Title: Out With It
By: Caster
Pairing: Ryan/Greg & Nick/Eric
Rating: PG
A/T: -blows dust off keyboard and rubs hands together like a mad scientist plotting world domination- Although I haven't written in a while, a killer plot bunny with fangs and knives for ears attacked me while I was stuck in a confined space with my family. My parents swear they never saw a thing, but that remains to be seen. After all, how does one miss the assault of insistent plot bunnies?
Please note that I have a very feeble (i.e. practically nonexistent) grasp of jurisdiction laws, so there might be a few plot holes that I'm unaware of. Nick/Greg is #1! However, this idea hit me like lightening on a 400-mile stretch of highway and won't die, no matter what I try.
Disclaimer: Some people can think of funny and entertaining disclaimers. I can't. So here it is, the blunt and harsh truth: I never have (and never will) make any money off of or own CSI or it's characters. Now if only I could think of a wittier way of saying it.
Summary: The Miami CSI team is assigned a case that jets them to Las Vegas... where Ryan inadvertently tumbles into love with Greg Sanders.

***

Act 1: Long Live Las Vegas

I was born to be yours.
-Sarah Bernhardt to Jean Richepin, 1668

"She was so pretty."

Such a statement was of the norm at the scene of a crime, especially when Alexx Woods said it.

She said it because she believed it; she believed it because it was true. Those who were estranged or forgotten or simply not loved became very beautiful after they left the world. Horatio hadn't understood it when he was younger, but it made sense now. When the family of victims realize that they would never see their loved one again, their feud became meaningless and they would cry, regret, and remember the lost one's beauty.

Most of the time, anyway.

But when estates or fortunes or businesses entered the picture, love and affection were forgotten along with the dead and it became a CSI's job to remember them the best they could.

Horatio Caine let out a small, tired sigh. The sky over Miami was still dark in the early hours of morning, but sun was threatening to spill over the horizon at any moment, lighting the Western Hemisphere. He only wished it could light the scene of this murder.

He watched as Alexx tenderly brushed blonde curls from a pale, lifeless face. "A roof is a strange place to die, though," she continued. "Poor thing."

Alexx was the best ME Horatio had ever known- it was a never a quick prelim on the scene; it was in depth and careful, as if the victim could still feel pain when she touched them. She stayed with those who died, draping white sheets carefully over their still bodies and looking over the scene mournfully, knowing someone else had lost their life to lust or hate or greed.

He observed the dead woman over Alexx's shoulder. He allowed his eyes to close momentarily before reminding himself that Eric and Frank would be there soon. He had to wake up and do his job. Be the boss. Show minimal emotion.

"Alexx, I don't think anyone wears that much make-up."

It was the first thing Horatio had said so far. He disliked the way it sounded- careless and unfeeling, as if the case was all that mattered and not the victim.

"That's because they don't. This stuff is laid on pretty thick, Horatio. I'm thinking she might have been an actress, singer, performer, something along those lines."

"What about a showgirl?"

"Like can-can Vegas?"

"That's a good example."

Alexx allowed herself a small smile. "I wouldn't be surprised. The dress alone is sequined, beaded and made out of a spandex mix. I can't imagine it's comfortable, but it's perfect for a casino show."

"Any I.D.?"

"No. I'll run DNA and page you as soon as possible." Alexx went silent for a moment before looking once more at the woman's face. "Sweet thing died crying. Look at her mascara."

Horatio looked into the Miami horizon instead, now glowing pink and orange. He wanted to look anywhere but the lifeless face, the face of a woman who expected to be avenged now. That was his job, and his mind wouldn't let him rest until he completed it. He didn't need to look at her smeared black mascara to know this woman didn't want to die.

"Thanks Alexx."

"Never a problem. I have a feeling this girl's a long way from home."

The red head took a breath before slipping on his infamous sunglasses.

"So do I."

Light hit the water and the sun broke over the Miami.

…

Ugh. Ryan Wolfe grimaced as he took another sip of the bitter liquid better known as Miami-Dade CL's break room coffee. Even though he knew it was and always would be a terrible experience, it was this gag-worthy caffeine kick or falling asleep at his microscope, neither of which were very appealing options.

The urge to do well at this job -a job he had wanted so badly for so long- ate at him, and falling asleep at a microscope certainly wouldn't help his position. He wanted so desperately to prove he could turn every stone and discover every piece of evidence to lead a guilty man to prison.

He sighed to himself. It wasn't the job that worried him… it was his responsibility to fill in the shoes of a man named Timothy Speedle. He had never met him, never heard his voice or saw the color of his eyes. Ryan didn't know Tim's family or interests; he only knew what Calliegh or Eric offered to inform him when such moments presented themselves. Horatio looked sick whenever Ryan pushed to know more, so he learned not to ask.

"Hey Ryan."

Ryan jumped a little before turning to see Calleigh Duquesne smiling at him.

"Oh, Calleigh. Hi. I didn't hear anyone come in."

"And you call yourself a CSI?" she asked lightly before finding a chair and sinking into it. Ryan frowned thoughtfully at her as she did so, her joking question stuck in his mind. It was a joke. Shake it off. She wasn't serious. Still, the thought that someone might find his abilities less than up to par scared him more than he liked to admit.

He didn't reply. She looked up at him before grinning wider once she spotted the Styrofoam cup in his hand. "I see you're choking on our latest brew."

Ryan involuntarily made another face. Her question was still prodding at his mind, but the mere mention of the sludge-cleverly-disguised-as-coffee immediately got his attention. How could it not? The taste was still heavy in his mouth.

"I wish someone would learn how to make a decent cup of Joe around here. Somebody's going to die because of this stuff one day."

Ryan looked up, surprised when he heard Calleigh laugh, when she tilted her head back and let her voice ring off the walls. He could tell she was tired, her hair slightly flat and her face pale from the absence of cosmetics, long since worn away.

"Die how, pray tell?" she asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

Ryan shrugged. "Depends. The strong ingredients could cause organ failure; the taste itself could cause shock and then choking. If this coffee didn't keep Miami law enforcement awake, I'd call HAZMAT and have it investigated and then banned from US markets."

She laughed again, their witty banter always cheering her up. "That's pretty deep, Ryan. You've obviously thought long and hard about this break room coffee situation."

Ryan smiled and shrugged. "When the coffee nightmares keep me up at night, I think of long and painful deaths to inflict on those who brew it."

"Scary threat."

"Even scarier coffee. Would you like a cup? I think I can hide the taste of poison with some Equal."

She smiled and shook her blonde head. "Thanks, but no. I've got some month-old energy bars stashed in the fridge somewhere."

"Ah, the glamorous life of CSIs," he murmured, flopping onto a chair across from her. "If only we'd known, right?"

"Don't even get me started," she interjected. "Between my non-existent date life, lack of sleep and Nutri Grain diet, it's hard to believe I don't love this job with all my heart."

"I don't know. I kind of like it. It'd be better without all the dead people."

She smiled ruefully. "I think we'd all like it better that way. Besides, what do you enjoy about fifteen hours shifts and DNA swabs?"

"I like helping people." He didn't need to think about his reply. It's what he had always known.

Calleigh went silent before smiling again. This time, it was brighter and more her style. "Of course you'd say that, Ryan Wolfe. You're such a boy scout. But when it comes to the job, it's all or nothing. No significant others and no private time. Doesn't that bother you?"

"No. I think what we do us more important. Besides, it's not like either of us have a love life anyway."

"Y'know, Valera thinks you're a cutie. Not that you heard it from me."

Ryan felt a flush begin to creep across his face. He smiled politely at her (the kind of smile that never reached his eyes), hoping he could steer her towards another subject, one far away from romantic interests. That was his taboo topic. "Of course I didn't hear it from you. Not Calleigh D., gossip queen. But more importantly, I think this new case we're working on is-''

"I know a guy you'd probably hit it right off with," she continued, as if Ryan had never even spoken.

Ryan dropped his coffee cup.

He didn't even notice it until he realized that his khakis were wet. Her words were still echoing across the room in his mind as he jumped up, becoming conscious of the soaked floor and something like "I'm sorry" being uttered from his mouth. He wasn't actually sorry; it was just something people said when they did stupid things like spill disgusting coffee on a perfectly clean floor while a fear of their sexuality becoming public knowledge ate at them.

"That was a little obvious, Ryan," she said, slightly amused.

"I know. I've –uh- I need to clean this up," he said, a twinge of anxiety coloring his voice. He was looking around even though the break room was empty, his OCD paranoia fully kicking in, his fear that someone might have heard her beginning to make his fingers tremble.

"I'm sorry," she said, beginning to realize the scale of his discomfort and sitting up, eyes wide and filled with worry. "He was only a suggestion."

"I know it was, Cal. It's- uh, fine. I overreacted." He quickly went to the cabinets to find some paper towels and clean up his mess. You were so obvious. He wanted to kick himself. God, you're so stupid. Are you going to drop whatever you're holding whenever someone mentions something like that?

