.

So Grissom had found happiness. He had found it in form and shape of a man called Nicholas Stokes. And Catherine was happy for him. She wasn't prejudiced; in her line of work that was a dead kill for everything she worked for. She accepted it in her friends and she approved of the relationship in Grissom.

"I need some sleep," she finally announced into the comfortable silence between them. "Thanks for the breakfast."

Grissom rose with her. "Thanks for bringing Nick over, Catherine. I appreciate it."

"Hey, totally selfish reasons. I promised the doctor I'd get our boy home, so he won't be alone when he throws up yesterday's lunch." She winked at him.
Grissom chuckled.

Yawning, Willows stretched and waved at Grissom to stay where he was. "I'll see myself out. You go and look after Nicky."

As she closed the door of the townhouse after her, Catherine smiled in satisfaction. She slipped on her sunglasses and slid behind the wheel, tooling the Tahoe out onto the street.

*

Grissom slipped into the bedroom, silent, almost soundless. The blinds were closed and the semi-darkness enveloped him. He moved toward the bed and sat carefully down on the mattress, trying not to jostle the only occupant too much.

He had cleaned up the breakfast dishes and leftover waffles. Grissom hadn't felt very hungry after seeing his battered lover and he had just chewed on half of one to appease Catherine. Willows had sternly gazed at him, silently urging him to eat. Now that he was alone, the tight feeling in his stomach returned again, doubled, even tripled, and not even the fact that Nick was a Phoenix-Mimic and with it able to survive even a kill eased it. His lover had been badly hurt, he was in pain and would be for the next days, and even a Phoenix couldn't heal bruises any faster than a normal human being. They could only regenerate from dying. Nick was very much alive, for which Grissom was thankful.

Looking at the motionless man lying on his back on the bed, Grissom's eyes roamed over the abused flesh.  It was the same skin he would brush his hand over when they lay together; would kiss when they fooled around; would stroke to calm his breathless lover; would nip at in the heat of passion. Smooth, sun-tanned, unmarred by scars. Now it looked violated. He didn't dare touch him. Nick needed the sleep and he would wake from the pain soon enough. So he contented himself with looking.

Lines of pain marring the handsome face.

Short-cropped hair matted, glued together strands, streaked with sweat and some blood that hadn't been washed out.

Colorful bruises peeking out from under the stark-white bandage taped into place, and running down one angular cheek to the jaw.

It would hurt to talk and eat, Grissom realized, sighing silently.

Underneath the shirt there was more damage.

Senseless damage.

Gentle fingers played with the blanket, tugging it imperceptibly into place. Grissom so much wanted to cradle the injured man, soothe the pain, take it all away, but for the next few days, touches would be painful, too. All the ways to show his love physically would result in pain.
It hurt him in turn.

Nick shifted in his sleep and the lines of pain deepened. The painkillers were wearing off and the injuries made themselves known. With the concussion, Grissom knew he would have to wake his lover, but he'd give him another hour, then get him to take the pain medication and check his reactions.

Briefly brushing over the slender but strong fingers, he finally left his partner alone, but kept the door open just in case.

Grissom exhaled slowly, gathering himself, collecting his thoughts, and finally he walked out into the living room. He switched on his stereo, choosing the lowest setting that still made the music audible but wouldn't disturb the patient. Soft, semi-classical music could be heard and Grissom sank onto the couch, rubbing  the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

When Catherine's call had come in, he had felt his heart stop, plummet into his stomach, which in turn had transformed into a tight knot. Now his head ached, his eyes burned, and he tried not to think of what could have happened.

Gil opened his eyes and gazed out the window, past the fire escape, eyes near sightless.

Nick was alive.

It was all that counted.

And he would heal.

Grissom woke Nick each hour, checking his responses, listening to the incoherent, mumbled complaints. He supplied a ready bucket when his lover lost his fight and had to throw up, and he gave him his medication whenever Nick drank something.

