Title: The Not-Staring Contest
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #1: look over here
Warnings: sexual thoughts; allusions to middle school; wound-up Greg Sanders; Lexuses
Disclaimer: My kingdom for CSI.
Author's Notes: Somewhat ridiculous. Greg is a brat throughout, but it's for the betterment of mankind. Thanks to hawkeyecat for the psuedo-readthrough at 1 a.m. ;)

He wasn't staring.

Bobby Dawson told himself this over and over again as he lulled back in his chair within the safety of his beloved ballistics lab, listening to the computer grumble and groan at him. He really needed to bother Grissom for an upgrade, he thought as he didn't stare, craning his neck to get a better non-view. Yup. An upgrade.

Just, well, not right now. He wanted the computer to go as slowly as possible, right now. In fact, he wanted it to require a reboot or three, just so he didn't have to work and could keep, you know. Not staring.

Through the blissfully clear glass walls and in the garage, Nick Stokes was processing a car. Actually, to be precise – and Bobby Dawson was nothing if not a precise man – Nick Stokes was processing the trunk of a car, which meant he was bent over and sticking his head into the trunk, which meant he was sticking other parts of his anatomy out of the trunk. The car wasn't particularly nasty or dirty or burnt to bits, either, which meant that Nick hadn't been required to don one of those ugly, shapeless car-processing jumpsuits. No, Nick Stokes was most definitely processing the junk in the trunk wearing his normal, worn blue jeans. Normal, of course, being Stokesian for "so tight they should be illegal."

Nick bent down just a little further, and Bobby wanted the computer to never work again.

It wasn't, of course, that he was some sort of creepy gun-hugging voyeur. No, as many of his exes had complained around the time they'd become exes, he was actually disturbingly white-bread. Voted for George W. Bush in the last two elections, even. But the fact was that this man, this Adonis with his face in the trunk of a Lexus… Well, he was an exception. To a lot of rules. Including the rule about never sleeping with coworkers, because man, what Bobby wouldn't give to bend Nick over the closed trunk of that damn Lexus and have his wicked way with his tight-jeansed ass.

No. That wasn't true. Bobby knew this, and he watched as Nick shifted and his t-shirt lifted, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of skin just above the line of his jeans. Instead, he wanted to take Nick Stokes and his attractive ass (and the rest of his attractive anatomy, for that matter) back to his apartment and have torturously slow sex with him, exploring every bit of taut muscle and tanned skin. He wanted to kiss Nick's forehead, cheeks, lips, jawbone, earlobes, and shoulders, and that's just staying above the chest. He wanted to hear that deep Texan twang groan his name as he slowly discovered if everything really was bigger in Texas.

And then, after that, he wanted to fire up the griddle and make –

"Enjoying the view?" The voice was teasing and light, but even so, Bobby very nearly fell right off his chair and onto his ass. He glanced up to see Greg Sanders grinning widely at him, all teeth and glittering eyes. "Really, Bobby. Be glad your lab coat is buttoned."

Bobby glanced down, scowled, and then sat straight up, adjusting his coat. "What can I do for you, Greg?" he asked tensely. A quick glance at the computer revealed that it still wasn't finished, which meant he was wasting valuable not-staring time with Greg. This wouldn't do.

"Tell me why you were just ogling Nick's ass." Bobby rolled his eyes as Greg hopped up on the counter, acting more like a gossipy twelve-year-old than a DNA tech. He kept on grinning, too, which was irritating.

"I was not ogling." He glanced back at the garage, as though to prove his point, and damn, Nick's ass had gotten better in the time he'd looked away.

"Uh-huh. Just a lustful side-glance, then? Appraising the goods? Bobby, do you deal in asses?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You're not funny."

"No. I am hilarious." Greg swung his legs, heels percussive against the cabinetry. "Do you have a crush on Nicky?"

"We're not twelve." Which was apt, Bobby supposed, for everyone except Greg. And maybe Jacqui, because she certainly did have her middle-school moments. He frowned as he realized that Greg had gotten away with not answering his original question. "What did you say you wanted, again?"

He kept grinning, and Bobby wondered if shooting his teeth out would get him in trouble. "Tell me if you have a crush on Nicky," he bargained, "and then I'll tell you what I wanted."