"There aren't hidden cameras in here or anything," Calleigh was saying, worriedly, realizing that he was cleaning too ferociously, too nervously for him to really be comfortable with what she had said. "Here, let me help." She made the motions to grab some towels, but he shook his head.

"No, it's nothing. I'm almost finished." It was true; he had moved at lightning quick speed. He wanted to clean the spill and then leave. He needed to immerse himself in his job and forget this whole embarrassing ordeal ever happened.

"Are you mad? You look-''

"I'm not mad, Calleigh."

"I won't- it's only that I was thinking we could meet up with some of my friends. You just seem so…" She drifted off, searching for the right word. Finally, it seemed to come to her. "Lonely."

Lonely.

"I thought we both agreed we didn't have time to be lonely?" he asked lightly, hoping to lift the cloud of guilt that was now hanging above her. He threw away the stained paper towels and gathered his files.

"Ryan, please don't be upset."

"I'm not. Honest."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Just don't say anything to anyone and we'll be fine."

She frowned, a worried wrinkle making itself known on her forehead. "Okay."

He could tell that she still wasn't happy with herself, but he couldn't seem to think of a way to comfort her. The fact was that he didn't think he could even speak at the moment.

He would have to meet a hell of an amazing person to come out of the closet all the way. Public displays of affection? No way. Sharing apartments? Not a chance. Letting the entire Miami day shift know that he preferred guys? Out of the question.

I'm not lonely.

It was just all out of the question.

…

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ryan thought that if he kept his eyes closed and blankets draped over his head that the phone would stop ringing, it's shrill tone piercing the still air of his bedroom.

He had been dreaming, although now he can't recall what it had been about. The images that he had entertained in his sleep fled at the sound; there were lights, music, glass, bits and pieces of his subconscious melding themselves together to create a weird show.

Ring.

Ring.

Ri-

"Hello?" His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. He pried his eyes open, hoping to find the glaring red numbers of his digital clock.

"Hey Ryan! It's Calleigh!"

"Calleigh," he repeated, trying to force his mind to wake up. He usually could; he was serious about his job and yearned to do well, but it still seemed so… well, early. Why was she calling? Did he oversleep?

"Is everything okay?" he asked, finally catching the time through his sleep-induced haze. "It's two thirty in the morning." Part of his conscious state was relieved to know that he certainly wasn't late for work.

"Everything's great!" she replied. "But Horatio just called. There's been a change of plans."

"What change?" he asked, the wheels in his mind now beginning to turn.

"We found a DB on the roof of a hotel yesterday. Guess where she's from?"

Ryan paused to knock through the cobwebs in his mind, his brain naturally beginning to pull up little facts and figures. "Calleigh, there are more than thirty thousand cities in the United States alone, not counting the North American continent or even the-''

"That was a rhetorical question, Ryan."

Pause.

"Oh." He felt like an idiot. Of course it was rhetorical. He could hear her laugh.

She couldn't seem to hold it in any longer and didn't wait for him to ask. "Las Vegas!"

"Vegas? Really?" He wanted to sound enthused, but his stomach had suddenly begun churning. What did Las Vegas have to do with him? Was she suggesting…?

"So report to work with a suitcase and a week's worth of clothes tomorrow. I mean, of course we're going on business, but Las Vegas! Isn't that exciting?" Another pause, longer this time. "Ryan? Are you still there?"

Las Vegas. Elvis, lights, casinos… it didn't sound at all like his kind of place. He felt panicked in unfamiliar territory. His doubts about how well he would do at a different lab with new people began to eat at him.

"Ryan?"

"Huh, yeah? I'm listening, Cal."

"You'll be there tomorrow?"

"Of course." Of course. He was dependable, if nothing else. Besides, there was no way he could get out of it.

"Great. Any questions?"

Will I be able to survive this? "No."

"You sure?" She sounded apprehensive. "You seem a little…"

"I'm fine," he insisted, unable to stop his smile at her never-ending concern for him. "Tomorrow. Suitcase. Las Vegas. I've got it covered."

A small pause, then, "Okay, see you tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow," he promised.

"We're going to Vegas!"

"Yes, we are."

"I hear they have great shopping."

"You won't have time to shop, Cal."

She sighed wistfully. "I know, but a girl can dream."

When they hung up, Ryan could do nothing but stare at his phone, as if it were a foreign object he had never seen before. The dial tone brought him back to reality and he quickly placed it back on the charger, lying back down to stare at the ceiling.

Las Vegas? There was nothing for him there.

He couldn't fall back asleep.

***

Act 2: Blue Hawaii

There are days when one can fix one's gaze upon the sun itself without being blinded: thus it is with me now. I see you, I am dazzled, entranced, and I grasp your beauty in all its splendor.
-Julliette Drouet to Victor Hugo, 1836

"So when's that plane due to land?" Nick Stokes asked Sara Sidle as he walked through the doors of the Clark County crime lab. He was looking over a file and swigging down a bottle of water, black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The younger woman looked up from her work and opened her mouth to reply, but Catherine was quick to intervene before Sara could get the chance to speak.

"Don't open that can of worms. She's already listed one hundred and one reasons why other professionals like ourselves shouldn't be allowed to set foot in our labs."

Sara gave the older woman an offended glare. "I have not! I merely pointed out that other CSIs have different ways of doing things. Sure, it's a great way to meet losers like us who have no social lives outside work, but they'll get in our supplies and reorganize everything and walk around like they own all of Las Vegas."

Catherine shook her head at Sara's theory, an amused smile twisting her lips. "I think Grissom would appreciate a more receptive welcome than, 'Hi, nice to meet you, don't mess with my stuff.'"

"Which is exactly what I'm doing," Sara argued. "You want me to be all helpful, right? These clothes are the vic's," she continued, holding up a dress to make her point. "I'm re-examining them to detect possible-''

"You're re-examining the clothes so you can compare your report against someone from Miami and then gloat about it when you find something," Nick casually interjected, not even looking up from his file and taking another sip of water.

Sara went silent, staring at the Texan with large brown eyes. Finally, she hung her head and heaved a long sigh. Catherine's laughter echoed in the background as Sara began bagging the clothes, giving Nick an evil look as she did so.

"Well, you're reading over the file," Sara feebly argued, even though it was clear that Nick had won their small spar. The Texan held up his hands in a non-confrontational manner.

"You can't accuse a CSI of wanting to know what the hell's going on. I won't make that great of a first impression if I don't even know the vic's name."

"C'mon, Sidle," said Catherine, looping her arm around the younger woman's neck. "Rumor 'round the lab is Grissom's having a pow-wow with us in the break room. Gil's lessons on how to treat out-of-towners and guests."

"Offer them bugs?" ventured Sara. All three grinned slightly at the mental picture of their boss offering dead bugs to dazed Miami CSIs in welcome.

"Surprisingly, no. More along the lines of not burping at the dinner table and always offering to take their coats," replied Nick, throwing away his bottle and closing the file.

"Never asking a lady her age," continued Catherine.

"Always saying 'please' and 'thank-you.'"

"Religion and politics don't make for pleasant ice breakers."

Sara laughed as she stored the evidence properly and then put away her lab coat. "So I guess cursing and flipping off the bosses is the wrong way to go?"

They turned off the lights and left the lab together.

…

"I assume you know why I called this meeting," Gil Grissom began as he and his CSIs sat around a break room table, casually sipping a soda or taking some preliminary notes.

"A crash course in how to deal with living people?" Nick offered.

"Exactly," confirmed the older man. "I know we haven't interacted with human beings outside the lab for some time now, but the body of Ellie Jenkins was found on the roof of Isle's Inn in Miami."

"She was a resident of Las Vegas?" Sara queried, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

Grissom nodded. "We think her killer might be as well. The point is that she was murdered in Miami and it's their jurisdiction. It would be great if you could show them around and get them used to our labs."

"I don't think these people are incompetent, Grissom," Warrick replied. "A couple of minutes and they'll be off doing their own thing."

"And we do have our own cases," Nick continued. Grissom held up his hand to silence the barrage of protests that were sure to begin.

"Ellie Jenkins is priority number one. We've dug up three other cold cases with the same MO, so be prepared to partner up."

"With Miami? Wouldn't we just be better off-'' Sara began, an argument clearly beginning and she seemed prepared to fight to the end. Even Catherine and Nick, ever ready for a new challenge, seemed wary of partnering up with complete strangers who had different ways of doing things.

"We'll figure it out when they get here," Grissom interjected, giving them his best "boss" look. It was a hard thing to pull off these days. The Clark County night shift weren't merely co-workers or associates; they were friends, practically family, and watched each other's back no matter the circumstances. "We sit back until then."

Warrick didn't seem satisfied with this information, especially not if he had to sit around. His mind and his hands were always ready to uncover evidence and he could never be comfortable resting when he knew his time could be spent solving a case. "What about Greg? Why isn't he learning the basics of human communication with us?"

Grissom smiled slightly. "Greg will be Greg. If all he does is come in dancing to bad music while wearing a showgirl's headdress, I'll consider myself a very lucky boss. Besides, he's better at analyzing some fibers from one of the cold cases."