For the first time in many years, Grissom felt that old fear again. The fear of losing something. He had nearly lost Nick to that maniac. The baseball bat could have killed him. One strike; the end.

So Nick was a Mimic. So he mimicked a Phoenix right now. It still didn't mean that Grissom wanted to see his lover getting hurt or killed. He might regenerate and come back, but the pain... the change... He inhaled sharply. It wasn't worth it.

Grissom wore his sheer endless knowledge like a shield against the world; no one could take that from him as everything else around him changed or disappeared. The knowledge was his alone.  Now Nick had entered the equation. A variable. Something very important to him all of a sudden, something he had automatically made adjustments to.

Something he could lose.

Gil rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. He had allowed the equation to be shifted, had allowed change. He had allowed Nick to come inside and see him as what he was. Grissom gazed at the handsome face, now marred by injuries.

And he loved him.

He loved him...

"I love you," he whispered, watching the younger man shift in his sleep, grimacing even in unconsciousness as the pain made itself known.

* * *

Nick moved, winced, shifted his weight, winced again, and finally gave up. Frustration crossed the handsome face and Grissom felt drawn between compassion and amusement. No, no amusement. There was nothing amusing about his healing lover. No source of merriment, entertainment or laughter. Nick had been severely hurt. Three days after the incident he was partially mobile, no longer plagued by headaches, and he could tolerate food better. The bruises had by now reached the most colorful state, some of the lighter ones already turning into a brownish yellow, showing that they were fading.

"Damnit," Stokes muttered and sank back into the pillows on the couch, dark eyes glaring at the ceiling.

Grissom rose and walked over to him. "Something you need?"

"Mobility!"

Gil smiled. "Give your body some more time, Nick. You need to heal."

Frustration was visible again as Nick shifted his glare. "One moment I feel fine, the next I move wrong and it's back to being an invalid!"

Grissom settled carefully on the wide couch, balancing his weight against the back of it. They had cuddled a few times, but it grew unbearable after a while for his younger lover. Nick's shoulder joint ached if kept in the wrong position for too long and the muscles complained when strained.

"The doctor said you need this week and probably the next to get back onto your feet. That baseball bat could have cracked your head, Nicky. You took only a glancing blow, but the damage done is more than glancing."

"I know, I know." Nick's features softened slightly, but the anger was still in the brown depths of his eyes. "I just feel so… useless. Can't do anything. Reading tires me out, TV passes me by. Can't cuddle with you. Can't…can't anything, Gris. And on top of it, the damn painkillers make me drowsy!"

Grissom leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips over Nick's. Jaw movement had improved, as shown by longer speeches by the patient, but a full blown kiss wiped him most of the time. So the light version was all there was.

"You're doing fine, love," he whispered, caressing the uninjured temple and side of Nick's face lightly.

Nick leaned into it, sighing. "I hate this. Hated it when Crane threw me out of the window, hate it now. Damn headache, damn dizziness, damn weakness."

Grissom kept up his caress, letting his lover vent. "How about taking another painkiller?"

"They make me feel funny."

"So what’s the difference?”

"Smart ass," Stokes grumbled, but he took another pill, swallowing it with some water.

Grissom smiled softly, then tugged at the blanket keeping Nick warm. "You'll be fine soon, love," he promised.

“Hope so,” was the reply. “The mother-hen routine really doesn’t suit you.”

“Mother-hen?” Gil echoed, amusement in his voice and reflecting in his eyes.

“You’re hovering.”

“I like to hover.”

Nick scrunched up his face in as much a frown as he could get away with without pain. “Ri-ight.”
Grissom reached out with his finger, smoothing the frown. “I love you, Nicky. Hovering and mother-henning is part of the bargain,” he reminded Stokes of the words he had used on Grissom in the past.

Nick closed his eyes with another deep, heartfelt sigh, enjoying the touch.

“Just don’t let the others in on it,” Grissom added teasingly.