"No." Simple enough but most definitely not the answer, and Bobby figured there was no way he'd get away with it. "I don't have a crush."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do – Greg, seriously. Are you twelve?"

"In some cultures, that's a compliment." Oh, Greg was having fun now, and Bobby cursed his foul luck for that. He also cursed his foul luck that Greg couldn't just leave, because Nick must have found something really interesting in that trunk, the way he kept his head down there. And that leant to thinking about other places Nick's head could be, about the same height as a car trunk, and Bobby shifted in his seat. "I could set you two up."

Bobby snorted. "Like with Archie and the klepto?" Greg actually looked hurt, eliminating the grin, and he definitely liked this change because it made him far more likely to get the Hell out and allow him to go back to work. Or Nick, as the case may have been. "Thanks, Greg, but I'll pass."

"But it's Niiiiick…"

The offer was tempting. Even if it was just one dinner and one movie, it'd be a dinner with Nick. Bobby usually wasn't such a desperate man – he did alright for himself, psycho ex-boyfriends and that one transvestite notwithstanding – but this was Nick Stokes. To spend just an hour and a half with Nick, staring into his dark eyes and listening to him chuckle about this and that… Well, that'd be worth putting up with Greg's gloating for the rest of his natural life, wouldn't it? Especially if the evening ended well at all.

It wouldn't even have to end in sex. Bobby had considered this before, though he'd also felt very middle-school-girl for thinking about it. A date with Nick wouldn't have to end in sex to be a successful date. He'd be content with a kiss. Of course, no peck-you'd-give-your-grandmother kiss – it'd have to at least have a hint of tongue – but it'd be a kiss. Nick, he could tell, would be an excellent kisser. Bobby had already noticed that he used Blistex. Those lips would be soft, pliable, warm to the touch… Oh, he'd be incredible at it.

Then again, if they started kissing, Bobby might not be able to stop it before it became sex. Because really, just the thought of kissing Nick made him very uncomfortable in all the right ways, and –

"Didn't answer the question," Greg prodded, distracting him from a very excellent mental picture, and he frowned. "Want me to set you up?"

Bobby sighed and threw up his hands. "You know what? If it will get you out of this lab, sure. Go ahead."

The obnoxious grin was back full-force as Greg sprang – it was the only appropriate verb, "sprang" – off the counter and launched himself toward the door between the ballistics lab and the garage. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, really; no matter how badly he wanted to look away, Bobby found he couldn't, but was rather stuck staring at Greg as he threw open the door and yelled in a voice that could probably be heard in obscure parts of the Midwest:

"Hey, Nick! Look over here for a sec, will ya?"

Nick's voice was muffled at first as he pulled his head out of the trunk and rose, and – while he did mourn the loss of his opportunity to not-stare at that excellent ass – Bobby found the time delay refreshing. He clambered to his feet and moved to join Greg at the door.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, hoping and praying that Nick couldn't hear him. "Greg, when I said that, I didn't mean – "

"Hey, G. Bobby." Nick hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and Bobby was impressed at how attractive his hands were. Very nice hands. They'd be good at – well, that didn't matter, because Greg was about to ruin his life as he knew it. "What's up?"

Oh dear God, here it came. Bobby closed his eyes and waited for Greg to say it and destroy his very existence, not to mention taking away every chance he'd ever have to kiss the pretty lip-balmed mouth of one Nick Stokes. Ah well, it was fun while it lasted, and he'd probably look back on the incident and laugh when he was older.

Well, older and living in Detroit under an assumed name, but hey, it was something.

When Greg's voice finally came, it was in a sing-song that really made Bobby suspect he was twelve, after all. "Bobby likes you baaaaack."

Bobby's eyes burst open, and he blinked. Hard. Nick blinked back, staring at him, his lips gaped and his face a strange color of off-white. And Greg, damn him to Hell, started whistling before skipping off as if nothing had ever happened.

Off-white became pale pink as Nick dropped his gaze to the floor, blushed a very manly, very Texan blush and tried to hide his smile. "Uh, so."

If any man could be hot while completely bashful, it was Nick, and Bobby couldn't help but chuckle. "So," he replied, and even if Nick wasn't looking at him, he could see those beautiful lips curved into an equally beautiful smile.

So… Maybe he had a snowball's chance for landing a kiss on those amazing lips, after all.