Title: How Bobby Dawson Got His Nickname
Author: cinaed
Rating: PG
Pairings: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Summary: Bobby Dawson hates country. Even Garth.
Spoiler: "Poppin' Tags"
A/N: It's all Nick's fault, I tell you. Him and his damn nicknames for people. G, Griss, Rick, Country... There's more I'm sure, but I'm brain-dead, but yes, all Nick's fault. And first italicized line is from a Tim McGraw song, just so you know.

***

(Oh, it's a beautiful thing, don't think I can keep it all in - I just gotta let you know what it is that just won't let me go.)

The sound of humming meets his ears, and Bobby Dawson bites back a groan as Nick Stokes walks into the ballistics lab. It's not that he doesn't enjoy Nick's company (in fact, he enjoys it a bit more than he really ought to), but the Texan singing a country song puts a damper on their conversations. Mostly by giving Bobby a headache.

As it stands, he can't quite stop the grimace that flickers across his face, and Nick stops humming to shoot him a curious look. "You don't like Tim McGraw?" he says and sounds incredulous.

"I don't like country," Bobby informs him, and can't help but smile at the unbelieving look on Nick's face. It's as though Bobby's told him that he believes that aliens are controlling the world leaders.

"You…don't like country," Nick repeats. Apparently the news refuses to sink in. "Not even Garth?" He sounds so disbelieving that Bobby can't help but laugh.

He shrugs a bit helplessly, unable to prevent the chuckles that rise up from his stomach and make his shoulders shake. "I was the black sheep of the family," Bobby finally manages to say, forcing back more chuckles. "I like the classics - the Eagles, Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Seeger…."

"You have to like country," Nick informs him matter-of-factly, and Bobby blinks. Was this some unwritten rule of life he hadn't heard about? "Well, at least one song. Everyone likes at least one country song." Yep, apparently some unwritten rule of life.

"Like that sexy tractor one? Or, I dunno, the thousands of ones 'bout alcohol, sex, and adultery?" Bobby suggests, shaking his head. "I ain't heard a country song I liked yet, Nick. Now, if ya are here 'bout that bullet Doc Robbins pulled from your vic, I-"

"I'm going to find a country song you like," Nick announces, and there's an odd gleam of determination in his dark eyes that dries out Bobby's mouth until it's as parched as a desert, because there are far, far many too fantasies that determined look could work in.

"Ya can try, but if my ma and my dad can't succeed, I doubt ya'll be able to find one," he forces out, and licks his lips in a vain attempt to find some moisture. "Anyway, I gotta match for ya. The bullet was from a gun used in an unsolved home invasion three years back."

Finally, Nick seems to be distracted from his little mission and raises an eyebrow.

More than a little relieved, Bobby hands over a printout of the police report. "Masked man shot the husband in the leg when he tried t'surprise him with a baseball bat," he adds, and Nick nods, dark eyes scanning the police report.

"I'll let Grissom know." Nick looks up and shoots him one of his trademark mind-numbingly gorgeous grins. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Ya welcome," Bobby manages to get out, and waits for a full minute after the door shuts behind the Texan to make a run for the nearest water fountain (he prides himself on his self-restraint, after all).

"You really don't like country," Nick states a week later.

Bobby looks up from cleaning a Colt and blinks. For a moment, he almost doesn't know what the other man's talking about, and then he remembers Nick's incredulous 'Not even Garth?'

"I told ya that," he reminds the Texan, setting the Colt back into its proper place and raising an eyebrow.

"No, I mean, I didn't realize you hated country," Nick says, sounding vaguely scandalized, but also slightly amused as well. "You don't even have a single country CD in your car's CD case. I figured someone would get you one, and you'd feel obligated to keep it in your car, but nope, all you've got are Springsteen, the Eagles…." He pauses, and now he's definitely amused. "…And Jesus Christ Superstar. You prefer musicals to country?"

Bobby feels heat prickling his cheeks and knows he's flushing with embarrassment. "Everybody likes at least one musical," he says defensively, and Nick shakes his head.

"No, no, they don't."

"I'll have ya know-" Bobby pauses, and then half-narrows his eyes. Wait. He definitely didn't leave his CD case in plain view, and Nick had definitely never been inside his car. "How'd ya know what's in my CD case?"

"I had G break into your car and look through it for me," Nick says, thoroughly unrepentant about breaking the law, if his broad grin is any indication.

Bobby stares. "Ya…broke into my car."

"Greg broke into your car," Nick corrects him, and is probably about to say something else, but Bobby is already at the door and racing down the hall, on a search-and-destroy mission with a certain CSI Level One as his target.

Greg is not in any of the other labs, nor is he in the break room, and when Bobby asks a puzzled Sara if Greg's at a scene and she tells him no, he knows that leaves only one other place.

He shoves open the door to the roof and glowers at Greg, who looks at him with the most pathetic attempt at an innocent expression he's ever seen.

The other technicians are there too - Jacqui, cigarette dangling from her lips, raises an eyebrow; David smirks from his position against the railing; Archie looks up from the comic book he was reading and blinks in confusion; and Wendy takes a sip of her coffee and watches in interest.