He chuckled. “Catherine probably knows and I really don’t talk about my love life with Warrick.”
No, Nick wouldn’t. Not because he was in love with a man and the man was his boss, he was just of the old school in that regard. His love life was his alone. No peeping toms allowed. He hadn’t lost a word about it in the past and wouldn’t do so in the future.

Nick felt warm lips against his forehead and smiled.

“You wanna squeeze in and watch Discovery with me?” he asked, voice a bit more sleepy than he wanted it.

“Sure.”
 

It was about twenty minutes in the program about birds and their relationship to reptiles that Nick fell asleep. Gil smiled fondly and brushed a hand over the blanket-covered legs that lay on his lap, then continued to watch the program. He was very comfortable where he was, had nowhere to go, and wouldn’t be on call until tonight. There was nothing important waiting for him anywhere; at least nothing more important than Nick Stokes.

* * *

Gil Grissom came home from a long shift, looking forward to a shower, a nice breakfast and then a long, long nap. Nick would probably be awake by now. He had been dozing off when Gil had left the night before. The amount of painkillers Nick had to take had been reduced and after seven days now, his lover could move around the townhouse a lot better.

Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and tilted his head as he discovered that he and Nick weren’t alone. Sitting cross-legged on the two-seater was a blond boy with a rather experimental hairstyle, gesturing animatedly at Nick. Sign language.

Nick answered, also talking normally. He was clearly enjoying himself, describing his work to the boy in simple terms, as the boy asked more questions. When Grissom stepped closer, the teenager looked up, smiling widely.

[Hello] he signed.

[Hello, Charlie] Grissom answered, both verbally as well as with sign language.

He had met Charlie Tucker a while ago. He was deaf and studied at the Gilbert College for the Deaf. And he was a human with paranomal heritage. In Charlie’s case it meant he could ‘see’ people who carried the paranormal genes in them, those who might one day be triggered into using them, as well as those who were actually active and did use them. It was why he was called a Seeker. Charlie was Gil’s link to the paranormal outside Nick’s existence at his side, or the CSI team in Salt Lake. He had been the person to talk to when everything had become too much, when he hadn’t turned to Nick, his anchor, because Nick had been dealing with too much already; too close to the abyss himself.

[Charlie’s visiting] Nick told him. [He came by an hour ago and we got talking]

[I see] Grissom smiled at the teenager.

[I asked Nick if you two wanted to come to the school party this weekend, but Nick’s hurt] Charlie explained.

[Party?]

[Graduation] Nick supplied. [Dr. Gilbert’s oldest students are graduating and Charlie’s friend Henry is among them, so he’s at the party, too. He said it would be a blast] Nick grinned as widely as his injuries allowed it.

[Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to miss it] Grissom signed.

Charlie nodded, expression serious. [It’s okay. Mom said to come by, too. She wants to meet the two of you. She never met either a Phoenix or a Mimic. She’s a latent witch]

Grissom smiled again, his open, friendly smile. [I’d be honored]

[Cool] Charlie bounced off the couch. [Gotta go. My buddy Bruce is coming by this afternoon for practice. See you!]

Nick chuckled as the blond left. “Were we so young and full of energy once?” he joked.

“No,” was Grissom’s semi-serious answer.

“Uh-huh, right. You skipped childhood and puberty and went straight into adult life.”

“Of course I did.”

Gil leaned forward and claimed a gentle kiss, not wanting to aggravate the stings and pains. Nick’s hands caught his shirt and held him in place as he prolonged the loving contact.

“How was your night, honey?” he teased as they parted, eyes lit up with amusement.

Grissom frowned, looking faintly annoyed at the term of endearment. Nick gave him an irrepressible smile.

“Breakfast?” he asked, voice slightly husky.

“A bit late for that.”

“Not for a nightshift CSI. Time’s irrelevant when it comes to food.”

An eyebrow was quirked at him and Nick chuckled.

“I made tea.”

“No coffee?”

“Not if you want to sleep for a while.”