"So all we're doing is waiting?" asked Sara, glancing at her watch and then to the wall clock, making sure her calculations were correct. "Don't these people know how to tell time? They're twenty minutes late."

Catherine's eyes suddenly grew and Warrick looked as if he wanted to speak; instead, he made himself content by merely shaking his head. Nick pursed his lips behind his hand, trying to hide a smile.

"What? Are you gonna argue? Don't you think it's rude to keep people waiting?" she asked, looking at them as if they had suddenly grown a second head.

Her question was met by silence.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

…

Ryan had been a wreck that morning.

He had packed everything -everything- that he thought he might need for a stay across the country. He hadn't slept well that night, the worry and panic building up inside of him until all he could do was forgo sleep in favor of packing his suitcases, pressing his clothes, and preparing for a plane ride. He stopped his mail, did the dishes, washed any extra laundry, and watched reruns of In the Heat of the Night, a show he admittedly liked and something Calleigh would never let him live down should she discover that his VCR was programmed to record the episodes

Horatio was ever cool that morning, silently reading a forensics journal even when the plane experienced a little turbulence. Calleigh was bouncing with excitement, constantly chattering and gossiping with Horatio and Yelina, both of who listened patiently even when those with shorter nerves might have snapped. Eric simply slept. Ryan smiled despite his nervousness when Eric unwittingly used Ryan's shoulder as a pillow during his nap.

But more than anything, the young CSI was jealous; jealous that they could be so calm about jetting across the country while he could not. He felt like he should've been able to do the same without any problems and that this irrational fear, this grinding anxiety was another mark against him, another reason why he wasn't qualified to be in the field. Grin and bear it like a man. That was his new mantra and he silently repeated it to himself over and over again.

And they were finally there. They had arrived, more or less in one piece, to Las Vegas. They had checked into their hotel, unpacked, did inventory on their kits and then grabbed a cab; they were ready to hit their temporary crime lab and unravel another mystery, taking on all of Las Vegas if need be.

Ready. Ryan wished he were. He stared up at the CSI building as if it would eat him whole once he stepped through those doors. His hands clenched around the handle of his kit, his jaw set straight in both uneasiness and determination.

He jumped a little when he felt Eric's hand clamp down on his shoulder in a reassuring manner. Maybe he had noticed Ryan's tense nerves or his habit of tugging at the hem of his shirt when he was edgy. Maybe Ryan's chewed down nails (usually meticulously clean and well manicured) or packed-and-repacked luggage gave him away.

"You gotta calm down, man. You're going to be fine."

"Fine?" Ryan asked, trying not to show that his nerves were already frayed and he hadn't even begun his work. "I'm not nervous. I'm just…''

"Terrified?"

Ryan gave him a sheepish look, fighting a yawn as he did so. "Is it that noticeable?"

"Along with those circles under your eyes. When was the last time you slept?"

"About eighteen hours ago."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you make a great airline pillow. I just hope I didn't snore or anything."

Ryan smiled. "Not so much snore as talk."

Eric gave him a look as the guard at the door checked their badges and proper CSI identification. "Talk?"

"I know all your secrets," Ryan grinned as he and Eric followed Calleigh and Horatio down a windowed hall, passing through the doors and into an unknown future. It was darker there somehow, more ghostly than the bright, in-your-face Miami. "Tons of juicy blackmail material."

Eric rolled his eyes, grinning along with him. "Let me tell you, Ryan, I lead a dark and racy life beyond CSI," he said, sarcasm dripping off his words.

"Fast women and high priced drugs?" the younger CSI innocently asked. "I never would have thought you to be the type."

Eric laughed, easygoing despite the circumstances. "Wolfe, the only women in my life are my mother and sisters and the only drug I take are caffeine pills to help me stay awake when we tackle double shifts. I'm a science nerd just like you."

They suddenly halted in their trek, Eric almost running into Yelina from behind. Ryan realized he had hardly been paying attention to where he was going. Where were they supposed to meet the famed graveyard shift anyway? He silently watched as Horatio peered into a room where five individuals were gathered around a table, looking over files and waiting, it seemed, for them. Ryan forced his breaths to come out normally.

Eric leaned down, his tanned skin sharp against that of Ryan's own pale color.

"You were born to do this job," he whispered. "Don't worry. We're here for each other, got it? Yelina, Cal, H, you, me."

Ryan swallowed and nodded, focusing his eyes on the group he would soon be working with and feeling a little less uptight about the ordeal. Horatio had opened the door and the words "…don't these people know how to tell time? They're twenty minutes late." floated out to greet them.

He could do this. He had to. If not for himself or Horatio, then at least for Ellie Jenkins and Tim Speedle, who, he heard, wanted to help people just as much as Ryan did before they had to leave the Earth.

…

The air was still as Sara slowly turned to face them from her position at the table, her eyes wide and lips formed to speak something along the lines of an apology. She closed, opened, and then closed her mouth once more, too ashamed of being overheard by respected guests to form any words at all. In the end, all she could manage was an embarrassed smile.

"Foot in the mouth," muttered an older woman, immediately rising to greet the five Floridians. "Please excuse our manners. We're not really used to company, I guess. Won't you come in?"

Calleigh gave them all a large smile, charming as ever. "That's quite all right. I guess we are a little late. The traffic out there was terrible."

"Absolutely," the woman readily agreed, as if understanding Calleigh's intentions of clearing the air. "Please have a seat and make yourselves at home. Allow us to introduce ourselves." She held out her hand and shook the five visitor's hands in greeting. "I'm Catherine Willows. This is Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle, and Gil Grissom, our shift captain."

"Very nice to meet you. I'm Calleigh Duquesne, and this is Eric Delko, Ryan Wolfe, Yelina Salas, and Horatio Caine, our shift captain." She smiled again, hoping to break the awkward tension between the two groups. "You have a spectacular lab. I'm sure working here will be a pleasure."

"Thank you," said Catherine, obviously reading Calleigh's mind. It was true. Sara's comment was making this a little rockier than planned. "We're planning to brief the case, exchange notes. Would you prefer here or an office?"

"This is perfectly fine," Horatio said, pulling up a chair and giving them a slight smile. Eric, Calleigh, Yelina, and Ryan followed suit, willing to try anything to get the ball rolling.

"I guess we'll get started then. Gil?"

Grissom didn't respond at first. He observed the four visitors through the lens of his glasses, absorbing their image, analyzing their personalities, voices, eye color. Horatio looked back, sharp blue eyes doing the same. It was what they were trained to do. Even if they tried, they probably couldn't stop the natural tendency to observe everything around them. So engrained was the examination of details that it became second nature for them.

Finally, Grissom spoke. Catherine looked relieved.

"I think we've got a plan mapped out. Do you mind being paired up?" Grissom was all business, no pleasantries. Catherine rolled her eyes; she supposed that's what she was there for.

"Not at all," replied Calleigh. "Ryan and I have solved tons of cases together."

Ryan smiled a little. "Tons" was taking a few liberties in terms of the number of cases they'd solved, but this was Calleigh after all, and she was never one to shy away from anything.

"I meant with us," Gil replied. "We don't want you to have to waste your time trying to navigate your way around the city and we'd like to have one of our own with you in the lab. Is that all right with you?"

"That's probably a good idea," Horatio approved. Although the simple fact that they could read maps and use lab equipment hung in the air, no one addressed it.

"Great. I understand this is your jurisdiction as well and we don't want to step on your toes. Catherine, Mr. Caine, and I will take care of the day shift investigators as well as the cold cases with the same MO as this one. Miss. Duquesne, you and Sara could probably start with the victim's family and last known residence. Nick and Mr. Delko, her friends and last known job would be a great help. Warrick and Ms. Salas, the vic's-''

"Ellie Jenkins," Ryan interrupted, very suddenly, as if his mouth and brain weren't communicating properly. He flushed a deep red when nine pairs of eyes shifted towards his direction. His fingers began to tug at the hem of his sleeve and he looked down, embarrassed, because he never ever spoke out of turn like that. Not unless the situation was serious.

"I'm sorry?" asked Grissom, shooting his a look mixed with both curiosity and slight –very slight- surprise.

He forced himself to look up and face their questioning glances. "I –uh- I know she's a victim. But her name- it's Ellie Jenkins."

Ryan took a quick look Horatio's direction. The red head's eyes were smiling, as if he were proud of Ryan's timid outburst. A person doesn't lose their name or identity after they die. Tim Speedle surely hadn't.

Grissom paused for a moment before nodding and it seemed as if all nine understood what Ryan was trying to say. "Then Warrick and Ms. Salas, you're in charge of tracing Miss. Jenkins's steps from the airport and all audiovisuals that the airport might have recorded. I've made copies of all the case files that we had. Any questions with this arrangement?"

Yes. At least, that's what Ryan wanted to say. However, he refrained when he heard the numerous murmurs of "no" that filled the room. It would be embarrassing to address the issue, especially in front of everyone else, yet Grissom had inadvertently left out a member of the team. Ryan felt himself grimace; being forgotten wasn't the best way to start the day, but he quickly shook the thought. He could just as easily grab Grissom before he left and-

Yelina suddenly looked up and Ryan inwardly groaned at her thoughtful expression. "What about Ryan?" she asked, her accent prominent among the rest of her friends.

