Title: Eighteen Hours
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #20: the road home
Warnings: ghost towns; McDonalds and McMansions; unexpected visits
Disclaimer: This might come as a shock to you, but I am not Jerry Bruckheimer.
Author's Notes: Written in a random bolt of inspiration a couple weeks ago, when I was trapped at work with nothing to do. I'm just posting it now, because that's how I am. ;P

Nick drives to Texas late one night.

He doesn't know what's come over him, and he doesn't think about it. He just drives, blindly forward, following the broken yellow lines that jut down the highway and spark gold in his headlights. The world outside his truck - beyond the slightly-tinted windows and the George Strait CD and the hiss of the air conditioner - looks empty, bleak, dreary. He blames the desert and its ghost towns, the dark signs off the highway indicating motels and gas stations and topless bars. He considers stopping, filling his tank, getting a coffee, turning around.

He does none of these things.

He stops for gas in Arizona and then again in New Mexico, two dusty gas stations in the middle of two separate nowheres, but he never stops to sleep. He goes through a McDonalds drive-thru just over the Texas border for a coffee and a burger. He's been driving seventeen hours when he crosses the city limits, and another hour before he rumbles into the familiar driveway. It's dark, and late, but that doesn't stop him from walking right up to the door and pressing the doorbell. It doesn't stop him from fidgeting on the front stoop of the Stokes family McMansion and waiting.

His mother answers the door in her bathrobe and slippers and blinks bleary, tired eyes. "Nick?" she questions, and he nods. She glances at her watch and frowns. "Nick, it's ten o'clock. What are you doing here?"

"I came for..." His voice trips over itself, and he swallows. "For a visit."

"Well, come in! My goodness!" He steps through the door and she closes it behind him before enveloping him in a warm hug and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek. "What did you think you were doin', driving here all the way from Las Vegas? You should have called! Daddy and I would have sent you a plane ticket."

He doesn't smile down at her, even as she's tugging his jacket from him and sending a reproachful look at his shoes, still on even though he's past the doorway. "I didn't know I was coming."

"Didn't know you were coming? Nicky, what are you talking about?" She's staring at him, now, his jacket in her hands and her expression suddenly concerned. "Nicky, what's the matter?"

He moves to speak, to tell her, but his cell phone rings loudly - it's still clipped to his belt - and he tugs it off. "Stok - oh, hey, Bobby." His mother's staring at him, and he can hear the softness in his own voice. "No, I'm - I'm fine. I told Greg to - yeah. Yeah." His eyes roam the vision of his mother, her messy hair and make-up free face, the confusion and concern and deep love in her eyes. He wonders, briefly, where his father is. Asleep? Preparing a brief? Polishing his guns in the basement? "Listen, I'll... I'll call you. Tomorrow. Yeah, you too. Bye."

His mother is on him before he even closes his phone. "Nick," she says, in a voice that is both warning and not, "what's going on?"

Nick swallows, feels her eyes on him, and the still-lingering pressure of the kiss she'd planted on his cheek. "Momma," he tells her, and feels like a little boy, "why don't you get Cisco, and make some coffee. I've...I’ve got something to tell you."

Eighteen Hours

Title: Eighteen Hours
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #20: the road home
Warnings: ghost towns; McDonalds and McMansions; unexpected visits
Disclaimer: This might come as a shock to you, but I am not Jerry Bruckheimer.
Author's Notes: Written in a random bolt of inspiration a couple weeks ago, when I was trapped at work with nothing to do. I'm just posting it now, because that's how I am. ;P

Nick drives to Texas late one night.

He doesn't know what's come over him, and he doesn't think about it. He just drives, blindly forward, following the broken yellow lines that jut down the highway and spark gold in his headlights. The world outside his truck - beyond the slightly-tinted windows and the George Strait CD and the hiss of the air conditioner - looks empty, bleak, dreary. He blames the desert and its ghost towns, the dark signs off the highway indicating motels and gas stations and topless bars. He considers stopping, filling his tank, getting a coffee, turning around.

He does none of these things.

He stops for gas in Arizona and then again in New Mexico, two dusty gas stations in the middle of two separate nowheres, but he never stops to sleep. He goes through a McDonalds drive-thru just over the Texas border for a coffee and a burger. He's been driving seventeen hours when he crosses the city limits, and another hour before he rumbles into the familiar driveway. It's dark, and late, but that doesn't stop him from walking right up to the door and pressing the doorbell. It doesn't stop him from fidgeting on the front stoop of the Stokes family McMansion and waiting.

His mother answers the door in her bathrobe and slippers and blinks bleary, tired eyes. "Nick?" she questions, and he nods. She glances at her watch and frowns. "Nick, it's ten o'clock. What are you doing here?"

"I came for..." His voice trips over itself, and he swallows. "For a visit."

"Well, come in! My goodness!" He steps through the door and she closes it behind him before enveloping him in a warm hug and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek. "What did you think you were doin', driving here all the way from Las Vegas? You should have called! Daddy and I would have sent you a plane ticket."

He doesn't smile down at her, even as she's tugging his jacket from him and sending a reproachful look at his shoes, still on even though he's past the doorway. "I didn't know I was coming."

"Didn't know you were coming? Nicky, what are you talking about?" She's staring at him, now, his jacket in her hands and her expression suddenly concerned. "Nicky, what's the matter?"

He moves to speak, to tell her, but his cell phone rings loudly - it's still clipped to his belt - and he tugs it off. "Stok - oh, hey, Bobby." His mother's staring at him, and he can hear the softness in his own voice. "No, I'm - I'm fine. I told Greg to - yeah. Yeah." His eyes roam the vision of his mother, her messy hair and make-up free face, the confusion and concern and deep love in her eyes. He wonders, briefly, where his father is. Asleep? Preparing a brief? Polishing his guns in the basement? "Listen, I'll... I'll call you. Tomorrow. Yeah, you too. Bye."

His mother is on him before he even closes his phone. "Nick," she says, in a voice that is both warning and not, "what's going on?"

Nick swallows, feels her eyes on him, and the still-lingering pressure of the kiss she'd planted on his cheek. "Momma," he tells her, and feels like a little boy, "why don't you get Cisco, and make some coffee. I've...I’ve got something to tell you."