Title: DSI
By: kennedy
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG
Summary: Greg cooks; Nick is suspicious. Written for the LJ 25fluffyfics challenge (prompt #8, Dinner).

***

Nick was at a crime scene, investigating the yard when he got caught up in dense shrubbery along the side of the fence. He tried to pull himself clear, but he was snagged, and the branch was digging into his side painfully. He moaned, but the more he pulled the more it dug.

"Wake up, bozo," he heard Greg say.

Nick's eyes flew open, and he groaned. "What?"

Greg poked him even harder with his index finger. "What were you dreaming about?"

Now fully cognizant, Nick rolled over to face him. Greg leaned back with a grin as Nick reached for his finger, as if to bite it.

"Work. Can't even escape it in dreams," Nick complained. "Why did you wake me?"

"You were moaning, nightmare moaning." Greg looked concerned, but Nick didn't seem too fazed, so he ascertained it wasn't one of those dreams. "And I was expecting breakfast by now," he continued cheekily, referring to the previous week when Nick had surprised him with French toast in bed, even though he had then had fallen asleep in the middle of consuming it.

Nick smiled at him, and couldn't help a yawn from escaping. "I thought it might be your turn this week."

"Only if you wanted burned bread and bacon that would break a tooth."

"You can't burn muesli and fresh fruit," Nick goaded him.

Greg shrugged. "I probably could."

"You woke me up," Nick said again, as if it had suddenly sunk in.

"I'm sorry," Greg replied, not sounding sorry at all.

"At least I woke you up with coffee and food."

Greg leaned in and kissed him slowly. "Now, coffee I can provide." He pulled away and lifted the covers, but Nick grabbed him for another kiss.

"Do you want coffee or not?" Greg asked, between mouthfuls of air.

"Later," Nick breathed, his hands wandering south.





Breakfast was a simple affair of coffee, muesli and toast, but it was a good one. Greg had called during the week and subscribed to the weekend papers, and they lingered over the table immersed in the sections that interested them. Nick absentmindedly rubbed Greg's feet, which had eased themselves into his lap about halfway through the leisure section their owner was reading aloud from.

"Do you think I could spelunk behind Niagara Falls?" Greg asked, cutting off his own reverie.

Looking up from an article on logging in Brazil, Nick gave a short laugh. "Have you ever spelunked?"

"No."

"I would maybe start off small. Like in a sewer system."

Greg wrinkled his nose. "Too much like work."

"Do you want me to pick up Thai on the way back from Warrick's?" Nick asked as he put down world news and picked up the sports section.

"Nope. I'm cooking."

The paper almost fell from Nick's fingers. He looked at his partner, who was only visible behind the paper from the eyes up. "You're cooking?" he asked with trepidation.

"Don't act like I've never done it before."

"Well, it's just you're volunteering."

"You did something special last week, now it's my turn."

Nick reached over, and pulled the top of the paper down. "Really?"

"Really."

"Will you wear an apron, and all?"

Greg glared at him. "Don't push it."

Nick released the paper, and it sprang back up as Greg rustled it indignantly. He smiled to himself, and sat back to get all the pre-game rhetoric before it was time to go to Warrick's.





The game was a bust; at least, it was for Nick. The Houston Texans had lost to Warrick's team, and his friend had made no attempt to downplay his blind love and patriotism for the Chargers. They had slapped palms at Nick's truck, their silent signal that Nick had to buy the beer for the next game.

"49ers next week," Warrick reminded him. "Do you think Sanders can be convinced to watch?"

Nick jumped into his truck. "Depends. He only gets back into it if they look like they're going to win."

Warrick snorted. "So, no, then."

Nick laughed, and started the engine. "Probably not. See you tomorrow night at work."

As Nick drove home, his stomach rumbled despite the fact that he and Warrick had consumed enough home-made nachos to feed an extended family, and his mind wandered, considering what exactly Greg could have been cooking all day. He pulled into their driveway feeling a mixture of intrigue and trepidation. The house was still standing, so that was a good sign at least. He reprimanded himself goodnaturedly for being mean about his partner – it wasn't that Greg was a bad cook, per se; just that it wasn't exactly a skill he devoted himself to. Even after being with Nick for almost three years, Nick could imagine that Greg would still be happy living from the bachelor's cookbook of assembled take-out menus.