The question seemed to still them and Ryan suddenly felt like the little kid that no one really knew what to do with, like a high-schooler at a college frat party. It was the question he had hoped he could avoid in front of his friends and coworkers; it seemed he was the odd one out. They were all partnered up and ready to roll. Ryan didn't want to hold them back.

"I can handle trace and prints," he suggested, hoping to smooth this dilemma over as quickly as possible. "I can practically do it blindfolded." The silence that followed was questionable, as if they were parents considering whether or not to allow their energetic child into a china store. Ryan fought away the humiliating blush that was working its way up his neck. What was wrong with these people? After all, he was a certified CSI and could manage prints and DNA like he could ride a bike.

"I won't blow up the lab or anything," he said, a tinge of aggravation coloring his voice.

Grissom, Catherine, Sara, Warrick, and Nick's faces turned stony and they looked away from him. Ryan felt sick as he exchanged a nervous glance with Eric. He was already screwing things up big time; obviously, he had said something to strike a nerve in the Las Vegas team.

"Fine," agreed Grissom, not looking Ryan's direction. "Mr. Caine? Anything you'd like to add?"

Horatio looked up from his copy of Ellie Jenkins's file. Miami's case files had been passed out as well and everything that either group knew about the case had been shared and was ready to be set to good use.

Gil Grissom and Horatio Caine had two conflicting personalities.

Two different ways of looking at things.

Two different ways of working.

One common goal.

Ryan watched as the two Level 3 CSIs sizing each other up and knew that Gil Grissom was probably a brilliant man with more than his share of tricks up his sleeve.

But Horatio Caine had his tricks as well.

And Ellie Jenkins's ghost could use all the tricks she could get.

…

The paired CSIs had immediately gotten together once the meeting was over to begin their investigations. Eric gave Ryan one last smile before meeting up with Nick, a dark haired fellow with a slight country accent.

You were born to do this job. Eric's words kept floating around in his mind. He hoped that the Cuban was right and that he wouldn't give Miami law enforcement a bad name.

He was abandoned. He tried not to dwell on the thought of working alone, ignoring the feeling of being left out. What did Calleigh always say? Find the bright side of the situation? Well, there wasn't much you could do to screw up in a DNA or trace lab. That is, unless you mixed explosive chemicals or somehow compromised evidence. He inwardly winced. He'd never done those things, but there was a first time for everything.

Catherine was about to follow Horatio and Gil out of the room before she glanced over her shoulder towards a man who was trying to keep his dignity in tact. She paused before turning and walking towards him instead. He felt her approach and fumbled with his field kit, trying to act as if his being discarded wasn't a huge deal and look as if he were doing something remotely important.

"I'm sure you're a fantastic CSI. I apologize for the way things seem to be working out." Catherine Willows seemed to be a kind, determined woman and her words were almost reassuring. She could tell he was embarrassed, but he certainly wasn't broken.

Ryan returned her small smile. "No problem. I like DNA."

"Do you need someone to escort you to the labs? I could get Mia or Bobby to show you around."

"I can handle it." He grabbed his kit handle before giving her a smile. "Good luck with the cold cases. You'll like working with Horatio."

"And I'm sure you're going to enjoy your job as well." She gave him a grin, her amusement genuine. "We have some really interesting people who work here. You probably got the good end of the bargain."

Ryan wasn't sure if he could agree, but he kept his head held high as he took his kit and began making his way to where he suspected the labs might be located. He hoped no one was watching; it felt humiliating to be the odd one out. He sighed, knowing he would just have to make the best of it. His dignity was certainly wounded, but he was here for Ellie Jenkins and that was the one thought that kept him going.

He continued down the hall, making sure to ask someone if he was going in the right direction before he got completely lost.

Your CSI skills are improving, he thought, all but rolling his eyes at himself. You can find your way around a building now.

That's about when he noticed the sounds, the strange vibrations underneath his feet.

Ryan stopped, giving his surroundings a curious once over before listening again. It was sort of like music; heavy and thumping, maybe even with words. He looked around again, inquisitive. Where was it coming from?

He ignored his natural tendency to uncover the source before heading on. It didn't really matter. Well, usually it wouldn't. The problem was that the sounds seemed to be getting louder as he moved towards the labs. He might not have been the most learned CSI there, but there certainly had to be some regulation against loud, agitating noise in the work place. There were cases to be solved and evidence to be analyzed. Who in the world would allow this type of-

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks.

The lab walls were made of glass and within that room was a man; blonde hair, a rock band t-shirt, skinny DNA tubes in his hands, obviously being used for make-shift drum sticks. He was mouthing words to whatever music he was currently listening to. Did he know that it could be heard down the hall? Ryan got the feeling that the man probably wasn't even aware of it.

"Excuse me, sir?" Ryan asked, quickly getting the attention of an older gentleman who looked as if he might know what was going on. Ryan sincerely hoped that this wasn't the lab he was supposed to work in.

"Yes?"

"Is that- is that the DNA lab?"

The man followed Ryan's gaze before rolling his eyes at the sight. "That's definitely the lab," he replied. Ryan could tell the older man probably had numerous go-arounds with the technician occupying the room.

"But the… the guy in there. He's- he's not really…" He searched for the words but couldn't seem to find the right way of expressing his concerns. The older man seemed to understand.

"Don't worry. Are you a new guy?"

"I'm from Miami."

He nodded. "Ah. I've been hearing about that. Listen, he's a fantastic tech. He's just a little… eccentric. And he doesn't spell that well, so you might want to fill out the reports."

"Oh."

He almost seemed amused by Ryan's in-the-headlights look. "The name's Al Robbins. ME." He held out his hand, the one that wasn't clutching his walking cane. Ryan quickly shook it, desperate for an ally.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. You're working DNA?"

Ryan nodded in response.

"Good. Maybe you can knock some sense into him. His name's Greg Sanders and he hides his brilliance well, but he grows on you like a bad fungus."

Ryan couldn't help but a laugh a little at the ME's solemn expression and his description of the relationship the technician had with people. The older man smiled a little as well.

"You'll like him. Good luck with your case."

"Thank you," replied Ryan, giving the ME a small wave before turning back to what would surely be an interesting encounter.

He took a long, deep breath before opening the door to the lab, the muffled sound suddenly exposed; loud, thunderous music filled the hallway and he quickly allowed himself in, hurriedly closing the door behind him. Ryan gave the room a quick once over before returning his gaze back to the tech.

The words of the song filled his head. He had heard it before, he just wasn't quite sure where.

"I was lying on the grass the Sunday morning of last week, indulging in my self defeat."

"Excuse me?" he said, trying to be heard over the pulsing sounds. This had zero effect.

"My mind was thugged, all laced and bugged, all twisted wrong and beat-''

"Excuse me!" Ryan called again, this time much louder. This still didn't help him any. The man had his back turned, using some scissors to clip the tips off of DNA swabs while he nodded his head to the beat.

"A comfortable three feet deep."

Ryan knew this called for drastic measures and, ignoring the music as much as he could, walked right over to the spiky haired gentleman and prodded his shoulder.

Greg Sanders, obviously in tune enough with his surroundings to notice someone else's touch, stopped his air-drumming and glanced to his left.

Their eyes met and Ryan felt his stomach suddenly knot. It wasn't the result of worry; instead, it was… something else. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but it made him uncomfortable.

"Now the fuzzy stare from not being there on a confusing morning week impaired my tribal lunar-speak-''

Finally, the man jumped and turned to switch off his stereo, as if he had left reality for a few moments and suddenly crashed back down to Earth.

The silence that resulted was nearly as loud as the music itself.

"Sorry. Didn't hear you come in," said the man, observing Ryan, who, under the stare, began to turn a light shade of pink

"That's all right," he politely replied, unsure as to what to say.

"Have we met?" the tech inquired, the silent question of "who are you?" hanging in the air.

Ryan's mind was still more or less on standstill, trying to absorb all that was going on around him. "Ryan Wolfe, Miami CSI." He held out his hand in introduction.

The other man's eyes grew wide before he gave Ryan an embarrassed smile and returned the handshake. "Grissom wanted me to make a good first impression for you guys. Guess that was a pipe dream, huh?"

Ryan smiled, an easiness beginning to form between them. "I don't know. I kind of like that song you were playing."

Greg's eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across his face. He quickly left his spot from behind the counter and headed over to the Floridian. "Really?"

Ryan nodded. "I think nineties rock is so much better than the stuff they play now."

"That's what I always say!" said Greg, obviously very enthused about the subject and shaking Ryan's hand vigorously. "Nick thinks I'm out of my mind, but you can never trust he who thinks Garth Brooks has talent."

Ryan laughed. "I don't like country music either."

"You said you're from the Miami team? Where's your partner?" Greg looked around, as if expecting to see someone else before returning his attention to Ryan.

