By: amazonqueenkate
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Nick/Bobby
Prompt: 086 - Choices
Word Count: 1,992
Rating: All ages.
Author's Notes: AU but also not AU, written partially for this challenge and partially because we're doing an AU challenge at csi_lab_rats.
Special thanks to the girl, who is not afraid to tell me what works, what doesn't work, lend suggestions, give me lines, and overall help me create something that is ten times better than the original draft…and all without getting mad that I sort of stole a name from her. ;)
[ Once, just once, while they lay in bed and listen to the sounds of the city outside their open window, Nick asks, "You ever wonder what staying in Georgia would have been like?"
Bobby half-shrugs into the darkness and, despite himself, pulls Nick a half-inch closer. "No," he says, and shuts his eyes. ]
"Yo, Big B! How's it hangin'?"
The bell on the door clanged against the glass before the sentence finished, and Bobby glanced up from this month's ledgers to see Gary London waddling his way to the counter. He rubbed his bleary eyes until the spots from staring at black and red numbers – mostly red, he thought to himself with a sigh – faded away. Gary grinned, as much gums as teeth, and leaned his elbows on the counter. "How's it goin', friend?"
"It's goin'," Bobby replied with a shrug, and flipped the ledger shut. Outside, the sun beat down on the cracked concrete road as a handful of elementary school students clumped outside the big picture window, their fingers and faces pressed against the glass. He smiled as one of the puppies – a spirited hound, one that would undoubtedly be picked up as a hunting dog one of these days – flopped onto her side and earned squeals for her efforts.
Gary coughed and he wrenched his attention from the gaggle of children to face the other man. His leathery skin creased and he slid closer. "We've got a poker game goin' tonight," he stated, his voice low. Bobby smelled the whiskey on his breath, but he forced himself to smile, anyway. "Me, Joe, some o' the guys from the plant. You comin' down? I know you and Marla could use the dough."
"We're fine, Gary," Bobby lied, waving a hand. Gary sent him a dubious look as he picked up the ledgers and shoved them on the shelf under the register. "I mean, yeah, the shop could use a coupl'a repairs, but it ain't so bad."
"Bob, ever since your pop – good man that he was – passed on and left you the shop, you been hurtin'. I know it, and you know it." He thumped a large finger on a long gash in the wood of the countertop. Bobby sighed; a clumsy twenty-something had set down an aquarium awkwardly, and he had yet to take the afternoon and repair the damage. "That big pet store up in Douglas' done you some trouble. And I know you can play a mean hold 'em." He scooted another half-inch forward. "C'mon. Marla don't hafta know. Just tell 'er you're goin' up to see a breeder tonight."
Bobby frowned and turned away, looking back to the window. The children had wandered off, back on their way home, and a lone pickup truck rolled down the otherwise empty street, one hubcap missing. Across from his store, the barber swept his front walk to the newest country hit on the radio, his strokes in rough time with the faint music through the window.
"It's not that easy, Gary," he began, shaking his head. "Marla's got the PTA tonight, an' – "
"Your pop, rest his soul, always said the same thing 'bout you," Gary interrupted, and Bobby turned his head to meet the weathered gaze. "He said you was a good kid, real smart, but that you didn't have the follow-through. You coulda been like your brother, off to school and out'a this hole, but you just couldn't do it. Not sayin' that Marla ain't a good woman, or that – "
"Daddy!" The bells on the door clanged again, and within seconds, two little faces peeked up over the edge of the counter, grinning. "Do you need chores done?"
"Well, if it ain't my two favorite little ladies." Gary reached down and ruffled their already mussed hair. "Y'all's growin' like weeds. Knee high by the fourth o' July, ain't that right Bobby?"
He smiled and nodded. "Every day," he agreed. The girls kept staring at him, and he forced himself to hold his expression. "You two, go run up to your momma and make sure she doesn't have any chores upstairs for you to do. If she doesn't, I got a few little things here."
"'Kay!"
When door slammed shut, brass bells and all, Gary arched an eyebrow and leaned his elbow back on the countertop. "You wanna send your gals to school, don't'cha? Give 'em a chance to get out'a this one-horse town o' ours?"
Bobby sighed. "It ain't that, Gary, it's just – "
"If it ain't that, then what is it?" He thumped his index finger on the counter one last time and then stepped away, straightening his sweat-stained baseball cap. "See ya tonight. My place. Bring some cash."
The door closed with another jangle, and Bobby leaned into the vacant space, his arms drifting over the deep gash in the wood and his sleeve catching on a chipped corner in the paint. A glance at the window revealed that his girls were now pressing their faces against the glass and admiring the same theatrical hound as before. Ellie, the younger one, caught his eye and grinned, waving.
He waved back, just a flick of the wrist, and then grabbed the phone. Unsurprisingly, he only had to wait half a beat. "Hey, Mar – no, the gals are down here, that ain't it. Listen… I gotta go up to Douglas tonight, see a breeder."
