Title: Fallback
Author: Evan Nicholas
Pairing: Bobby Dawson/Greg Sanders
Summary: That's what friends are for.
Spoilers: None
Rating: Nothing graphic. Particularly.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, they'd spend more time naked. Pity they're not mine, eh?
Note: Unbeta'd because I suck. Sorry.

Bobby Dawson likes guns. A lot. Maybe that makes him a freak, being as he's an advocate of gun control and a staunch Democrat, but maybe it just means he has more of a social conscience than your average gun nut. That's what he tells himself, anyway. Besides, he puts his interest to good use. He has no trouble sleeping at night.

("Firing one!" he hollers, and waits a good two seconds for safety's sake before discharging the semi-automatic in his hands.)

Well... Okay, he does have trouble sleeping at night, but it has nothing to do with his juxtaposition of hobby and politics. It's a little more intractable than that. But the residual fallout of breakups always is, right?

(He pulls off his ear muffs and rolls up a sleeve to reach into the water tank.)

And sleep sucks anyway. Sleep is for wusses. He has a cool job, which he's not only good at but which he really likes, and he's putting in a lot of overtime in an trying not to think about his daughter. He'll see her on the weekend anyway, same as last week, same as the week before.

(Bullet under the 'scope, line up the exemplar, match the stria, and ...)

So life goes on. It sucks sometimes, but it goes on. And he's got good people he works with, most of whom know about the breakup, do what they can to help him get by. The swing shift ballistics tech covers for him when he's got lawyer things to do, Grissom lets him slip out a little early on slow nights so he can see his baby girl on her way to school, Jacqui feeds him in the lunch room when he forgets to take a break.

(He leans back from the workbench, rolling his shoulders and squeezing the back of his neck. His head is killing him, he's got a sniffle that's probably going to morph into Nick's cold of doom, and to top it off, the bullet doesn't match.)

And there's Greg... He likes Greg. He's always liked Greg. From the first, they've been friends, and when things with Scott had gone to shit, Greg had been there. Listened to him, put up with a lot of self-centered whining, even got him to smile when he needed it most.

(The funny thing is, even when the bullets don't match, there's a hell of a lot of paperwork, and the thought of filling out forms under fluorescent lights really doesn't do much for his headache. Maybe he needs a break. He locks the gun up in his cabinet, pockets the key, and goes for a stroll through the maze of laboratories.)

Only things have started to get a little blurry since the breakup, haven't they? Greg's a good friend. He's understanding. He's considerate. He's funny and he's friendly and he's cute. And he's damn near telepathic sometimes.

(Greg is balancing a chair on its back legs in the break room, flipping through a magazine, half-listening to something Sara and Warrick are arguing about. He glances up at the right time to see Bobby hesitating outside the washroom, and their eyes lock for just a second. Then Bobby turns away and pushes the door open, lets it swing shut behind him.)

The wall comes up behind Bobby's shoulders and knocks some of the wind out of his lungs, but he doesn't particularly notice. He's too busy concentrating on getting Greg's shirt out of the way, getting access to that skin, of making some kind of contact with another human being. The numbness of his every day life lifts a little bit when Greg kisses him, when he drops his hands to his waist, when he whispers platitudes against his lips and then sinks to his knees.

(Eventually, Bobby knows, people are going to put two and two together. Eventually, they're going to notice the pattern, going to figure it out, maybe even walk in on the act. Luck can only hold out so long, and then reality is bound to come crashing in on them. On him.)

It doesn't last long, it never does, and when it's over and Greg pushes up to his feet and leans against the far wall of the tiny stall. He's smiling his lazy smile, wiping at his mouth, looking at Bobby with affection and amusement.

"You doing okay?" he asks, tossing the crumpled toilet paper into the bowl beside them.

Bobby sighs. "Guess so," he says. The numbness is coming back, so soon after the rush of orgasm, and it breaks his heart that the lightness can't last.

"You're a lousy liar," Greg tells him with a half-laugh, leans forward to kiss him again.

"I know," Bobby agrees, because what else is he going to say to that?

Greg rests his forehead against Bobby's, and says, "You know I kind of love you, right?"

"So you keep telling me."

A hand settles against Bobby's cheek. "I mean it, you know," Greg whispers. "Whenever you want this to be more than this, let me know. I'll be waiting."

Bobby closes his eyes. "I don't know-"

"Shh," Greg says. "I can wait. And until then?" A quick kiss. "This is good, too."

Bobby's eyes are still closed when he feels Greg pull back, and he hears the stall door open. He listens to him stop by the sinks, probably fix his hair, and then open the door and walk back out into the lab.

(He lets out a long, slow breath, then opens his eyes. He zips up, flushes the incriminating evidence down the drain, and lets himself out.)

After all, the paperwork won't do itself.