Ryan tried not to let his bruised self-esteem show. "I was kind of left to fare on my own," he confessed.

"Odd-guy out?"

"Sort of. I offered to work DNA and trace. Everyone else was paired up and I didn't want to be a third wheel or anything."

Greg nodded as if he understood, a small frown on his face. "I feel you. I just passed my proficiency test and I've been working the field for a few months, but since this case popped up, they've really needed some extra hands in the lab," he explained.

Ryan couldn't fight his small sigh. "Two CSIs in the lab," he summarized, giving Greg a small smile. "Bruises the ego, doesn't it?"

Greg grinned. "Absolutely, but humiliation loves company. So we'll be working together?"

"Only if you don't mind sharing the lab."

"Mind? It'll be great to have someone to talk to. I'll get you a lab coat."

"Thanks," Ryan replied, setting down his field kit next to what he could only assume was Greg's.

"Want some coffee?" Greg offered as he began to shuffle through various storage spaces in search of an extra generic coat.

Ryan fought not to make a face. "I sort of have a thing against company coffee. The stuff in our break room nearly kills me."

Greg gave him a smile, a smile that nearly floored the Miami CSI. "That's break room coffee. I meant my coffee. It's Blue Hawaiian."

"Is it any good?"

Greg smiled again, pulling out a clean blue lab coat from a small storage closet. He handed it to Ryan before turning to a small coffee maker and pouring a cup full.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"Both, please."

Greg continued to make Ryan's coffee while their conversation flowed. "You look about my age. Are you a newbie for the CSI team?"

Ryan frowned at the term. "Are you the newbie? Are you the replacement?" The questions the Miami-Dade staff had asked him his first couple of days still haunted him when he had too much time to dwell on it. "Are you replacing Tim?" They had looked at him as they would a killer, as if Ryan had shot Tim himself.

I'm not a replacement.

"No."

Greg looked over his shoulder when he heard Ryan's tone of voice.

"Is that term offensive to you too?" he quietly asked.

"A little." Ryan tried to explain himself, hoping that Greg wouldn't think he was a complete nut case. "It's… insulting. When people call you a newbie, it's like they don't respect you enough to call you by your real name. As if new workers aren't already stressed out enough, right? They have to be reminded they haven't proven themselves yet."

Greg turned to face him and for a moment, they were both silent.

"You wanna be partners?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Ryan, looking up. Greg grinned.

"You said you were the odd guy out, right? You're going to need someone to show you around and get you used to the city. I could be your partner. I know it sucks being the little kid."

Ryan paused to consider his options, the pros and cons and regulations. "Okay," he finally agreed, unsure of what he was getting himself into and for once, not caring. Their fingers brushed when Greg handed him the coffee and Ryan tried not to choke on his own oxygen.

He politely took a sip, trying to avoid Greg's eyes. Once the flavor hit his tongue, he took an entire gulp, praying that the caffeine could get him through the night and praying even harder that he could manage what ever hurdles were thrown his way.

"This is the best coffee I've ever tasted," Ryan admitted appreciatively. "Maybe it'll get me through tonight. I've never worked graveyard before."

Greg grinned, wide and bright. Ryan returned the smile. Both were at ease for once.

"Shift's about to officially start. I have Ellie Jenkins's personal items. We can start running trace if you'd like," Greg offered, heading towards a drawer. He had already started talking, already making himself at home with his new partner.

Ryan nodded, taking another sip of coffee before shrugging on the crisp blue lab coat, freshly pressed and clean.

"That's what I'm here for."

Maybe they could be friends. Ryan felt a heavy load lift from his shoulders and as he watched Greg begin fiddling with equipment, he realized that maybe this case wouldn't be as long and grueling as he first anticipated. He took a small breath and helped himself to another cup of coffee, willing his trembling fingers to calm themselves. He looked out the glass walls of the lab, his eyes absorbing the movement of the rush, the people hurrying up and down the hallway, speaking on cells and reading through files, trying to solve untimely deaths of those who couldn't stop it themselves.

You're not lonely. You were born to do this job.

Greg Sanders took the chance to observe Ryan when he knew he wouldn't be caught. The darker haired man was gazing out the window, his eyes catching sight of something that Greg couldn't see. Greg noticed Ryan's eyes were filled with determination and beauty and they looked almost distant, as if his mind was on something else altogether.

Greg looked away. This knot in his stomach was a bad feeling.

Over the city, lights were beginning to shine in the dusk.

The sun set on Las Vegas.

***

Act 3: The Alaska

You soothe my soul, you fill it with so tender a sentiment that it is sweet to live during the time that I see you.
-Julie de L'Espinasse to Comte Hippolyte, 1774

Ryan and Eric dragged in through the front doors of the Las Vegas crime lab the next night, twenty minutes late. Calleigh, Horatio, and Yelina had entered before them and on time; all three were awake and ready to get to work. They were tired, certainly, but their minds never stopped racing, not even while they slept. Bits and pieces of past crimes ghosted into their dreams and they couldn't properly rest until they discovered the reasons to the never-ending dilemma of bizarre human nature. It was this bizarre human nature that led, inevitably, to murder.

Ryan and Eric weren't as lucky.

Ryan was haunted too, of course. He dreamed of yellow police tape and soulless bodies and a reoccurring, seemingly aimless dream of lights and glass and music that disturbed his slumber. Watching Eric sleep on the other side of the room –the Cuban's perfect stillness, no thrashing but instead quietly opening his eyes when he woke- gave away the fact that his mind, too, was unwillingly entertaining visions of things he would prefer to forget.

But human nature was both bizarre and predictable and having roomed together, the first thing Eric subconsciously did was press the snooze button on his alarm clock when it went off that evening. If it hadn't been for Ryan's backup alarm (even at Eric's teasing, he had set it that night anyway), it was anyone's guess to how late they might have been. Ryan didn't want to think about it, didn't want to even consider how bad he would make the five of them look in the eyes of the Las Vegas team.

"Hey," greeted Nick, once he caught sight of them shuffling through the hall and down to the break room, where Eric would grab a cup of coffee (or five) and Ryan would grab a bag of Skittles, his only means of dinner. Or, rather, breakfast.

"Hello," Ryan replied back, at least slightly more awake than Eric. Awake enough, in any case, to verbally communicate with a fellow co-worker. Eric, on the other hand, simply looked at the Texan until Ryan lightly elbowed him, tipping the darker man off that he was staring a little obviously with brown, sleep deprived eyes.

"Sleep well?" asked Nick, giving Eric a concerned look over the rim of his coffee mug. Eric blinked, seemingly trying to process the question in his mind.

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

Ryan rolled his own eyes slightly, a small smile on his face at Eric's caveman response.

"He's having a hard time adjusting to this night shift thing," the younger CSI explained, giving Eric another amused look.

"How do you do it?" asked Eric as they entered through the doors of the break room. He managed to make himself a cup of coffee before finding a chair and slumping into it, fighting back a yawn as he did so. "I think I need ten more hours of sleep before I can even think of waking up."

Nick laughed a little at Eric's tone. "You'll get used to it."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"Don't worry about it. Breakfast at six PM will be typical for you in no time."

"Was that supposed to be comforting?" asked Eric, grinning slightly. "It's freaking me out. Normal people have breakfast in the morning, lunch in the afternoon, and dinner in the evening, after which they go to sleep."

"You think we're a bunch of mutant bat humans, don't you?" Nick asked, grinning and taking another sip of coffee, sliding into a chair across from Eric. "We work by night, sleep by day, and solve crime in the process."

"All you're missing is a penguin and a guy who likes riddles. And maybe a cool car stored in a cave."

"You're a funny guy, Delko."

"He's hilarious," replied Ryan, laughing slightly and punching in the numbers for a pack of Skittles in the vending machine behind them. "But I hope he wakes up before you get to the Ellie Jenkins's casino. He might take a nap in the car and start talking in his sleep again."

"So he's a talker?" Nick asked, giving Eric a raised brow.

"I do not talk in my sleep. And aren't you supposed to be in the lab, Mister Punctuality?" Eric asked Ryan, giving the younger man a "they'll never find your remains" glare.

"Touchy."

"Sleepy," Eric corrected. "And probably grumpy as well. Now go bury yourself in some microscopes and crack this case for me. I'm going back to the hotel and getting some shut-eye."

"In your dreams."

"And what sweet dreams they are."

Nick looked at them both, amused and almost envious of their easy banter. They were obviously good friends with a great working relationship. He could only hope of reaching that point with Eric as well. Actually, it seemed they already had. They worked well together and had a great rapport between them. After all, if you're going to be stuck with someone for twelve hours every night, you're better off getting along than anything else.

Ryan laughed once more before waving a farewell and heading down towards the DNA lab, the thought of Blue Hawaiian coffee making him practically jog. Eric's response: 'And what sweet dreams they are' echoed through his mind as he made his way past the rush and press of workers milling their way through the halls of the CSI building, getting ready for another graveyard shift, openly wary and silently terrified of what the night may bring.