He opened the door to their house, and a surprisingly good aroma wafted out to greet him. He tried to keep his tone neutral, but couldn't resist, "Honey, I'm home! Something smells good."

Greg poked his head around from the kitchen. "Please don't ever say that again."

Nick walked over to him and planted a loud kiss on his forehead. "With the rate you cook at, you can probably count on it."

"Oh yeah?" Greg whacked him with a spatula. "How was the game?"

Nick moaned, and threw himself onto the sofa.

"The Texans won?"

Nick's response was to pick up a cushion and attempt to smother himself with it.

Greg grinned as he began serving up. He had kept abreast of the scores via the net, all the better to harass Nick with when he returned home.

"Do you need a hand?" Nick asked, muffled from beneath his cushion.

"No need. You be the big man on the sofa while I fulfill your stereotypical 1950s housewife fantasy."

"How can you when you're not wearing an apron?" But suitably chastened, Nick got to his feet, and started fetching glasses and silverware.

Greg pulled garlic bread and a tray of lasagna out of the oven, setting it upon a silicon protector on the counter. Nick sniffed appreciatively as he chose a bottle of wine from their meager collection. "You went all out."

"Told you I would," Greg said from behind the fridge door as he pulled out a bowl of salad. "While you've been out carousing," he laughed as Nick snorted derisively, "I've been slaving away in here."

They began to dig in, and Nick made the appropriate noises as he swallowed his first bites. "Seriously, G, this is really good."

"Why, thank you," Greg replied, pouring more wine.

Nick's chewing slowed as the taste of garlic, basil, tomato and béchamel sauce became suspiciously familiar. The corner of his mouth perked slightly, and he tore off a crust of garlic bread to soak up some errant juices at the side of his plate that were mingling with the balsamic vinegar of the salad. "Really good. So, slaving away in the kitchen all day, huh?"

Greg swirled the wine in his glass before taking a sip. "Yep."

"Did you have to go shopping beforehand?"

Greg shoveled some lasagna onto his fork. "Just a few essentials."

"Yeah," Nick nodded. "I thought I used the last of the balsamic a week ago."

"To tell you the truth, I used the whole bottle."

"The whole bottle?" Nick asked, dumbfounded.

"It was a small bottle," Greg replied. Too quickly.

"It still doesn't seem like there's a small bottle of vinegar in that bowl."

"Well, after I made the salad, I knocked the bottle into the sink and it smashed," Greg shrugged. "So we'll pick up some more when we next go shopping."

"Uh huh," Nick chewed thoughtfully.

Greg stared at him over the rim of his wineglass. "Something on your mind, Nicky?"

"Oh, no," Nick drawled. "Just this is so good, you should cook more often."

"Then it won't seem so special," Greg countered.

"So what you're saying is, the infrequent attempts at cooking are what adds to the flavor, rather than your culinary skills?"

"Something like that," Greg mumbled.

"It's just as good as what we get at Manfredi's," Nick said suddenly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the first flush appear on Greg's cheeks. And it wasn't due to the wine.

"Well, you love Manfredi's, so that's a great compliment," Greg said coolly, as he tried to collect himself.

"You could put them out of business," Nick stood and made his way to the counter so he could serve himself a second helping. "Do you want some more?"

"Thanks," Greg handed his plate up to him.

Nick hummed to himself as Greg refilled their glasses. While his partner was distracted, Nick ran his finger along the edge of the lasagna pan. As he suspected, the remnants of the sauce came away easily and left a clean trail. "Aha!" he cried triumphantly.

His outburst made Greg jump slightly, and wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. "What?" he asked, turning back to him.

Nick held out his sauce-covered finger.

Greg shrugged, indicating for him to go on.

"There's no evidence of the sauce being cooked in this actual dish. There would be burnt edges where the sauce baked against the enamel. In fact, it just looks like you threw the dinner into the tray and then threw it onto a plate for serving."

Greg's mouth dropped open. "What are you accusing me of, Nick?" he challenged.

