Title: Five Ways They Didn't Find Out
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #14: radio-cassette player
Warnings: Hank Pettigrew; spatulas and beer; KQLV 97.9 FM; cell phone displays; a need for lift tape
Disclaimer: If only...
Author's Notes: This one is fun! Ridiculous, but NOT sad. And that's the important part. ;)

I.

"Hey, Sar, isn't that a friend of yours?"

Retrospectively, Sara was glad she'd taken Grissom advice to go "get a life," because seeing even the worst of bad movie offerings with Hank was better than sitting at home and listening to the police scanner. Apparently, however, she hadn't been the only one to get a life, because when she followed the direction that Hank's finger was pointing, she was surprised to see the denim-clad figure of one Nick Stokes hanging around outside of the men's room.

"Yeah, it is," she replied, and they both wandered over to him. "Hey, Nick. Funny seeing you here."

Nick's head snapped up from his intense studying of the lobby carpeting, and for just a split second, he looked absolutely horrified. When the horror dissipated, however, he did smile. Barely. "Hey, Sara, nice to see you." He stuck out a hand. "Hank, right?"

"Yeah. Nick, is it?"

"Yeah."

"What you doing here?" Sara nudged him in the arm. His return nudge reminded her something of a wet noodle. "Movie night? Do you have a new girl you're not telling us about?"

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced back at the men's room. "Uh, no, no new girl," he said quickly. "Just here to, you know, see a movie. That's what people do at movie theaters, right?"

Hank glanced sideways down at Sara, as though he intended to ask if her friend was completely out of his mind. Sara wasn't so sure, any more, herself. "That's why we're here, too," she admitted. "Hey, what're you seeing? You can sit with us, if you want, I'm sure - "

"Men's rooms ain't supposed to have lines. That's just wrong." Suddenly, walking out of the restroom and talking pleasantly was Bobby Dawson, his hands in his back pockets. He stopped three steps short of Nick and blinked. "Well, Sara Sidle! Good to see ya. And a friend of yours?"

"Hank Pettigrew." They shook hands warmly, but all Sara could do was stare. Specifically, all she could do was stare at Nick, who was toeing the carpeting and looking as though the only place he did not want to be was that movie theater at that moment.

"Bobby Dawson. Nice to meet you." He kept on smiling, and nudged Nick much in the way Sara herself had. "Hey, we should see what they're seein', Nick. We can sit together and ... "

"No, no," Sara cut in, waving a hand. "We're seeing the new Disney thing." She rolled her eyes in an act of self-deprecation. "I'm a huge fan of... Disney. Stuff."

Hank blinked. "Since ... "

"C'mon, baby. Nice to see you guys. Bye."

They were only about twenty feet away when Hank glanced down at her as though she, too, was utterly unglued. "Sara, what the ... "

"Don't ask," she interrupted, "because if you do, I'll have to think about it, and I do not want to think about it."

II.

Nick answered his door, unsurprisingly, in sweats and a t-shirt, typical bachelor Saturday garb, and his eyes were the size of saucers. "Uh, hey, ‘Rick. What's up?"

"‘What's up?' Man, you didn't forget, did you?" Warrick rolled his eyes at Nick's perplexed expression as he stepped through the threshold, pressing the six-pack he'd brought over into his friend's chest. "The new Madden came out today, and we were gonna play ‘til our fingers bled." He frowned. "You do remember, right, man?"

"I ... uh. Yeah." Nick didn't sound like he remembered. He sounded like he'd just gotten out of bed, at three p.m. on a Saturday. "Uh, actually, ‘Rick, this is kinda a bad time."

"Kind of a bad time? Dude, we've had this planned for six months. How's it a bad time?" Nick kept watching him, awkwardly clutching the beers. "What, you got some hot girl over? ‘Cause listen, I might be a ‘bros before hos' kinda guy, but it's been so long since you got any that I'm willing to ... "

There was the creak of a floorboard near the end of Nick's front hall, and suddenly, Bobby Dawson wandered into view, shirtless, barefoot and wearing what appeared to be a pair of Nick's Texas A&M sweatpants. "Hey, Nicky, are you out of ... " He paused when his eyes met Warrick's, and Warrick realized, albeit belatedly, that Bobby was also holding a spatula. "Uh, hi."

"Hey, Bobby." They were the only words Warrick could find, and when he glanced back at Nick, Nick was staring down at the bottles in his hands. "I, uh... How you doin'?"

"Okay, thanks." Bobby looked at his spatula for a moment. "I'm, uh, gonna go look for the garlic, I think."

"Yeah. I'll be there in a sec, Bob." Bobby wandered out of view and when Nick finally glanced up at Warrick, he was a very unnatural shade of red. "Listen, ‘Rick, I was gonna tell you, but ... "

"Hey, no sweat." He took the beer from Nick and replaced it with the game. "I'm just glad you're getting some. I'll see you Monday."

