Title: It Was (Everything Is)
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #16: invincible; unrivaled
Warnings: NC-17; shoulders stretching t-shirts; beer in the morning; perfection
Disclaimer: You know, maybe once I live in Arizona, I can drive up to L.A. and barter Bruckheimer for it. In the meantime...
Author's Notes: Written quite a while ago. Thanks as always to subluxate for the beta.

It was something perfect they shared.

He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but it was there, in them and around them every time they touched. Just the brush of fingertips on the back of a hand was enough to send sparks from his skin to his brain and then to his cock, and that was without that perfected sultry look. It was a hungry look, all smoldering Texas summers, a look that devoured him from the outside in and left his skin burning, desperate to be touched.

But it was more than that, too. It was their hands together, oddly perfect when they chose to interlace fingers in the early morning, watching the 8 a.m. news the way most people watched the 11 p.m., sipping beer and enjoying their shared, comfortable silence. It was the way those perfect muscles – football muscles, still sculpted after all these years – flexed and caught in the light that sparkled off bathroom steam, and the way those broad shoulders stretched his ratty old University of Georgia t-shirts. It was the way that he just naturally preferred the left side of the bed but gravitated the perfect amount towards the middle to make it impossible to not curl together, even if – outside of sleep – they were still seething from a fight.

It was how they fought, all yelling matches and angry words, but never throwing things or threatening violence. They could disagree respectfully on politics, religion, cars and music, but if one of them changed the brand of coffee in the cabinet, they’d scream until their throats were sore. But it was also the way their lips met when they made up, the slight tingle of lip balm he swore he never used and the taste of coffee or chocolate or whatever fruit had been in the break room during shift.

It was the roughness of a perfectly-sized palm against his erection, pulling and twisting in an uneven, torturous rhythm. It was blunt pressure before pushing inside, the exact length and width to fill him completely. It was the front-to-back, the rolling of hips, the thrusting and bucking in which every motion burned every synapse in his brain until he could only give in to the carnality of the act and the drawled-out mutterings above him.

It was how their lips touched after, at that the perfect angle where noses never smashed and teeth never clicked, where they never had smashed or clicked, not even in a furious moment of panicked passion. It was that one, lingering moment of post-coital comfort where he knew through every iota of his being that what they had was perfect, and where he could look up into those sultry, dark Texan eyes and see the same feelings reflected without ever having to say a thing.