Work Text:
Greg's not exactly sure when Nick started biting his nails. Didn't realise for a long time, he guesses. At work Nick wears his gloves, like he's supposed to, keeps his hands clean, neat, forensically neutral. But somehow Greg doesn’t notice this, despite the way he can't help but catalogue every nuance, every tiny hesitation, every move Nick makes. Doesn't see his fingers in his mouth, doesn't see the raw cuticles, the uneven line of keratin that zigzags down to the quick. Greg only notices when one ragged edge catches on his skin, scoring a thin line across his shoulder, and he grabs Nick's wrist in both his hands and tugs the abused nails (clenched fist, not wanting him to know) into the patch of light that sneaks around their blackout curtains. Breathes out Nick's name while something splinters inside him, grip tightening without realising before he ducks his head, presses his lips. "Oh, Nicky..."
* * ~ * *
”Oh, Nicky…”
Okay, so it’s juvenile as all hell, but. But. Nick grimaces to himself and pulls the pillow more firmly down over his head, paying special attention to getting as much down as possible right over his ears. No matter what, he does not want to have this discussion with Sara right now. No way, no how, no doing. It’s just not his style, thank you very much and can we please move back to some good old-fashioned necking now? Or, okay, because Nick is a guy and also not stupid, some nice, healthy, normal sex. He squirms a little on the bed, trying to get more comfortable, because frankly, even that abstract thought is getting him a little more… interested.
Cracking one eye open, he peeks out. She’s still perched a hands-breadth away, wearing little more than a few scraps of shimmery cloth and a grin. Handcuffs dangling from one crooked finger.
* * ~ * *
Handcuffs dangling from one crooked finger, Sara taps on the glass of room one fifty-four, surprising a shocked jump out of the very, very guilty perp in there and a tolerant glare from both Grissom and Brass. Jim nods shortly at her, the message “yes, he confessed, now please go home and stop ingesting caffeine” all parceled up neatly with a side of “before Gil or I shoot you.”
Restless and vaguely unsettled, she pulls herself away, follows her nose into DNA, head lifting automatically in response to the smell of Greg’s good coffee that permeates the place. “You need something, Sara?” he asks, and that open smile’s as good as another two shots of espresso, and that, she realises, is what she really needs. She nods, lets her own smile speak, tension sliding away as she asks, “my place?” with just a tinge of uncertainty. Because Greg is not exactly… a sure thing.