Grissom brushed his lips over Nick’s again, then straightened. Nick followed, getting up with a bit more difficulty, but he wouldn’t let the injuries stop him. Cracked ribs had kept him mobile, so this would, too.

Grissom simply gave him a calculating look, then apparently decided not to comment.

* * *

Catherine Willows walked up the driveway to Grissom’s house, smiling to herself. The last shift had left her in a rather good mood. Solving a case right away always made her feel on top of the world. The burglar had been dead stupid and left enough evidence behind for a rookie to find him. As it was, it had been Catherine and Sara, and Sara had volunteered to wrap up the loose ends. Catherine had simply reminded her not to put in too many more hours in overtime. Sidle had smiled and waved at Catherine to get going and leave.

So now Catherine was at her friend and supervisor’s house, carrying large styrofoam cups of flavored coffee. Now and then she indulged and to her surprise, so did Grissom. She didn’t drop by often unannounced; actually, she had only done it once. Grissom liked his privacy, but as of late, especially since getting together with Nick, Gil had opened up. He had become closer to what people would call a human being.

The sight that greeted her, stopped the criminalist right in her tracks. The door to Grissom’s townhouse stood open and boxes of things were piled next to it and in the driveway. There was a lot of odd stuff in it.  Most of it looked quite ancient and maybe even broken, but nevertheless...

Catherine carefully placed the coffee on a near-by box and pulled her gun.

She was about to reach for her cell phone to call for the police, when someone moved in the semi-dark hallway.

“LVPD, freeze!” Catherine yelled, the cell phone forgotten.

“Jesus Christ, Cath!”

Nick Stokes stopped dead in his tracks. He was dressed in sweat pants and a white, long-sleeved shirt – sleeves rolled up – over a gray tee-shirt, carrying another box; apparently to place them with the others. Wide brown eyes stared at her. He hadn’t shaved for at least a day and his hair was in spiky disarray. If there was one description for him, Catherine thought through her own shock, it was cute.

She drew in a shaky breath and lowered the gun, securing it. She shook her head. “Nicky... What are you doing here?!”

“Spring cleaning. What are you doing here? And why were you pointing a gun at me?”

Stokes carefully set the box on another one. He moved better than the last time she had seen him. The bruises in his face had faded, but they were still visible.

“Spring cleaning? Nicky, check the calender. It’s September.”

He shrugged, flashing his wide smile at her. “So what?”

“So... why are you cleaning out Grissom’s house?”

Nick moved back into the townhouse and Catherine followed, coffee in hand once more.

“He’s got a whole loada junk stored here. We agreed on finally getting some of it cleaned out. It’s a real flea market in there.”

Catherine surveyed the slightly chaotic looking living room. There was really a lot of stuff in boxes, some labeled, some clearly for throwing away.

“Grissom moving out?” she asked curiously.

Nick shot her a confused look. “Nope.”

“You moving in?”

He laughed. “No on that one, too.”

Catherine chuckled. “Okay. Where’s Grissom?”

“Out. He said he wants to check on one of the local antique markets, see if they might want that stuff. If not, he’ll get someone to cart it off.” Nick shrugged. “Easier.”

“Ah.”

Stokes eyed the coffee. “That vanilla?”

“Caramel.”

Nick took one of the cups and sniffed at it, then opened the lid fully and sipped carefully.  “Not bad.”

“Grissom developed a liking for it. No idea why.” She watched the younger man take another swallow, completely unconcerned that it was his boss’s coffee.

“Well, it’s not a total taste bud killer, but vanilla is still my favorite.”

“Then I’d prefer if you didn’t drink my coffee,” a new voice announced.

Nick smiled angelically. “I’d never dream of it, Gris.” He took a last sip, then held it out to the older man. “Here ya go.”

Grissom glanced at him with raised eyebrows, but there was a sparkle in the blue depths that was easy to discern. Catherine chuckled.

She let her eyes wander appreciatively over the – for Grissom – revolutionary outfit. The man was still dressed in dark colors, but the pants were actually jeans and the shirt wasn’t his usual polo-necked one.

