empty derelict i. black The phone rings when they’re both asleep, and Nick, the first to rise, picks it up, shaking Greg awake as he mumbles a sleepy “Stokes,” to the person on the other line. “Work?” A sleepy Greg asks him as he hangs up the phone, and he only nods, starting to turn towards the edge of the bed, slipping his feet onto the floor. “Yeah. Go back to sleep, I’ll get in the shower first.” Greg nods in agreement, falling back into slumber almost immediately, and Nick smiles and rubs a hand over the sleeping man’s shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to the skin. Walking into the bathroom, his exhausted reflection greets him from the mirror. As he leans against the solid door behind him, all he can think about is how today is definitely not going to go as well as he had hoped. ii. white The bleached white of the hospital fails to comfort the people standing in the halls, waiting for either death or life, while others wander, waiting for the spark of hope that may, in reality, never arrive. The folder in his hands burns, burns, burns him with the truth of revenge, of disbelief, of distrust, and of the life stolen too suddenly without any logical thoughts to prevent it. He pulls himself together, the shame, regret, hurt, anxiety of past memories pushed to the back of his mind as he enters a too-familiar looking room. iii. shades of gray There are a lot of things in my life I want to forget about. Driving back to the crime lab, he fails to notice the absence of music, or sound of any kind, inside of the truck. He feels, hears, memorizes the low hum of the engine so well, and outside the window, he can see Las Vegas living around him, without him. Shifting the car to neutral, he sits directly in front of the building’s entrance, waiting. Not ten minutes later, the passenger door clicks shut as Greg settles in his seat, and Nick can feel questioning, worried eyes on him. “You ready to go?” He says, voice steady, and strangely, he’s proud of the small accomplishment. “You okay?” Greg asks not answering the question, tone quiet, careful, weary. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He blinks away the frustration, a slight frown settling on his face as he turns on the ignition, backing quickly out of the parking space and into late afternoon traffic. As the sun peeks out over the previously overcast skies, squinting into the glare of the light and reaching for the edge of the driver’s visor. As his hand drops back down onto the steering wheel, he feels Greg slide a hand onto his shoulder before moving further up to squeeze the back of his neck. Taking his eyes off the road for only a moment, he turns his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of Greg’s wrist, and grins as Greg laughs, soft, quiet, but loud enough, and that sound means more than anything else ever could to him. Soothing fingers slide over his short hair, resting there for a moment before pulling away. When the approaching stoplight turns to yellow, then to red, he brakes, and comes to a full stop before turning to Greg and leaning over in his seat, pressing his lips to Greg’s. A warm, comforting hand slides up his side as eager lips respond to his own. He pulls away when an impatient driver behind them honks, and when he looks up and sees that the light has turned green, he grins at Greg again and accelerates forward and toward home. feedback