Ryan couldn't blame them. Abuse, rape, murder- at some point, these things among many others had become a run-of-the-mill element in society.

And what sweet dreams they are.

They never talked about dreams. They could never make it through without crying.

…

Before he knew he wanted to be a scientist, before he realized he liked chemistry and books and words, Greg knew he liked girls and guys. He used to be afraid of that. He wasn't any longer, not after all that he had been through and the support he's been given. It just wasn't that terrifying anymore. Instead, he was simply… lonely. He didn't have anyone to complain about his night hours or make him dinner or comfort him as he burst into tears like a child when his mind wandered too deeply into the cases he worked.

His social life was the lab, his friends were his co-workers, and a hot Friday these days was when Nick or Warrick or even Sara was up for breakfast at Denny's.

Lonely was something he thought he'd never be.

But he was, and in the white, sterile confine of the lab, it was obvious.

Then he met Ryan Wolfe. Gorgeous, charming, shy, brilliant Ryan Wolfe. And all of a sudden, the music that kept him company and his day-to-day, I'm-single-but-I-don't-really-care routine was down the drain, along with all the common sense he possessed. He had known Ryan for one night and he had more effect on him then all those he's ever dated combined.

God, what am I thinking? That question was easy: obviously, he wasn't thinking at all.

He flipped the coffee maker on and closed his eyes, leaning against the wall.

These feelings were not allowed. You can't get a crush on a co-worker who technically isn't really a co-worker, especially if they live a good six hours away by plane and particularly if said co-worker was a guy. A guy, who he'd guess, was completely straight and could never begin to feel anything for an eccentric, weird, geeky CSI.

You're so hopeless.

Greg heard the door to the lab swing open, even as he was slouched against the wall and facing the opposite direction. He knew whom it was- the footsteps were hurried and Ryan was late, despite his seriousness for the job and longing to impress both his boss and Grissom.

Greg mentally prepared himself before turning to face the darker haired man. He's off limits. Besides, it wouldn't matter anyway. Long distance relationships don't work and you're definitely not a one-night stand kind of guy. Neither is he. Moreover, he could never like you. Get your mind off of him and on the case.

Greg turned, willing his thoughts to calm themselves before offering Ryan a welcome smile. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Shall I note your delayed arrival to the lab and mock you, or should I be kind and let it slide?"

Ryan gave him an embarrassed smile as he quickly donned his blue lab coat. "My roommate's best friend is the snooze button. I apologize for my tardiness."

"Aw, and I've been so lonely waiting for you."

Ryan grinned slightly. "I'm sure you have." His large brown eyes wandered towards the coffee maker, hissing as it trickled the brown, hot liquid into a pot. "Is that coffee I hear brewing?"

"It is indeed."

"I hope there's enough for two."

"I'm willing to share for a minimal fee."

"Oh yeah? What kind of fee is that?"

"You do my chores for a week."

Ryan gave him a confused look before suddenly grinning and then, like a miracle, laughing.

"You know, you're going to spoil me on that coffee you make," Ryan said, setting his backpack on a nearby desk and beginning to dig through its contents. "I'll go back to Miami and knock back a cup of that sludge they brew as I fondly remember Las Vegas."

"Every time you think of Las Vegas, you'll think of me. What a happy life you'll lead then."

Ryan smiled again, finally finding what he was looking for. It hadn't been that hard. His books and notes were in perfect order, his pens were fresh and he always brought plenty of back ups, should, on a weird occasion, the three he already carried around decide to stop working simultaneously.

Greg more or less walked up behind him, peering over his shoulder. Ryan tried to fight down his growing embarrassment at Greg's solemn silence once the lighter haired man caught sight of Ryan's OCD habits.

"A little OCD there, Wolfe?"

Ryan cleared his throat. "It's a minor case."

"Good. 'Cause I wouldn't know where to find a pen if you gave me a map. Is that music I see in your hand?"

"I –uh- I hope you don't mind," began the younger CSI, quickly zipping up his backpack and placing it against the wall, hidden from anyone's wandering eye. "I can't really concentrate when there's music playing too loudly."

"No music?" asked Greg, placing his hand over his heart and taking a theatric step back. "It'll be tough, but I think I might be able to survive for a few weeks without my Red Hot Chili Peppers."

"That's not exactly what I meant," replied Ryan, heading over to the CD player. He switched it on and took out Greg's By The Way CD before placed in another, turning it to a respectable sound level, one where you could actually hear yourself think.

Greg allowed the song to begin, curious as to what Ryan listened to.

"Is that…?" he began, quickly giving a Ryan an admirable look. "The Beach Boys?" Is this guy perfect for me or what?

Ryan laughed at Greg's tone of voice. "Yes," he replied. "I love them. No one makes music like that anymore."

"You're a full fledged nerd," Greg observed.

"A little."

"So am I. The Beach Boys rock. I have some of their old vinyl records."

"Really? I thought you were the weird punk rocker type. Well, not weird. I don't judge people on appearance or anything. But that Alice Cooper shirt you're wearing kind of gives me an impression."

Greg shook his head at Ryan's nervousness, smiling widely before walking over and slinging a long arm around Ryan's tense shoulders. "Calm down, Wolfe. I'm insulted all the time. At this point, nothing you say can offend me. Now, let me introduce you to the joys of running fingerprints from an entire casino."

…

"You awake yet?" Nick asked as Eric finished off his third cup of coffee. They were driving now, driving down to Ellie Jenkins's last known workplace. It had taken them nearly their entire shift the night before to find out where she worked- all they knew is that it was a casino, so Eric and Nick split a list and tracked down each gambling establishment, each boss and each employee roll until they stumbled upon The Alaska, a small casino that Las Vegas wasn't exactly known for.

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Surprisingly?" asked Nick, giving Eric a look from his seat at the wheel. "Three cups of coffee, two Twix bars and a bag of Skittles? You should either be awake or in a diabetic coma."

"You should feel fortunate I dragged myself out of bed in the first place," Eric laughed. "I had half the mind to just let Horatio go ahead and fire me."

Nick laughed too, turning back to the road. The Alaska was off the mainstream roads and the streets here were strangely quiet with nothing but sand, sky, and stars to keep them both company. It felt good to Nick to escape the lights and sounds of the famous Las Vegas and actually view a part of Nevada instead.

"I'm sorry this night shift deal is such a hard thing for you."

"I've got Ryan to keep me in line and to set the backup alarm."

Nick paused, recalling the way the two Miami CSIs interacted with each other. Ryan was certainly very nice, plus his large eyes and that shaggy haircut made him look the part. "He seems like a nice guy."

"Ryan? He is. I think it's great that we have him on our team. But, y'know, when he realized how late we were, he nearly killed me with his own bare hands."

"I'm sure your boss shared that sentiment."

"Which is why I've been avoiding him all night."

Nick gave him an amused look. "All you Miami guys are great CSIs," he continued, hoping to keep the conversation flowing and get to know his new partner better. "I heard Ryan replaced someone though."

Eric looked up and even in the dark Nick could tell that he had said something wrong, as if his words were fire and they burnt Eric's skin. What are you, incompetent? Nick thought to himself, wishing he could just go ahead and bang his head against the steering wheel. Replacement only means one thing.

"He's not a replacement. He's an… addition. For when Tim got shot."

Nick was proved right, although he wished he hadn't been.

"I'm sorry."

"How can you be? You never knew him," Eric replied. "It's okay not to be sorry sometimes."

"Well, we almost lost one of out own too. Greg works DNA. Ryan's probably working with him, actually."

"How'd you almost lose him?" asked Eric, curiosity laced in his voice. "I didn't know gunmen tried to take over trace labs." Nick knew he was trying to hide the sorrow at the mention of Tim Speedle and he wished he hadn't even brought it up. God, he was stupid.

"The lab exploded."

"Christ," said Eric, giving the Texan a surprised look. "He survived that?"

"Barely. But Greg's Greg, man. He can get through anything and still make a bad joke about it."

They continued to make small talk as they drove up to The Alaska. Eric knew they had found the right place when blue lights shone starkly against a midnight sky, covered with silver stars.

Nick hadn't exactly been forthcoming with The Alaska's specific clientele, so when they pulled up in the Tahoe, Eric wondered why Nick had suddenly become so silent, so rigid and uncomfortable in the short ten seconds it took to park.

Once he caught a full view of the place, he knew why.

He wished he could be unnerved and embarrassed as well, at least for the sake of Nick.

But as they entered the building, Nick following silently behind, Eric heard his favorite song playing and the Cuban felt so at home and at ease. He wished he could stash away his crime kit and just dance, lose himself, dragging Nick along with him.

Eric immediately and forcefully destroyed that mental image. Where did that come from? He didn't want to know. He was here on business and strictly business, nothing else. Keep walking. You're just tired. He managed to convince himself that on normal occasions, such a thought would have never even occurred to him.

Either way, it was clear that they were both cops and they certainly stood apart from the rest of the crowd. As if they were wearing flashing lights on their shirts, everyone seemed to move out of their way, not wanting any trouble. Maybe their gloves and kits gave it away, or possible even their CSI jackets. Note to self: next time, try to be a little more obvious. Eric snorted softly before leading Nick past the crowds.

