Title: Checkout
By: Caster
Pairing: Nick/David
Rating: PG
A/N: Trying to write David's POV is exhausting! Please forgive all mistakes and any out-of-character wording; I tried, honest.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: David Hodges officially hates Wal Mart for more than one reason.

***

I may be reaching middle age and graying at the temples, but I'm not completely, utterly, hopelessly unfortunate looking.

Right. And Sander's isn't an idiot. I can't believe I'm trying to start this narration by lying to myself.

Christ, what I'm trying to say is that people don't stare at me. People don't talk to me. People barely even notice me unless I'm physically standing in their way or withholding DNA analysis and substance results from their investigative grasps. And maybe if I tackle them to the ground for no apparent reason… that might work just as well.

Stokes is a completely different story. He's oblivious to it, but here we are, walking through the local Wal-Mart, browsing the aisles for rubber gloves and I'm trying to ignore the way men froth at the mouth with jealousy and how women simply gaze with hopeful eyes. It was as if they were expecting him to don some shining armor and whisk them away, like a bad scene in a cheesy romance novel. And before you die of shock, the next thing I'm about to tell you is completely true: I, David Hodges, am currently in the presence of the Almighty Nick Stokes. Quick, someone get a camera. And no, that wasn't sarcasm.

It might be Wal-Mart itself that's putting me in this worse-than-usual mood. The guy next to me has the Harley Davidson logo tattooed on his right arm and is clothed in a t-shirt that has seen better decades. The woman in front of me is the poster child for chain smokers and she's wearing too much eyeliner. The guy we just passed looked as if he could whip out his pocket knife and cut my heart out to sell on the black market without breaking a sweat. Simply put, I'm in the midst of a melting pot crisis. The old lady handing out the buggies had prison tattoos, for Christ's sake. Why do all the freaks move to Vegas?

To make sure you understand my situation correctly, you need to know that it had been my lunch hour. I was sitting in the break room, devouring what I was sure was Sanders's extra turkey sandwich when Nick walked in, put fifty cents in the machine for a soda (when anyone with less self-respect would have just stolen one) and gave me –me- a smile. At first I thought his mouth muscles were having an involuntary spasm. Then I thought there was someone behind me. But lo and behold, he said, "So, Hodges, wanna take a break? We're running down to get some rubber gloves."

"Catherine forgot to restock again?"

"You can set your watch by it, man."

I don't know what I was thinking, but I said sure. Why not? A drive couldn't possibly be as bad as sitting in the lab, listening as Jacqui grumbled about the disgusting male species, how women should be liberated from men (it works both ways, sister) and then wondering, "Look at me. I'm not middle age. I'm completely self sufficient and confident in myself. Am I sending a signal that I don't want to be asked out for dinner?"

However, I slowly began to realize that listening to anyone mutter about their nonexistent love lives had to be better than this. We're at the checkout, purchasing the entire stock of rubber gloves, and the woman manning the register is batting her eyes at Nick as if she has some sort of chronic twitch. Me? I'm completely ignored. I'm used to it, sure, but that doesn't stop my bruised ego from dashing off yet again to find some dark corner in which to sulk.

"Hi," she says, chomping her gum obnoxiously. I feel my stomach turn. Germs. Everywhere. Get me out of this hell-hole.

"Hello," Nick replies, giving her one of those patented smiles that I've become an expert at ignoring. She giggles insipidly as if he'd said something extremely humorous. I mutter a few words that resemble a greeting, but she's so involved in this one conversation that I might as well be a part of the candy display behind me.

"A lot of gloves you're buying," she observes. Score one for her! That's right, folks: her keen sense of the obvious knows no bounds!

"Yes ma'am," Nick replies, smiling again. "They're for the job."

"Oh, really?" she asks. I want to bang my head against the conveyer belt. What, did he stutter? Gloves. Job. Let the man pay.

He nods, she laughs, and I see my life flash before my eyes.

"What is it that you do?" she asks and I internally groan. She wants an entire outline of his career? I watch she begins to drag the boxes over the scanner at an excruciatingly slow pace. Grab yourself a chair; this might take a while.

"I work for law enforcement," he replies.

"Oh, really?" Yes, really. Does he need to draw a picture?

She scans several more boxes at the speed of sloth. I curse. How many pairs of gloves did a CSI need in a night anyway?

"And what do you do there?" She sticks her chest out, as if maybe she was some sort of freak human/penguin hybrid. I turn to see a line of customers growing behind us. Their annoyance was something I could actually relate to.

"Crime scene investigation."

"Wow! I bet that's so interesting!"

"It is, ma'am." Texan charm. He's laying it on pretty thick.

She giggles and it feels like someone's driving a drill bit through my ears. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I try to disregard what's going on right in front of me. "I'm sure your girlfriend is just so proud of you." Wow. She can't be any more transparent; as a matter of fact, she might as well have taken the black Sharpie next to the register and written 'Date me' on her forehead.

We're half way through the boxes. I take another glance behind me; there's an increasing number of people and a decreasing amount of patience.

"Girlfriend? I don't time for one, I'm afraid." Nick, you imbecile! Lie! Lie! Shoot her down by telling her your girlfriend is a tiger in bed and cooks like your mother! If she knows you're available, there's no way we're getting out of here alive. Well, maybe I could; then again, you'd have to give me the truck keys to get back to work.

"Oh, really?" It's as if she's a broken record. How many times does she ask that question in one day? "Now that's just a shame, isn't it?"

Nick laughs. He actually laughs and blushes a little and my frequent and insane bout of jealousy rears its ugly head. I officially hate her. Someone get me my Black List.