“How was last night?” Grissom asked as he moved into his house.

“So-so. Nothing spectacular and nothing shaking the foundations of our quaint little lab. You’ll only have to deal with the usual when you get back. Ecklie’s pissed for some reason or other. I haven’t found out why. Probably because he’s no longer the sheriff’s favorite CSI.”

“Oh really?” Nick muttered, not very surprised.

Pride had been Ecklie’s downfall as of late. A sloppy investigation had cost three women their lives when the wrong man had been arrested due to misinterpreted evidence. Ecklie had seen the case as his career ladder, ignoring blatantly obvious facts, and the real killer had struck several more times. This time, the faux pas hadn’t resulted in a slap of wrists. It had been a full-blown reprimand, an investigation, and Ecklie getting suspended without pay throughout it. Not unlike years ago when Grissom had once again upset the politicians inside the LVPD and had to pay for it with a suspension. As of late, little had happened to the nightshift supervisor. It seemed that after trying to get him to surrender in the face of politics, something he actually despised, without much success, the high and mighty had started to ignore one Gil Grissom.

“So you’re cleaning out the attic?” Catherine asked, looking around.

“And some of the other rooms,” Nick added, grinning. “Way too much stuff taking up room.”

Grissom scowled at him. “I still don’t see the point.”

But you agreed to it, Catherine thought. Nick knows you by now, he knows which buttons to push, and he does it so well. He’s good for you, Gil. Remember that.

“And I don’t see the point in heaps of junk stacked floor to ceiling. Some of it is even mouldy!”

“It’s a sign of age.”

“It’s a sign to throw it out.”

Catherine smiled. “And this is my sign to leave. See you guys Monday.”

Nick would be back to work on Monday after almost two weeks of sick leave due to the attack.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Grissom called.

She waved it away. Totally selfish reasons, she mused. Wanted to see how you guys were doing. There hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that Nick would be here, even though she hadn’t expected him to clean out rooms.

She closed the door after herself, surveying the heaps of junk again, then shook her head with a chuckle.
 

Nick was still grinning when the door had closed, and the smiled widened as he discovered Grissom’s expression. Gil stepped closer to his younger lover and placed the half empty coffee cup on the shelf. Nick’s smile turned more personal, more intimate as he wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist and pulled him close.

The kiss was slow, languid, the welcome home version. Nick slipped his hands in the back pockets of Grissom’s jeans, bringing their hips together. He was  tasting caramel and coffee.

“So you sold the junk?” Nick whispered as they parted.

“It’s not junk,” Grissom argued without vehemence. “It’s antique.”

“In whose catalogue?”

That got him a mildly disapproving stare.

“Hey, don’t give me the hairy eyeball, okay? I didn’t ask you to chug out the bugs.”

Grissom’s expression told him that the moment he touched his collection of insects, Nick would be dead meat.

Nick leaned forward and kissed him playfully. “I’d never dare,” he whispered. “I know you’re in love with those creepy crawlers.”

“I like them,” Grissom corrected. “They are a hobby. I love you, Nick.”

“I’m not a hobby?”

 “Not at all.”

“So you’ll keep me?”

“Forever.”

“But not mounted in glass.”

Grissom chuckled. “No. You are a free spirit.”

“Good.” Nick claimed his mouth again. “Very good.” He rested his forehead against Gil’s. “Real good,” he murmured.

Grissom closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace. Nick’s mouth wandered down his neck and nibbled at places Grissom found highly arousing. The hands stuck in his back pockets did the rest.

“Nick,” he sighed.

“Hm?”

“You want to relocate or renovate?”

Nick chuckled. “Choices, choices.... I’d rather... relocate.”

Grissom smiled. “Good choice.”

Stokes slipped his hands out of the back pockets and stepped away, making a begging motions with his finger. Gil smiled more and followed his lover to the bedroom.
 
end