The two CSIs made their way towards the back, passing the dance floors and small stage. Eric felt oddly cold knowing that Ellie Jenkins had performed up there so many times but never would again, because her body was chilly and still now, locked up in a drawer in the coroner's office. Taking a quick glance around, he supposed that the casino was technically a casino, although it was more like a dance club with slot machines.

Nick's voice –"Las Vegas Crime Lab. Who's the manager?"- brought Eric crashing back down to Earth and they had somehow arrived to the bar, where a man in his late thirties was giving them both a dispassionate look. His eyes were heavy and gray- too tired and too beaten by the world to be truly happy.

"Well," he replied, giving them both a weary smile, "Here I thought you two were a nice lookin' couple." His voice sounded drained, even through the pounding rhythm and beat of the music that was currently blasting off the speakers. Nick's jaw set at the comment, but Eric merely gave the tired man a small smile.

"You take care of this place?" he asked.

Finally, the man shook his head. "Nah. You'd be lookin' for Miranda. Probably in the office, yelling at a government official over the phone."

"Thanks. And you are?"

"Steven Kellsie."

Eric took out a notebook and began jotting down some notes, black ink on white lined paper.

"The bar all you take care of?" It was the first thing Nick had said since they entered.

Steven Kellsie shrugged. "I clean up the occasional puke, fix the speakers when they short circuit."

"Ah. Handy man, janitor and bartender. You're a jack of many trades, Mr. Kellsie."

Steven gave him a small, awkward smile and another shrug. "More like a man with too much time to spare. Waitin' for my Prince Charming to walk through those doors one day."

"Aren't we all?"

"You're partner there might disagree."

Eric laughed because it was true. Nick looked uncomfortable and it didn't seem as if he were looking for a prince of any sort. Nick gave Eric look of both annoyance and embarrassment before allowing the Floridian to continue.

"You know Ellie Jenkins?"

"Ellie? Certainly did. Sweet girl. Never let a lady down harshly, responsible, filled with big dreams. Hell of a worker too."

"When'd you last see her?"

"About three days ago."

"She seem upset?"

"A little. Not quite as upbeat as usual. I just figured it was a woman thing or she was just being over worked."

"She fight with anyone? Anyone come asking for her or anything like that?"

"No. We look out for things like that. I'd get you a security tape, but you'll have to ask Miranda first or she'll have my head."

"And where were you last time you saw her?"

"Me? I was here, like usual. Stopped a brawl and settled an argument between a man and the Black Jack table."

Eric gave Nick a look and Nick nodded his approval.

"Okay, thanks Mr. Kellsie. Here's our card if you remember anything and we might need to talk to you again, so don't go jetting across the country."

Steven Kellsie accepted the card before casting them both another look. Eric supposed he was kind of good looking, despite his worn appearance. "You sure you two ain't datin'?" he asked, glancing at Nick once before focusing his attention on Eric.

"It'd be news to us if we were," replied Eric, imagining the two of them going out to dinner and the thought making him smile. It was amusing, to say the very least.

"Don't s'ppose I could have your number?"

Eric paused a moment, dark eyes piercing the lonely bartender. He too was lonely and tired and just wanted someone who he could love without rules and limits. He told himself he was too young to feel that way; he should be filled with life and go to parties and have great times ahead, but he didn't. He had a feeling that Mr. Kellsie didn't either.

"I live in Miami," he finally replied, almost regretting his response when he saw the older man quickly look away before giving him a humiliated half smile.

"That's my worst rejection yet."

Eric laughed, only this time it was sympathetic. "Nah, seriously, I do. I'm here for Ellie Jenkins's case."

"Good luck to you then. Ellie was a joyful girl."

"I'm sure she was."

"Wanted to save gorillas in Africa and stop little kids starving on the street."

Their eyes met and Eric saw his true regret of another soul lost. A girl who wanted nothing except to improve the world and she was gone. There were so few of her left.

Nick and Eric left the bar and the lonely man behind them, making their way further to the back where Miranda Preston's office was located. Nick knocked on the door and they waited as a woman shouted "Just a moment!" before her voice directed itself back to what seemed to be a very heated phone conversation about an electricity bill.

"Would you have given him your number?" Nick suddenly asked, not looking at Eric as he focused his attention on the door instead, as if perhaps it held the answers instead of Eric himself.

Eric considered the question a moment. "Maybe. He seemed like a nice guy. Serious, wouldn't cheat. I just want a real relationship now."

"So you date guys?"

Eric cast the Texan a wary glance. "Does that bother you?" His words were polite but his tone gave him away. "Am I offensive to you? You want to change partners so you won't feel revolted knowing we're three feet away from each other? Jesus Christ, do you think I'm contagious or something? You're just as imperfect as I am."

"Me? No, of course not. No way."

"Oh. Because your sudden silence and transparent 'Me? No, of course not. No way.' was kind of worrying me."

"It really doesn't matter to me, Eric."

"Fine. I believe you."

Nick could tell that Eric really didn't, but Miranda Preston opened the door to her office and invited them in.

…

"Wanna hit breakfast?"

Obviously, his brain and mouth weren't working in conjunction with each other, because that's not what Greg meant to say. What he meant was, "See you tomorrow, Ryan. I'll just head on to my empty apartment, feed my fish, and beat myself up about these thoughts I'm having about you." Then again, maybe that wouldn't have gone over much better. Next time, he should probably just keep his mouth shut altogether. And then maybe he could buy the Golden Gate Bridge for cheap, because the odds of owning a U.S. landmark and him not talking were about the same.

Ryan looked up and gave him a smile, gazing at him longer than necessary before quickly looking away and asking, "Don't you mean dinner?"

Greg grinned. "I'm still confused about it myself, and I've been working here six years. All I know is that I eat when I'm hungry. You like Denny's? A waitress there knows me by name."

"Sounds tempting."

"She tells the cooks I'm in law enforcement and I help get killers off the street, so they don't spit in my eggs like they do everyone else. Of course, I always forget to mention I sit in a lab for twelve hours and run trace, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Ryan laughed as he packed his things in his bag and put away his lab coat, the long hours of the day finally wearing down on him.

"I don't know. It's kind of late." That's not what Ryan wanted to say either, but the sensible, rational side of him automatically spoke. It was late and he was tired, but he would much rather insensibly and irrationally grab breakfast with Greg instead. Still, he didn't want to appear too eager.

Greg tried to hide his slight disappointment. What was he hoping for anyway? "That's cool, dude." Ryan was right, but it still didn't seem like a good enough reason to go home to an empty apartment.

Ryan paused a moment before turning back, watching as Greg silently began putting away the rest of their work items. His hair was a little flatter after a long shift, and battling with DNA equipment didn't make it any easier.

"I only meant if you're not too tired…" Ryan began, but stopped when he realized how stupid he sounded. Did he sound pathetic? Lonely? He wanted to spend a little extra time with Greg. After all, he was a great conversationalist and he enjoyed working with him immensely.

"Me? Tired? Never."

"Then Denny's sounds really good. But do they really spit in your food?"

"Only to low tipping customers, my friend."

They walked out of the lab together, laughing as they did so. Those who were passing tried not to stare too obviously: both men were sort of leaning into each other and neither of them realized how perfect they fit together, how well they got along, and how happy they made each other in just two days. They didn't notice the small smiles, the quirked eyebrows; in other words, they were oblivious and somehow, that didn't matter at all.

Ryan quickly spotted the rest of their team clustered in pairs in the hall, working on various aspects of the case. He ignored his earlier feeling of inadequacy about being the odd one left out; he seemed to have gotten the high end of the deal and he wondered, very briefly, if Eric or Calleigh's partner was as terrific as Greg. He searched for Eric before finding him hunched over photos of Ellie Jenkin's crime scene, intent on devouring his package of Starbursts as he did so.

"Hey Eric. How's the case?"

Eric looked up and Ryan frowned. The older man definitely wasn't getting enough sleep, and the dark circles under his usually bright eyes gave it away.

"Hey Ryan." He glanced briefly over to Greg, standing just a few millimeters away from Ryan, before asking him, "You wouldn't happen to be the famous Greg Sanders, would you?"

Greg gave him a grin before leaning to shake the Cuban's hand. "The one and only. If you're a friend of Ryan's then I'll give you an autograph for free."

Eric shook his head before laughing. "Nah, I think I'm cool."

"Sure? My next worldwide tour starts next week."

"Tempting, very tempting." Eric turned his attention back to Ryan before titling his head in Greg's direction. "I like him."

Greg's shoulder tapped lightly against Ryan's. "Hear that? He likes me."

Ryan rolled his eyes at the both of them. "It's nice to know you like him, Eric. I wasn't aware I had to introduce you to everyone I know for your seal of approval."

"Not everyone," corrected Eric, beginning to unwrap a strawberry candy. "Just the ones that make you grin like an idiot." The words were spoken innocently and at first, Ryan didn't catch on.