"Uh, what about buying takeout and trying to pass it off as your own home-cooked meal?"

Greg's eyes narrowed. "You're going to have to create a stronger case against me than that. It would never hold up in court."

Knowing that he was being tested, Nick quickly sucked his finger clean. "You want more evidence? I bet you I can get more."

"Go for it, CSI Level 3," Greg mocked him.

Nick crouched to the level of their kitchen bin, and Greg couldn't resist peeking at the waistband of the grey boxers that swam into view above his jeans. Nick pawed through the rubbish, and muttered to himself when he obviously didn't find what he was looking for. Greg raised an eyebrow when he looked back at him, and this only spurred Nick on to further efforts. He beckoned his partner with his finger to follow.

Greg sighed melodramatically, and dogged Nick's footsteps out their front door and to the space under the stairs where they hid their trash cans. Nick lifted the lid of the first, and laughed.

"What have you found, Dinner Scene Investigator?" Greg asked mockingly.

"You're a sloppy criminal, Greggo. You should know better."

Greg peered over his shoulder, to where a clear plastic bag containing empty takeout containers sat on the very top of the other trash bags.

"Circumstantial evidence," Greg said dismissively.

Nick shook his head, and cracked open the first container. "Wow, that looks suspiciously like lasagna remnants!"

"Anybody could have stuck those in our trash."

Second container. "Wow, heavy with the smell of balsamic vinegar. And what looks like radish leaves."

"I don't like radish," Greg said grumpily.

"I know. You always pick it out when you order a salad."

"Oh, you know me so well, don't you?"

"Well, I should by now." At the bottom of the bag was a scrunched-up brown paper bag. When Nick pulled it apart he was greeted by tinfoil contained within and a heavy smell of garlic butter. "I think the bread came in this, if I'm not mistaken."

"Still can't prove I left that trash in there."

"Shall I run this into the lab and get Hodges to run trace?"

Greg knew it was an empty threat. "You would never waste state resources to prove your boyfriend was a lazy cook."

"I bet Hodges would do it off the record just so he could have something to hang over your head."

He had him there, Greg admitted to himself, although he wasn't ready yet to cave.

Nick stuffed the trash back into the can, and replaced the lid. His eyes gleamed with humor, and then even further with a sudden realization. "Piece de resistance!"

"We ate Italian," Greg reminded him.

"Funny," Nick called over his shoulder as he leapt up the stairs and back into their house. By the time Greg caught up with him he was already pulling their phone out of its cradle. "I'll put it on speakerphone, so you can't say I lied."

He hit the redial button.

Greg crossed his arms as the sound of the phone dialing reverberated the living room, and felt his stomach drop as it was picked up.

"Manfredi's, how can I help you? "

"Manfredi's?" Nick asked in faux shock. "Sorry, wrong number!' he called out, and terminated the call. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, and reached for his silent partner. "Well, what do you know? I think this case is closed."

"You just got a lucky break with that last one," Greg conceded. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"A little," Nick grinned.

Greg couldn't help but laugh. "Fine, you got me. It wasn't like I intended to pass off the food as my own, you just got home earlier than I thought. I had only just put it in the oven to reheat for when you got back, so it was actually still warm and ready to serve when you walked in."

Nick allowed himself to tip over the arm of the sofa, and he fell onto the cushions, bringing Greg down with him. They both grunted as they thudded heavily against each other.

Nick brought his hand up to stroke Greg's light curls. "What happened to your grand cooking plans?"

Greg looked sheepish. "I fell asleep while reading on the sofa."

"You slept all day?" Nick asked incredulously.

"I was tired!" Greg protested. "So, anyway, what's the punishment for my crime?"

"Don't suppose you picked up dessert?"

Greg smiled. "There's a carton of tiramisu in the fridge."

"Do you think you could make a pot of your best blend to go with it?"

Greg's lips ghosted across his neck and then landed on his mouth. "I guess I could."

"Cool," Nick leaned up into his kiss. "Great dinner, G."

Greg laughed. "I'm sure I could do it again."

"So next week, do you want to cook some Thai from the Lotus of Siam?"

Greg gave him one more kiss, then got up to start the coffee. "It's a date."

***