A/T: Eep! I haven't written much Nick/Greg lately, although I watch the reruns religiously and constantly lurk on the appropriate sites. My life is getting a bit more hectic, but I'll always live by this one philosophy: You can have my CSI boys when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers. So Real Life, back off! -strikes ninja pose- It's all about the CSI love.

Before you dive in, be warned: the format of this piece is in wandering poetry at the beginning and changes at the end. The coding of this piece is intentional, so read on and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not yours, not mine. (Unless Mr. Bruckheimer's reading this. Then yes, it's yours.)



This is our agreed-upon lie.

For six years, we've been dancing around the issue, as if maybe ignoring it would make is disappear.

I think our plan might be flawed. Expecting our feelings to vanish is like waiting for the stars to fall; are we expecting the impossible?

Maybe that's our problem; maybe we've been waiting for the wrong thing. We've somehow silently decided to let this affection die without ever considering that it might not.


My very first night at the lab, I never saw the ghosts.

My very first night at the lab and twenty minutes later, I met you for the first time.

It was then and only then that I saw them dazedly walking the hallways, because all the ghosts seem to follow you.

You don't want me to have to deal with them because
everyone you've ever met hated their presence and
you can only assume that I'll feel the same way.

But I won't mind having lunch with the man who died on the Strip or the girl who was found in the desert if that means I can be with you.


What ate these walls? A fire, my body.

Your voice that told me to hang on because I had too much to live for.


A huge ache has swallowed up the world and we're in the middle of it. The wars, the bombs, the guns, the rape, the kidnapped innocents who will never see the sun again. What bothers you the most (although you try to hide it) is the complete disregard for life that humans have developed.

You always ask What if human beings were incapable of deception and violence?

And I always say Then we would no longer be human beings.

If you can bear the anguish of seeing people on the worst day of their life then you should come here, to this lab.

Make sure to stay alive.

Just because our existence is based on
the crime of the evening
doesn't mean we're dead.

This is our continual lesson that we so often forget.


You have never been scared to know the truth. On the contrary, you thirst for it.

The only truth you can't seem to acknowledge is the one where I love you.

Our agreed-upon lie is no longer agreed upon.

Our silent understanding is broken by myself.

Would you be ashamed if we changed the rules? Would you be ashamed if our lips were to meet? Would you be ashamed if our existence were to shatter to create something that's always been there?

I wouldn't.

I was meant to love you
since the day I was born.


The ghosts asked where you were the night you were buried.

In a coffin, that's where, with unknown variables choking you.

And at the hospital afterwards, I finally began to breathe because I had been holding my breath from the moment you had vanished.

Three days later, Grissom told me to go home, to rest, that you would wake up soon.

But I refused.

He said I needed to go back to the lab because everyone was working again and I said just fire me already. I wouldn't leave until I saw your eyes. Even lying there, battered and scarred, you were so beautiful.

He looked at your sleeping form and asked Do you think it's possible to live for someone else?

And I said If you knew me, then you would have your answer.

So he gave me a leave of absence and said You're wasting you lives by waiting for each other.


After the hospital, it was as if you were expecting me to abandon you.

But I don't think you understand that it's never too late and I'll always be here.

All you have to do is let me in.

All you have to do is open the door.

My clothes are wrinkled and my hair's flat. With the dark smudges under my eyes and pale complexion, I'm sure I look like I've just rolled off the autopsy table and onto the street, searching for the human life I lost. What turned me into this? I can't remember and don't have the energy to try; the only hope I have anymore is you.

I lean against your truck and wait for you to emerge from the building, the birth of morning beginning to form in the horizon. Time doesn't wait, does it? Time's always ticking away and maybe, a long time ago, I was someone who you could have found attractive or fun. But I'm tired now, and I feel broken, like I've been caught in another explosion and was actually torn into a million pieces this time.

I don't want someone to have to put me together. All I want is a life –the life- I know I was meant to lead with you.

I finally see the glass doors open. Your clothes aren't much either; your jeans are stained with motor oil and you tore your shirt while investigating in an alley somewhere, a place where some poor girl was stabbed last night. I know all about it -the intricate details, the circumstances- because she told me this morning.

"Hey Nick," I greet as you approach. You look up and smile at me, the first genuine one I've seen on you all day. You've been reading case files too long; your glasses sit crooked on your nose.

I wonder how many chances I probably missed. Chances I should have taken; would take, now that I know better. So scared that I'd ruin everything that I didn't realize I'd still end up with nothing. Would you have found me worthy when I was still normal?

"Hi," you echo. "What's up?"

I'm a million fragments of what I should be. They're yours, the fragments, if you want them. You can have them. I belong to you, but you don't know that.

"Tough case," I mutter and you nod in agreement. Tough. Tough enough to tip the scale, make me want to stop this job altogether. "You going to be okay?"

I can already see the lie forming on your lips, words rehashed a million times over. You're so used to those stale consonants and vowels, letters that create dishonest words, dishonest words carried by a fixed voice. I want to tell you that your voice is music; every time you speak, I dance and float. Let it fly. Let it wail. Let it sing. Let it amplify. Your words are the only things that keep me grounded.

Instead, you nod, and it's almost a relief. Your voice is too precious to be wasted with untruth.

Why do you lie to me? We both know we can see through each other.

Your face holds an expression of concern. Dark eyebrows furrow and you ask, "G, are you spacing out? What happened tonight?"

I look at you and, in the middle of the parking lot, I put my arms around your waist. You drop your bag, not even asking what I'm doing. You already know. Maybe the expression on my face gives me away or perhaps it's the way I'm clutching your body to mine, refusing to let go. Either way, the silent agreement that we've shared for so long is forgotten in favor of the new one, the one where we surrender to the years we've been battling.

"I love you," I whisper, because I can't pretend the feelings between us don't exist. I'm not sure where this came from, this desire for you to know how I feel, but I can't hide it.

And maybe, in the beginning, we would have gone about it differently. Maybe we would have had dinner or coffee. Perhaps, like other people, we would have dated. I press my forehead against your chest and I feel like maybe I could die.

"I love you," I repeat. "And I don't want to waste our lives anymore."

Other people would have probably gone about it another way.

But we aren't other people.

I feel your warm arms encircle my neck and my heart flutters. You rest against me, as if I'm the only thing that keeps you standing; it's no big finale, no proclamation written in the sky, no audience to cheer us on. Our love story is no big production and that's exactly how I want it.

I'm yours. I've always been yours. Surely you know this.

Do you think it's possible to live for someone else?

If you knew me, then you'd have your answer.

I see the ghosts standing at the doorway of the lab, watching us, looking pleased.

Their lives are over, but mine is slowly recreating itself. The energy I've lost, the spirit I thought had vanished returns to me; you're who I was meant for, the reason I was born, the excuse I gave when someone demanded an explanation of my life.

The sun breaks over the city and I hear the ghosts say

Go into your sanctified existence.

(Always) Continuing.