Title: A Policy of Dos and Do Nots
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: David Hodges/Conrad Ecklie
Rating: PG-13, nearing R
Warnings: slight sexual situation; male pronouns; Greg Sanders; comparisons to high school; don'ts
Spoilers: None of any importance.
Summary: Outside the lab, some rules are different. And some are not.
Disclaimer: If the characters belonged to me, there'd be a lot more gay sex in the show.
Author's Notes: Written for the Sinatra challenge at csi_lab_rats, and also for sarcasticsra, who was saddened when I informed her the first inception of this fic had turned out poorly. This is the second draft, and a much better piece of fiction. At least, in my opinion. ;)

"Don't," he warns when they pass one another in the hallway, the sheriff three steps behind and glaring at every inch of the lab.

He bites his lip and nods curtly, only daring to breathe again after he's turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

I know I stand in line, until you think you have the time
to spend an evening with me

The bar is barely in the city limits, barely counts as Vegas anymore. The lights of the strip and the plethora of signs boasting "live nudes" and "no cover" disappear until they're just a gloss in the distance, red, green, and purple stars.

He sits at one end of the bar, a long-neck in hand, and watches the other man across the dimly lit room. It's high school all over again; he's hosting Susie Davis over at his house for a movie night and his mother is hovering, clomping up and down the stairs with sodas and potato chips. He sits at the one end of the couch and Susie at the other, pretending to be strangers.

Only now, Susan Davis-Porter works as a CPA in South Carolina and the only watchful eyes belong to the bartender. The bartender says nothing, just presses a grimy towel to a ring stained in the dark wood and tries to scrub it away. There are no sodas or potato chips, but long-necked microbrews and beer nuts are plentiful. So are twenty-somethings from the outskirts of the city, women in short skirts and tight blouses, but he doesn't notice them.

The other man's white shirt beams like a beacon in the darkness, bleached and pressed perfection in the dim light. His tie is loose but not undone, the knot hanging limply somewhere over his second button. He nurses amber liquid in a short glass and keeps his eyes on the window, staring into the distance. If he notices that he has an admirer, he says nothing.

It's all for the best, because his admirer says nothing in return.

"Hey, cutie," a voice suddenly greets, and a grinning blonde slides sloppily onto the stool beside him. She's clumsily gripping a half-filled bottle of Miller Lite, and the other half appears to be soaked into her too-tight-for-words blouse. "Can I buy you another of – what's that you're drinking?"

He frowns at her and leans forward, obstructing her view of his bottle. She pouts slightly and leans forward as well, trying to meet his eyes. "What?" he questions sharply. "Are you trying to be annoying?"

The pout turns huffy almost immediately. "Hey, look," she snaps, and wags her bottle at him. "I'm trying to buy you a drink. Most guys would accept."

"I'm not most guys," he informs her. She scowls at him but refuses to move. Over her slender shoulder, he can see only a sliver of white shirt. After another beat of her staring at him, he glares. "I thought we'd finished this conversation."

She harrumphs and hops off the bar, wriggling body parts that, really, he didn't need to see wriggled. He sighs and reaches for his beer, and when he turns back towards the far end of the bar, the other man is watching him with a quiet smile on his face.

He smirks slightly – just slightly – in return and sips his drink.

And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there's a chance
you won't be leaving with me

"I never knew you and Satan were such good buddies, buddy."

He glances up from the microscope to see Greg Sanders standing in the doorway, his hip pressed against the steel edging and his arms crossed over his chest. He rolls his eyes and returns to his careful examination of the unknown gray fiber from this week's high-profile homicide. "I don't know who you're talking to," he replies after he notices that Greg still hasn't left, "since this lab is completely devoid of your cronies."

"In fact – and it's funny, really – Sara said she heard you two, like, hang out." Greg chuckles and he can hear him crossing the room, the clomping footfalls of a man not well acquainted with wearing decent shoes. "But what would you do with Ecklie, huh? Play bridge?"

"I'm not a seventy-year-old woman, though I'm not surprise you found some sort of resemblance." He pulls the sample out from under the microscope and stares at it briefly. Greg's dangerously close, now, leaning over his shoulder. "What?"

"It's just weird. I mean, sure, everyone does stuff for Ecklie, but not ‘cause they want to. They do it ‘cause he's Ecklie."

He snorts. "Like when you come back to the lab?" he questions icily. "Or is that just that you peed at a crime scene again? I get the events mixed up."

Greg's smile disappears, and as much as he hates it admit it, he can see hurt in the usually upbeat expression. "It was just a question."

"Yeah, well, you CSIs never figure out when to keep your noses out of other people's business." He almost wants to stop himself, but for some reason he discovers that he can't. Instead, he pulls his eyes away from the sample and steps into the distance between them, his eyes narrowed. "What I do when I leave this lab is my business, Sanders. Not yours, and most certainly not Sidle's. So I would appreciate it if you'd stop speculating on what I do or do not do with ‘Satan,' as you have so affectionately taken to calling the man who signs your paychecks."

Stepping back, Greg purses his lips for a moment. "Sorry," he apologizes tensely, shoving his hands in his pockets as he speaks. "I was just kidding around." When he receives no response, he forces a little smile. "Lighten up."

"I'll work on that," he replies, and watches Greg beat a hasty exit. When he turns back around, he discovers he's being watched through the glass walls of his lab.

He gives a nod and receives the same in reply. Their eyes don't part, even when Willows presses past, armed with an over-full banker's box labeled "evidence" in messy letters.

He says nothing, and neither does the other man. They just stand there, separated by glass and silence, and stare.

And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place
and have a drink or two

In the corner of the parking lot at the dingy bar, where the lamp bulbs flicker and die, not even the silent bartender can see the deft fingers undoing his top two shirt buttons, or the lips drifting down his jawbone and towards his neck. It's all for the best, and he groans when a thigh presses against his groin. The black metal of the sedan chills him through his shirt and he shivers when a hand drifts down his side.

It's high school all over again; they're hiding under the bleachers and reciting nonsensical blasphemies involving god and a thousand different affirmations. They try not to fill the silence with words but they tumble out anyway, whispers offered to the sloping shadows.

Only now, the shadows are cast from overhead lights, and when he hisses out "god", the lips on his neck curve into a smile. Then, the lips fade away, but, as by the will of some benevolent greater being, the hands remain, warmth pressing cotton against skin.

"That's always been my favorite nickname."

The thigh against his groin adds an iota of pressure, and he grunts. "You've been called worse."

"So I've heard."

There's a heavy pause, as they stand together, and he finally swallows the lump rising in his throat. "Listen, I – "

The other man frowns and breaks all contact, the thighs and hands disappearing. "We talked about this," he states plainly. His loose tie flops against his chest as he smoothes a hand over his carefully-starched shirt. "We can't – "

"Actually, I was going to say that I got rid of Sanders," he lies smoothly, complimenting his commentary with a well-timed eye roll. "Next on my list are his nosy friends."

"And then what?" There's a slight smile playing across thin lips. Behind him, he hears the tell-tale click of automatic locks disengaging.

He shrugs slightly. "I'm not sure," he admits, and then steps away from the vehicle to open the door.

And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
like: I love you

"Don't," he warns when they've finished, swathed in dark sheets and lost in a dark bedroom. He can see the white shirt tossed on the floor, beside the slacks and tie.

He sucks in a breath. "It's a little late for that," he states and rolls out of bed, only daring to exhale after he's gathered up his clothes and exited the room.