Nick nodded. "Yeah. See ya. Sorry ‘bout the ... "

"No prob, man." He patted Nick on the arm, a friendly, non-sexual, you-can-like-men-while-I-abstain kind of pat. "See you later."

The full effect of that concept hit Warrick only after he'd made it halfway down Nick's front walk. Nicky. And Bobby Dawson. Doing ...

Suddenly, he was very glad he'd handed Nick the game and kept the beer for himself.

III.

When Nick started the ignition, the radio turned on immediately.

"You're listening to KQLV 97.9 FM, your home for soft rock classics. I'm ... "

Nick punched it off and started putting the car in reverse, but Greg had already heard enough.

"Soft rock, Nicky? Well, well, well." He leaned back in the passenger's seat, watching as his friend worked very hard at backing his Tahoe out of the lot. "You know, when you invited me to breakfast, I expected you to set the mood with a little Cash. Maybe some Willie Nelson. Or some Garth ... Garth's classy, right?"

Nick's jaw hardened. "It's just the radio," he stated plainly.

"Yeah, sure, it's just the radio, but a person's car radio says a lot about him. Sara, for instance, she keeps it on that alternative station that used to be cool. You know, when grunge was in. Cath likes the pop station. Warrick goes R&B, because he's Warrick, and Grissom ... "

"Is there a point to this, G?" And Nick stared at the road as though it might jump up and bite him if he dared look away.

"Sure there is." He grinned, his eyes never leaving Nick's face. "I've been in this vehicle of yours no less than twenty times, and every time, it's been hardcore twanging country. Now, suddenly, it's soft rock. And you know whose car radio is always tuned into soft rock? Classic soft rock on KQLV, in fact?"

Nick's Adam's apple bobbed. "No."

"Bobby Dawson's."

"Is that so?"

The car jerked to a stop at the intersection, and despite himself, Greg grinned. Nick's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Guess I know who wears the radio pants in the relationship," he commented offhandedly, and it was only after the car behind them beeped that Nick started driving again.

IV.

Catherine's sympathy for Nick taking a sick day lasted for all of ten minutes before she whipped out her cell phone and called him.

She rationalized, as she listened to it ringing in her ear, that it really was a shame that Nicky was sick, but this was no small matter. This was, in fact, a large matter and a much larger case, and she and Warrick could only do so much. The other swing shifters didn't yet get how she worked, either, so she wanted someone reliable. Intelligent. Texan, and going by the name "Nick Stokes."

Not that she was feeling particular, of course.

On the third ring, someone picked up and asked, in a sleep-thickened voice, "Hello?"

Catherine frowned, pulled her phone away from her ear, and glanced at the display. There was Nick's number and name, in all it's Technicolor glory. And, come to think of it, she knew that, even if she'd missed him on her contacts list by a name or two, she would not have ended up back in the Ds.

"Uh, hi, Bobby," she greeted, forcing some sort of cheeriness into her voice to mask the confusion. "Is Nicky there? I think this is his number..."

All the forced cheeriness washed away ... into a laugh, no less ... when Bobby Dawson cursed loudly in her ear before promising to get Nicky.

V.

Generally, Gil Grissom knew what to expect when opening the supply closet. Namely, he expected supplies. Latex gloves, plastic booties, bottles of Luminol, swabs, a few extra lab coats, some tweezers, sample bags, and ... most specifically, given that it was what he'd gone looking in the supply closet for ... lift tape.

What he did not expect to see in the supply closet was Nick Stokes very nearly literally mauling Bobby Dawson, his fingers buried deep in blond tendrils of hair while Bobby's hands groped at Nick's ...

Well then.

For a moment, Grissom could not help but just stare, observing the power play between the two men. Every time Bobby appeared to be getting the upper hand ... despite the fact that, anatomically, his hands were lower ... Nick surged forward, kissing him more ardently. It really was interesting, from an anthropological standpoint: the power struggle between two traditionally-raised men when in a non-traditional situation.

He'd have to ponder it more later, he decided. Right now, he needed lift tape.

"Ahem."

As soon as he cleared his throat, Nick leapt away from Bobby as though he'd just been prodded with a hot poker. This was made much more difficult considering that Bobby's hands were still firmly gripping Nick's ass, and it nearly pitched them onto the floor.

Nick sputtered and managed to wriggle away from Bobby. "Griss! Griss, it's not what it looked like!" he protested. Grissom wondered what else it could be, if that was indeed the case. "Bobby and I, uh, we were just, uh..."

Grissom quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"We were just runnin' the ballistics on that bullet. From the case. With the...shooting."

Bobby looked just about ready to burst out laughing.

Rolling his eyes, Grissom reached up and grabbed a box of lift tape off a nearby shelf. "It appears you had an intention towards some sort of shooting, yes," he replied. "Carry on."

The look on Nick's face when he started to close the door ... shocked, embarrassed, awed, speechless, and everything in between ... was priceless.