[ Once, just once, while he stands on the front porch and smells the breeze over the funeral flowers that still lay in bundles on the worn wood, he remembers a teacher saying, "There will be times where one choice can change the course of your life. If you could see both options, what would you choose? Would you want to?"
Bobby half-shrugs into the shade from the house, and pulls his eyes away from the return address on the envelope's corner. ]
"Hey, Bobberino! I come bearing snack foods!"
The back door slammed shut, the crash of metal against metal, and Bobby glanced up from his monthly task of balancing the checkbook to see Greg Sanders wandering through his kitchen, loaded down with grocery sacks. He swiped at his eyes until the visions of chicken-scratched debits and credits - more debits than they probably needed, he thought to himself with an almost-smile – stopped dancing in his head. Greg grinned, pearly whites perfectly polished, and dumped the bags. "I hope you like Cheetos."
"You've gotta stop bringin' that stuff over before we get fat," Bobby replied with a half-smirk, and started gathering up the bank statements. Outside, automatic sprinklers clicked and hissed and wet the sod that had once been desert in both his yard and the next. The kids next door chased their new puppy – a cuddly cocker spaniel who kept digging under the fence – through the spray.
Greg chortled and he glanced away from the window to catch his friend staring. He bounced as he started pulling the snacks from their bags. "It's not my fault that it's your night to host poker," he stated merrily. Bobby rolled his eyes as Greg tossed can of honey roasted peanuts at him. "It's tradition! You, me, Hodges, Arch, Nicky… And somehow, you always clean us out."
"Not always," he lied, snorting away the pseudo-praise. Greg arched an eyebrow as he finished stacking the mess of papers and added them to another pile. "I do okay, but the rest of you aren't too bad, either."
"Bobby, ever since we started playing, you've completely wiped us out. No need to be Mr. Humble about it." He set down another bag of chips with his usual mirth. Bobby sighed and moved an empty glass away before it could get knocked over; it wouldn't be the first time that Greg had destroyed some fixture of the household due to poker. "Living in Vegas has taught you all the tricks of the trade. You kill us at Texas Hold 'Em." Another bag hit the table. "So just admit it and move on. Or, you know, don't play."
Bobby smirked slightly and moved the glass to the counter, his eyes drawn back towards the yard again. The neighbors' children, discouraged by the disappearance of the sprinkler spray, had wandered off, leaving their puppy to nose between the slats of the fence. Somewhere nearby, a lawnmower or weed-whacker buzzed urgently.
"I'm not going to quit playing just because – "
"Yeah, yeah, always the same story," Greg cut in, and Bobby resisted the urge to roll his eyes a second time. "You're so humble about everything, even your 'I grew up in the middle of nowhere but ended up with an awesome life in Las Vegas' spiel. Take a lesson from the brilliant among us and just admit you rock. I mean, not that I think you should get all big-headed about having an awesome partner and your – "
"Daddy!" The back door slammed again and, within a half-dozen loud footsteps, two little girls had appeared at the corner of the kitchen table, both armed with book bags and wide smiles. "Dad wanted us to make sure you got everything for the party tonight before he takes us to Brownies!"
"Hey, munchkins! No love for your Uncle Greg?" Greg made a grab for both girls, who squealed and tried to escape his clutches with little success. "Pretty soon, you're going to get too big for Uncle Greg hugs. You'll have to be downgraded to icky Uncle Dave hugs. Right, Bobby?"
As the girls scowled at the news, he chuckled. "Right," he agreed. The girls wriggled out of Greg's grip and then peered expectantly up at Bobby, waiting for an answer. "Go dump your backpacks in your room, and then you tell your dad we've got it all under control."
"'Kay!"
When their footfalls pounded down the hallway, Greg planted his hands on the table top and sent Bobby a long-suffering look. "You going to tell me that those two princesses are all humble, dumb-luck, can't-play-poker happenings? Because with my dumb luck, I should have ten or twelve of them."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Greg, it's not that, but – "
"But what? It's not a great mystery." He set another bag on the table and folded up the first empty sack. "Just admit you kick our butts and move on."
The next load of groceries' contents began to join the first and Bobby leaned against the counter, playing idly with the glass he'd cleared from the table. The girls jetted back down the hallway, complete with brown vests, waving their excitable goodbyes to their so-called uncle on their way out the door. Ellie, the younger one, stopped short and rushed back to Bobby, offering her hand for a high-five.
He high-fived her back, and then swatted her out the door, leaving her to giggle as the screen slammed again. A moment later, he surveyed the contents of the table and – seeing Greg's perplexed expression – sighed and reached for the phone. The answer came before the end of the second ring. "Hey, Nicky, it's – no, nothing's wrong. But Greg forgot to get playing cards – can you swing by the store and pick some up?"