"Well, I just broke up with my boyfriend yesterday." Obviously, they were very committed. Throwing herself at Nick is a way of saying, 'I partake in meaningful relationships only. My superficial and shallow attraction to men is only a cover-up for the deep and thoughtful woman inside.'

"I'm sure sorry to hear that, miss," Nick replies. God, let's just all break out the tissues and throw a pity party.

"Yeah, well. He wasn't the one," she said, sighing mournfully. It was a nice act. I guess the Wal-Mart gig was paying her way through some sort of performance school; I heard The Institute for Julliard Rejects have a few more openings.

There's only one more box to scan. I'm sure that if she could, she'd ignore said box and just keep on yapping her gum-filled trap, but it would look somewhat suspicious to the unfortunate souls waiting behind us. (Did that guy at the end of the line just flip us a bird? Because that's impolite.) She drags the box across the scanner as if it were made of concrete.

Beep. Clank. "That'll be thirty fifty-five," she informs, the total popping up on the screen as she blew a bubble with her blue gum. "Paper or plastic?" Plastic, please. I think I need something to puke in.

However, Nick smiles and says, "Paper, if you don't mind."

"Sure! But I guess you don't need anyone to help you with the bags, huh? You look like you could carry around a SUV if you wanted to."

Does this woman have any dignity? Is there no line she won't cross? No compliment she won't fork over? No corny pick-up line she won't try?

Nick smiles again, although I can tell he's a little embarrassed. Maybe I should jump in, say something about how we really "need to get back to work", but he's been making me stand here for a God-awful amount of time. The man should suffer. After all, it's his fault he was born so good-looking and decent.

"Yeah, well, you can thank the gym for that," Nick replied, trying to keep it light.

"I might have to bake them a cake," she replied, her answer predictably disgusting.

Nick speedily runs the charge card through and pays for the supplies, looking as if he wants to high-tail it out of there. See? Now we have something in common.

He shoves the card and receipt in his jean pocket and we each grab two bags and turn to go, the Las Vegas sun filtering through the faulty automatic doors, when all of a sudden:

"I'm sorry, but you never gave me your name," she says, as if customers handing out their names was a requirement for shopping here. He didn't share that information because he never wants to see you again. Get used to it. If I can do it, then so can you. Pick up a free brochure on 'How to Accept Constant Rejection and Misery' before you leave.

"It's Nick," he says, smiling again.

She grins and I suddenly feel like I'm in a bad Lifetime movie. "I'm Alicia." She grabs a pen and a scrap of paper and jots something down before thrusting it Nick's direction. "Give me a call, 'kay?"

Nick seems utterly shocked at the offering but accepts it. He casts me a look, as if to ask Was I giving off signs or something? Surely all the laughing and benign conversation wasn't giving her the wrong idea? Wake up and smell the cheap perfume, Stokes. She's interested. A blind man could see that.

"Oh," he says while the woman behind me yells something obscene ("Why the hell is this takin' so long, huh? Christ, I coulda canned these beans myself for all the good you're frickin' doin' me!"). "Um- thanks, Alicia." He makes no promise of calling because he's one of those guys who couldn't lie if you put a gun to his head, which has happened more times than I really care to count.

As we emerge into the too-bright sunlight, I feel as I've barely escaped some twisted, torturous fate. How humiliating would it be for Robbin's to cut me open and inform Grissom that my COD was boredom, jealously, and suffocation due to the concentrated scent of discounted perfumes? Good Lord, Jacqui's going to have a field day with this.

I give Nick a sideways look as we silently made our way towards the truck. He was attractive; more importantly, he was a genuinely good man. You had to at least try and ignore these things; Alicia did a bad job of this, but I'd say her low point was when she attempted to stuff her cleavage in his face.

"You've been awful quiet, Hodges."

Oh, have I? Sorry. Between the mindless droning of Alicia the Amazing Check Out Girl and Nick the Incredible Hot Guy, it seems the sidekick was left to his own devices, including watching a disgusting flirtatious exchange. No, that's not bitterness in my voice either.

"I didn't want to interrupt whatever you two lovebirds had going on."

"You sound upset."

"Upset? Me? Never. A piece of advise: the next time you ask anyone to go shopping for supplies, make sure to warn them before hand to bring a sick bag and what little patience they have to spare."

"She was nice."

"A conversation with her and your IQ has already dropped," I mutter.

"She was still nice."

"Call her. Take her out. Charm her dress off."

"Now you sound jealous. I'm sure she found you just as-"

"Nick, she didn't see me. You can't find someone nice unless you see them first," I say as I store the bags in the backseat.

There's a pause and I turn to see him leaning against the Tahoe, arms crossed over his chest, not making any actual effort to move.

Another moment passes and I realize he's probably trying to make some cute point about how of course people see me.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Not that I want to say anything, but his staring isn't particularly comfortable. In other words, I prefer him cranking up the truck and getting me back to the lab as quickly as only Nick the Super Hot Guy can.

Instead, he looks at me with an uncertain smile and says, "I see you."

I'm quiet. For once, I have no idea what to say. These sorts of moments never happen to me and I don't want to give him any indication of what I think he may be saying; frankly, I don't even know how to handle this properly. In my fantasy world, Nick means 'I see you' as 'I've been dying to take you out to dinner for the longest time', not 'I see you. Aren't you that guy who handles Trace?'

"Thanks," I mutter, unsure as to what to do next. I turn to the passenger door and make a move to open it, but Nick places a hand on my shoulder and stops me. I'm frozen. This is a joke and I'm ready for the humiliating punch line and I wish he'd just get it over with.

"I see you," he repeats before he stoops a few inches and kisses me.

And I think I may not be misinterpreting this after all.

FIN.