GLITTER

Title: LJ Drabble for Saussy
Author: Wiseacress
Pairing:NB/JM No smut.
Rating: PG

Jim takes the hat off and Nick says, "Whoah."

"I know." He holds his hands out in midair--biceps--and does the side-to-side. Pouts, then grins. The face-splitter. The one that looks spontaneous and delighted. "Cool, huh? I wanted to go for a number one, all the way down, but Julie said no way."

Nick's still staring at Jim's head. After a second he realizes he's doing it, and blinks, then nods and drags on his cigarette. "That's, what, a number three?"

"A three, yeah." Nick looks tired. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he's puffy. The ashtray beside his chair is chock-full of butts. Jim drops the grin and parks his ass on the edge of Nick's dresser, leans over with his hands on his knees, and blows out a long breath. Time for sincerity.

"Anyway, man. How you doing?"

"Good." Nick seems distracted, fiddling with his cigarette, his eyes still on Jim's head. "I'm good. You?"

"Fine. Well, you know. A little freaked, it's weird it's all over just like that." Little grin again. "All Weed's kids got travelling shoes, right?"

"Right." Nick hauls his gaze down to eye level again, and seems suddenly to remember that they're having a conversation. "But hey, man, you're good to go. You're golden, there's an eight o'clock slot with your name on it."

"Sure, yeah, on Friday night."

"No, seriously. I saw you on Sharon Osbourne, you were great. And that Dresden thing, that sounds terrific--"

Jim fiddles with his hat, stretching it between his fingers, and shrugs. Nick, carrying ten extra pounds and a new, haggard look, smelling of smoke and black coffee, earnestly telling him he's got it made, he's golden--this is not a situation he wants to be in.

"Probably tank," he says shortly, looking away out the window at the green, rolling lawns. "If it ever happens, which it probably won't."

"Then you'll get something else."

"Maybe." He shrugs again and looks back, smiling to dispel the mood. "At least I didn't have to kiss Sean Bean, you know?" As soon as he's said it, he wants to cringe--shit, gay Buffy afterlives aren't a joke for everyone in the room. It doesn't seem to register with Nick, though, or at least, he's philosophical. He catches Jim's flinch and gives a shrug of his own.

"Hey. Pays for coffee and methadone, you know?"

Jim laughs and Nick butts his cigarette.

"So, how long you in here?" He's using the serious voice again, the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Fund voice, the I've been there and I'm here for you voice, the voice the fangirls love. Nick just blinks at him.

"As long as it takes, I guess. So far I'm pretty much on step one. Two looks like a biggie."

"Right." What was two, again? Problem? Power? Something about God? "I think it's amazing you're doing this, man. Seriously."

Nick just looks at him, his fingers fumbling for another Winston. After he lights it, he says, "You gonna let it grow back?"

"What--the hair?" Of course, the hair. He runs his hands over his head, over the soft prickle--it's a good feeling. He hasn't had it this short since he was a kid, a little kid. Summers, swimming pools, suburban Modesto. "Yeah, I guess. Not all the way, it's like poodle hair. Boom."

He holds his hands out in the circumference of the Afro. "Just something short and normal for a while."

"You got any gray?"

"I don't know." He turns and looks at himself in Nick's mirror. It's still a bit of a shock, the lack of Spike. "I guess I'll find out."

"Tressa says gray's sexy on guys." Nick's smiling, running his free hand through the hair at his own temple. Gray. Not like Jim's never noticed that, not like Nick's never bitched about it on set, but for the first time he thinks, Nick's getting old. As if Nick's somehow catching up with him, and if he keeps this up, this fucked-up blundering drinking life, he'll pass right on by and be an old man before Jim turns forty. Again.

"You want to feel it?" he says, not really thinking, one hand still on his head.

To his surprise, Nick nods. He doesn't stand up, so after a second Jim kneels down beside his chair and offers his head like something on a platter. It's a joke, he's playing courtier, trying to score a laugh or just something different in Nick's old, red eyes. But then he feels a soft touch on his scalp. Warm, gentle fingers running over his skin as if Nick is considering him, as if he's something foreign and obscure, something new, something that won't be around much longer.

-End