#bc im obsessed w rosy/gracie but also the dynamics of gray/nick nick/rosy gray/rosy gray/gracie AND nick/gracie

[rosykims]

just one date.

mind blind — ambrose kim x f!button (gracie wiseman) | (but mainly platonic nick wiseman x grayson black) | rated T for language | 1198 words | cw for profanity & alcohol.

Nick Wiseman wilts into his malt whiskey. "This is a goddamn nightmare."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm serious. The end is nigh."

"I know."

"This is like . . . it's a calamity. A cataclysm. This is my fucking Ragnarök, Grayson."

Gray sighs, beer in one hand, head in the other. "Wow. You're really breaking open the thesaurus for this, aren't you?"

Nick glares up at him, appearing about a decade older than he did not two hours ago, back at Unity before he'd first caught wind of the terrible news. "I want to break open something with a thesaurus," he mutters. "Preferably Kim's thick, delusional skull."

"You don't mean that," Gray says.

"Yeah, you're right," Nick snorts. "A thesaurus isn't heavy enough. Rookie mistake. You know, I think Gracie still has that old Miss Marple collection back home. Hardcover, leather-bound, four thousand pages, give or take. That should get the job done."

Gingerly, their waitress sets down Wiseman's third spirit of the afternoon, shooting Gray a sympathetic grimace as she regards the sorry sight of his friend, currently face down on the table and groaning Spanish profanity into the wood. Gray dismisses her concern with a reassuring smile, leaning across to awkwardly pat at Nick's shoulder once the server's out of earshot.

"I think you might be overreacting, somewhat," he says gently.

"Overreacting?!" Nick's head snaps up, eyes glazed over and glaring daggers. "It's Kim! If anything, I'm under-reacting! I'm reigning limbo champion of Reaction Island!"

"It's just one date."

"With my baby sister!"

"Your sister is twenty one, and —" Grayson bites his tongue before it does something stupid. He really needs to stop drinking on an empty stomach.

But the damage is done. Nick's eyes narrow, and he takes a swig of his drink as if there were some vile taste in his mouth needing to be washed away. "You were about to say something awful, weren't you?" he asks miserably.

"Not awful," Gray winces, "just —"

"— Awful. Go on. Say it. She's going to invite him to Christmas dinner with us this year, isn't she? Oh, God."

"No!" Gray laughs. "Well, maybe. And, I'm sorry, mate, but that would be really funny."

"Screw you, too, Black."

"Imagine if they get married. You and Kim — brother-in-laws . . . "

"What the hell happened to 'it's just one date'?!" A visible shudder of nausea rolls over Nick's slouched frame, which only makes Grayson laugh harder. "You're getting some sort of sick, twisted, British satisfaction out of this, aren't you?"

Grayson takes a sly sip from his pint. "Maybe just a little," he grins.

"Great," says Nick. "Where's another coma when you need one?"

The bar's Friday afternoon revelry swallows up any real cynicism in Nick's tone — a small mercy for Grayson, who still has nightmares about the whole messy affair. Music drowns out the thoughtful silence between them for a few brief moments, before Gray, swallowing a handful of peanuts, sighs and opts to give in.

"Look," the taller man say earnestly. "What I was going to say was — and, sorry in advance for this — Ambrose and Gracie make a lot of sense, when you think about it. I mean, I'd be lying if I said I saw it coming, but . . . it also doesn't surprise me, exactly."

Nick blinks, his face drawn and blank and dangerous in that UCRT Commander Justice way that clearly informs Gray he's overstepped. He hasn't been on the receiving end of such an expression in a while, and fights the ever-instinctive urge to apologize. Unfortunately for both of them, the occasional overstep just comes with the territory of being UCRT Commander Justice's best friend. He recants that in his mind as Nick continues to glower across from him.

"My little sister," Nick says quietly, "is an angel. A saint. She's never done one single thing wrong in her whole life, and now you're suggesting that she and Ambrose 'I Get Off On Human Suffering' Kim are — what? Compatible?"

"Sure," Gray shrugs.

Nick shakes his head in dull horror. "I may have to duel you over this. Pretty sure there's a law about it, somewhere."

Gray rolls his eyes and doubles down. He may love Nick, but that doesn't exempt him from any much needed reality checks. "I don't get how you don't see it. They're both ambitious, methodical, confident. They work well together, they get along . . . they both say shit like, I don't know, 'myopia' and 'ennui'. . ."

"That's different! Gracie is eloquent — Kim's just pretentious."

"Uh-huh."

"Ok, we are definitely duelling."

Despite the irritation thick in his voice, Nick shows no intention of moving. Instead he stares absently into the last quarter of his glass, seemingly search for salvation at the bottom of it. He opens his mouth to speak, and then promptly frowns, closing it again. He takes another, more forceful gulp. Gray sighs.

"You've had too much to drink." He scoffs as Nick raises his glass in silent toast to the fact. "You're acting like a right pillock."

Nick rolls his eyes. "What the hell is a pillock, anyway? I'm picturing a bird."

"Picture a guy slumped over a table like the village idiot, instead. Drowning his sorrows in shit whiskey because his sister's going out for coffee. That's a pillock."

"Very informative, Fortitude, thank you."

"Any time."

Nick downs the last dregs of his drink before calling it quits, holding up his hands up palms open to appease Gray and his chiding stare. A moment of comfortable silence passes between the two of them, only interrupted by the same waitress now returned to collect their empty glasses. As she leaves, looking somewhat relieved, Gray spots a flash of something like true hurt shadow the features of his friend. He says nothing, only pursing his lips in understanding and waiting for Nick to make the next move.

Finally, Nick lets out a long slow breath, as if he'd been holding it in for an hour.

"I just don't get it," he says. "I mean — you're smart, funny, nice. Objectively attractive, in a hairy, oversized Beach Boys kind of way — joking, I'm joking! — and you have the added benefit of an actual soul. Why can't she be obsessed with you like every other self respecting young adult in Chicago? Ugh! Why does it have to be him?"

Gray raises a single brow. Waits. Holds Nick's eye until a steady, self aware blush begins to creep up the other man's neck.

"Fine," he concedes. "I sound like. . . ugh, a pillock. I hate that word, by the way."

"It's just one date," Gray repeats.

"And if it's more than one?"

"Then that means she's happy. Which is what you really want, I think. Even if it means happy with Kim."

"That's . . ."

Nick looks down at his hands, splayed out against the sticky cedar wood table. He sighs. "That's obnoxiously insightful."

"That's what I'm here for," Gray laughs. "That, and mooching off your food."

"Do you think I should get Kim coal for Christmas? That would be hilarious, right? Gracie wouldn't be that mad."

"For fuck's sake, Nick."

"Okay, okay. Dropping it."

"Pillock."