Bobby ignores them all, his gaze zeroing in on Greg. "Ya broke into my car," he says, and Greg feigns innocence for another millisecond before he grins.

"Hey, Nicky asked, and you can't refuse Nick Stokes. It's like, against the rules," the younger man says, and doesn't bat an eye when David snorts.

"He…asked ya t'break into my car?" Bobby says, frowning. That didn't sound like Nick. After all, surely there were less criminal ways to find out what Bobby had in his CD case.

"Well…." Greg hedges. "He was muttering on and on about how you had to have at least one country CD, but how he couldn't find out, and so I offered to find out for him. He didn't know I'd break into your car." He pauses. "Besides, I don't think it's technically breaking into your car when you leave it unlocked."

"Your knowledge of the law never ceases to astound, Sanders," David remarks dryly, and Greg makes a face at him.

Bobby sighs. "Ya'd think I told Nick that the sky was yellow with purple polka dots," he declares. "I don't get why he's hung up on this. I don't like country. Why's he obsessin'?"

"Oh for the love of God," David exclaims, and Bobby blinks at him. "Don't tell me you're that blind. Please." When Bobby just stares, the trace tech looks disgusted.

Jacqui smirks and takes a long drag of her cigarette. Smoke drifting out of the corners of her mouth as she speaks, she says, "I've got twenty bucks on him figuring it out within the week."

Greg grins. "I'll take up you on that. Twenty for next week."

"Am I allowed to place a bet on never?" David remarks dryly.

Archie opens his mouth, grinning, but closes it at Bobby's aggrieved, "What are y'all goin' on about?" When David just shoots him another disgusted look and Jacqui a vaguely pitying one, he frowns and decides a tactical retreat is in order. Hopefully Nick isn't still in the ballistics lab. He shakes a finger at Greg and tries his damnedest to look threatening (he suspects he fails horribly). "Don't ya ever break into my car again, locked or unlocked, ya understand?"

He's halfway inside when Greg says (and the CSI's been spending way too much time with David because there's a note of pure evil glee in his voice), "But I wanted to grab your Jesus Christ Superstar CD!"

Bobby turns and shoots him an extremely dirty look. "Everybody likes at least one musical."

"No, they don't," Archie and Wendy chorus firmly, and grin at each other in shared amusement as Bobby throws up his hands in disgust and retreats from the roof. (He's tempted to lock them up there, but that's sinking to David's level, and Bobby isn't sure he wants to go there yet.)

He settles for closing the door instead with a particularly dramatic bang, and waiting for Greg's, "…Did he lock us up here, cause that would suck," before whistling the tune of 'Hotel California' and walking back to the ballistics lab.

"Still don't like country," Bobby informs Nick the next night before the man can even speak. "Just in case ya were wonderin'."

Nick blinks, halfway through the door, and grins a little, looking amused. "Actually, I was just checking up on that bullet. Got anything yet?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Sorry, got backlog from dayshift. Gunfight between a suspect and 'bout twenty cops. Ya know how that goes."

"Yeah," Nick agrees with an easy smile, and then starts to leave before he hesitates, and says in a casual voice, "Listen, I know you don't like country, but Greg said you had a Tom Jones CD and, well, I know a guy who can get us some tickets to a concert." When Bobby blinks and stares, the Texan adds, "If you want to go, I mean."

Bobby blinks and keeps staring for another moment, during which Nick's easy smile flickers and the other man starts to look vaguely uncomfortable, and suddenly feels very, very stupid. He can almost hear David muttering 'Finally' and Jacqui's 'About damn time' in his head.

He clears his throat, tries to speak, but his mouth has become the Sahara desert again, and it takes another swallow to get the words out. "Lemme guess, the concert woulda been Tim McGraw if ya'd asked me last week?"

Nick's smile is sheepish at that, and Bobby has the impression that he's trying not to shuffle his feet as he says, "Actually, it's Rascal Flatts, and I'm going to sell the tickets online-"

"We can go see Rascal Flatts."

It's Nick's turn to blink. "Really?"

Bobby shrugs and grins, struggling to keep his smile from spreading from ear to ear and becoming goofy, even if he feels like grinning like a fool. "Sure. Long as I can wear my earplugs."

The Texan looks amused. "That kinda defeats the purpose of going to a concert, you know."

"Fine, fine, ya can buy me aspirin afterwards."

And Nick shoots him another one of those mind-numbingly gorgeous grins, only this one isn't trademark, because this one's directed at Bobby and Bobby alone, and Bobby knows full well that he's grinning like an idiot at the Texan now. "Deal, Country."

"Country?" Bobby repeats in confusion.

Nick grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and leans against the door as he explains, "You know, it's ironic. Like calling a tiny guy Big and a huge guy Tiny. You hate country music, so you get called Country."

"Ironic," Bobby repeats, shaking his head, and Nick just smiles, and Bobby thinks that maybe he can get accustomed to this 'ironic' nickname real quick.