SquidgeWorld Archive

The sound of his phone ringing pulls Nick Stokes rudely from well-deserved and much needed slumber. Groping blindly in the dark of his shrouded bedroom, his uncoordinated fingers fumble the phone for a brief instant, before they manage to make positive contact.

"Stokes," he says, all business.

"Nicky, turn on the TV."

"Griss? Hey, man, what's going on, are you OK?"

"Nicky, just turn on the TV."

Something, perhaps the timbre of Grissom's voice penetrates the lingering fog in his sleepy brain. It scares him and dressing hastily, he stumbles from his bedroom into the living room and grapping the remote, turns on the TV.

"Griss, just what am I looking for, man? Give me a clue."

"A news channel, Nicky. Any news channel."

There's something, a breathless quality, to the voice in his ear and he's only watching the screen a little, the majority of his attention focused on the man on the other end of the line. Then the newscaster's voice fills the room.

"Details are still sketchy, but reports are coming in of a suspected terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre in New York City, we take you live to the scene."

The sight that greets Nick's stunned eyes chills him to the bone. Both of the Twin Towers have been hit. Dense black smoke billows from the upper floors and as he watches, one of the buildings collapses in on itself, raining debris down on the surrounding streets. Disbelief renders him speechless, nausea twists his stomach, and bile burns the back of his throat, as he struggles to process the image on the TV.

Grissom's voice in his ear brings him back to reality.

"Nicky, I'm coming over."

He can't take his eyes from the screen. He can't make himself look away from the continuing horror. Minute, by torturous minute, the remaining building burns and he watches helplessly as those with no chance of reaching safety, take their only means of escape. Grief chokes him. His vision swims, tears coming unbidden and unacknowledged to his dismayed eyes. So much death, so much destruction, he can barely take it in. The loud knock on his door, when it comes, startles him for an instant, before he remembers. Grissom.

Still in the sweatpants and old Rice T-shirt that he had wrestled on, right after Grissom's call, he opens the door and ushers his boss inside. Grissom looks like he too just stumbled out of bed, his expression shell-shocked. With a start, Nick realises that for the first time since he's known Grissom, that he looks scared, vulnerable. It's not a sight he cares to see again. Moving to sit on the couch, motioning for Grissom to join him, Nick turns his attention once more to the screen, and the chaos it displays.

"My god, Griss. Did you see it? One of the towers collapsed." No small talk, no preamble, just straight to the point. "God, all those people. Those poor people. They never stood a chance." His throat is thick, Texas accent heavy as he struggles to restrain the emotions surging inside. When Grissom doesn't answer, he turns his attention to the man sitting only a foot away, and is once more left breathless and disorientated. The expression on Grissom's face is one of such intense longing that Nick feels heat instantly begin to march across his skin, the flush keeping pace with his rapidly beating heart. Still, Grissom says nothing, and Nick suddenly needs to hear his voice, needs to know that this is real and that he's not just dreaming.

"Griss, why are you here? Why did you..." Grissom's hand reaching out, traversing the distance between them, silences him. He can feel the reassuring weight of that hand on his leg, heat radiating outwards, engulfing his senses. It grounds him.

"When I saw the news, Nicky, all I could think of was you. Watching as those people died, I was so scared, scared for you. I know it doesn't make any sense, but suddenly, I just...I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to know that you were OK."

He can't force himself to look at Nick as he says the words. Fear and self-doubt pushes up his heart rate, and momentarily all he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come, I'll go."

Pushing himself up from the couch, Gil prepares to leave, but Nick, emboldened by Gil's unexpected, but not unwelcome, revelation stops him with a single word.

"Stay."

Approaching the nervous man before him, Nick brings his hand up to clasp the nape of Gil's neck. Warm blunt fingers massage the tense muscles that he finds there. His thumb ghosts over the pulse point of Gil's throat, detecting the rapid fluttering found there. His own pulse skyrockets in response to the intimate contact.

Gil's blue eyes widen at the contact, but his words deny what his body screams out for.

"I'm sorry, Nicky. I shouldn't have come. This, whatever this is, it can't ever go anywhere. I'm your supervisor, it's not right."

Again, he turns to leave; twisting to break free from Nick's embrace, but the firm grip on his neck does not diminish. Nick's other hand gently pulls his face around, until their gazes meet. Warm brown eyes capture him, drawing him into their liquid depths. He longs to simply give himself over and tumble into the refuge that they offer.

"Shsssh, Gil. Don't worry, baby, we'll work it out. We'll work something out. I promise."

Then warm arms are enfolding him, crushing him and he returns the fervent embrace with a strength born of hope renewed. He allows himself to fall, surrenders to his deepest desire.

"We."

Nicky said "we," and with that one simple word, his world is turned upside down. Despite the horrors of this day, this terrible day; despite the evil that flourishes and the hatred that it breeds, one thing will always remain.

One force will triumph.

One force will shine a light in the darkness, sweeping all before it.

Love.