"Grin like a-?" Ryan's eyes suddenly flew open and he stood rigid, making a mental note in his mind to kill Eric if he survived this humiliation in the first place. He made an abrupt change of topics, hoping to head out with as much dignity as he could salvage. "Heading to the hotel?" he asked evenly, giving Eric a stony look.

"In a couple minutes. You?"

"Actually, Greg and I are going to go get some breakfast." The silence that followed was louder than Ryan could imagine, and he sincerely hoped Greg didn't notice. It was a strange silence because it wasn't filled with an invite: an invitation for Eric to join them. Or Calleigh. Or anyone. However, it seemed as if Eric got the message loud and clear: Ryan wanted some down time, and he wanted it spent with Greg. Eric wasn't offended. It was the reverse, actually, and he fought away a sly, 'Oh, I get it.' grin.

Eric knew it would be best to end the conversation. After all, Ryan and Greg would be hitting lunch soon enough if he didn't let them go.

"Ah. Sounds like fun. Do you have your room key? 'Cause if you come knocking at the door and I'm asleep, you're spending the night in the hallway."

"Gee, thanks for that," replied Ryan, smiling but still a little uneasy. "I've got a key. I'll see you in an hour or so."

"Okay, see you then. Don't get arrested."

"Well, thanks for ruining that plan," Greg lightheartedly replied. "Guess holding up the local Seven Eleven's out of the picture. Ryan and I'll just have to find something better to do."

…

Ryan looked out the window of the restaurant, their knees slightly touching but neither was taking the initiative to move them. They had accidentally touched so many times that night that it really didn't matter at that point. At first, Ryan would quickly pull away and try in vain to hide a blush, acting as if scrambled eggs and French toast was the most fascinating thing on the planet.

But they began to fall in sync with one another, and suddenly touching knees seemed like a ridiculous thing to be worried over.

So they talked. Once they covered the subject of families, friends, and Miami versus Las Vegas, they began the subject of careers and schooling. They covered music, books, and it seemed as if one breakfast couldn't begin to give them enough time to talk about everything they wanted to. Ryan supposed it always boiled down to time.

"So how'd you become a CSI?" Greg asked over an empty plate of what used to be pancakes and sausage.

"I came up from patrol. I didn't like just arriving at a scene and waiting until the big guns got there. I wanted to stay with a case until it was closed. What about you? I hear your boss likes to lock you in the lab."

"I used to like it a lot more than I do now. It gets boring after a while. And techs are definitely under appreciated." He paused a moment before adding, "Plus, y'know, the lab exploded." His last statement was softer and Ryan nearly had to strain to hear it. Greg cleared his throat and then took a sip of his water (He never ordered coffee at a restaurant. It wasn't ever as good as his special stash.) He almost seemed embarrassed at the moment and didn't look Ryan in the eye.

"Your lab exploded?" Ryan asked, shock and concern written all over his face. "What happened? I mean, only if you want to talk about it. I could understand how you wouldn't want to think of it again."

Greg shrugged. "It's okay. Catherine left the fume hood on too long and too high and it just blew up all over the place."

"Were you in the lab when it happened?"

Greg nodded. "Sure was."

"Weren't you hurt?"

"I have a couple of scars, but I like to call them battle wounds. I just… wanted to get out of the lab. Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating and it drives me nuts, so I pestered Grissom into letting me train to become a CSI. The only thing scarier than the lab is my fear of looking like an idiot in front of my boss, you know?"

Ryan could certainly empathize with that. "I could see why you would want to get out of there sometimes."

"They think I'm a freak. It's not offending or anything, I just want them to take me seriously." A comfortable pause before Greg looked at Ryan curiously. "We're about the same age. Does everyone in Miami pat you on the head too?"

Ryan frowned a little. "Actually, some don't speak to me at all. I tell them I'm not a replacement."

"They lost someone?"

"Tim Speedle. I came in after he was shot in a jewelry store and everyone's just trying to get used to the fact that he's gone. I don't mind the occasional cold shoulder, though. I just want to do my job properly."

"I guess we're both the odd guy out on the job, huh?"

"Yeah. But you're going to be a great CSI pretty soon. You're not just a DNA tech."

"And you're just not a replacement."

It felt good to hear those words.

They smiled at each other from across the table as seven o'clock hit and the sun rose and washed Las Vegas with light.

***

Act Four: Absence of State

I have seen only you, I have admired only you, I desire only you.
-Napoleon Bonaparte to Madam Marie Walewska, 1807

"So."

Eric's voice was laced with something –something- that Ryan couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a mix of suspicion and amusement. The way Eric was grinning, that teasing look in his eyes meant only one thing: Ryan's late arrival to the hotel the morning before would certainly be the gossip of Calleigh and Yelina for the rest of the day, if not the week.

"So," Ryan echoed, giving Eric an odd look before checking to make sure he had his key card and grabbing his backpack, taking a quick inventory of its contents while consequently (if not purposely) avoiding Eric's eyes.

"So someone, who shall remain nameless, dragged themselves through that very door two hours after the rest of us crashed."

Ryan inwardly groaned. He knew this was coming and he was dreading every moment of it. The morning before, he told himself that he shouldn't stay out for more than an hour at the very most, else he'd face the consequences; consequences being Eric's endless teasing. He knew better, but the time spent with Greg felt like too little. So engrossed they were by merely talking to one another that Ryan had realized that the minutes had flown by and two hours had already passed. They could have certainly stayed longer, but Ryan knew he had to get to the hotel and catch a little sleep before work began. That, and the longer he stayed out, the more relentless Eric would be.

"I had breakfast with Greg," Ryan explained. "Or dinner. Actually, I don't what it was. He calls it 'brinner'."

"For two hours?" pried Eric as they proceeded to leave their hotel room on schedule, making their way towards the elevator.

"We talked." Did he need to elaborate further? Frankly, he didn't want to. Eric knew that if Ryan didn't like someone, he wouldn't spend two hours trying to get away from them.

"About what, religion and politics? Dude, it was a two hours. It takes the average over worked and under paid employee five minutes to down a plate of eggs and bacon before moving on."

"I know how long we took, Eric. He's an interesting guy."

Ryan tried not to let the defensiveness in his tone be heard. The last thing he wanted Calleigh to hear was that he sort of kind of maybe had breakfast with a nice, interesting guy. She would poke and prod every last detail out of him until she left bruises.

"So you guys talked about DNA swabs and finger printing?"

"Maybe."

Eric laughed as the elevator slid open and they entered, Ryan promptly pressing the down button.

"Didn't know you were so secretive."

"Didn't know you were so snoopy."

"Okay, okay," Eric replied, holding up his hands in surrender but his smile never wavering. "I can take a hint."

"Calleigh's been rubbing off on you. I never knew you were the kind to dig into people's personal lives."

Eric laughed as the elevator gave a little "ding" and the doors opened up to reveal the first floor of their hotel.

"Personal lives? So breakfast was personal?"

"Eric!" Ryan protested, shooting Eric an embarrassed glare before quickly walking out of the elevator. How humiliating. Had Calleigh told him? Did Eric know he was…? Ryan didn't want to think about it. He did not want his personal life to be the hot gossip of the week. Why couldn't anyone understand that?

"That's not what I meant, dude. You're not that kind of guy. I'm sorry."

He knew Eric would never laugh at him about this, even now that Ryan's cheeks were a deep crimson, sharp against his pale skin. Ryan wished he could blow it off, but honestly, he felt like defending Greg more than anything.

"Greg's not that kind of guy either," he heard himself say. He winced before he even finished saying it, realizing how it sounded and wishing he hadn't spoken at all. He met Eric's surprised expression for about two seconds before looking away again.

"Hm. I see." That was all Eric said as they emerged from the building and into the bright sunset of Nevada. The silence that followed was heavy and Ryan was grateful that Eric was a true friend and knew when not to keep digging for answers. But the conversation was still left unresolved and neither could work when in that state.

"Eric…" Ryan gave him a look before stopping dead in his tracks and turning towards the Cuban, solemnity radiating off every aspect of his stance, expression, tone. It was true that he was sometimes timid, but he could barely believe this situation himself and he absolutely would not allow Greg to be hurt by any gossip that was inadvertently spread.

"Don't tell Cal. She's the sweetest girl to ever live, but she'll start talking and won't stop. Got it?"

"Hey, your secret's safe with me. This conversation never happened. As far as I'm concerned, you came in twenty minutes after I crashed because you grabbed a bite from a fast food joint with a co-worker."

Ryan tried to fight off his smile, but in the end, failed. "Sounds like a great alibi. Thanks."

"Not a problem," he replied. "But I –uh- I was curious about something. If it's not, y'know, too personal."

Eric quickly hailed a cab at their curb and Ryan felt his stomach clench, because he somehow knew what was coming. He didn't want to face it, but he certainly couldn't run away.

"What's that?"

"Are you…"

Eric looked as uncomfortable as Ryan felt. Was he what? Ryan wanted to know but didn't want to answer. The taller man couldn't seem to find the right words and was quiet for a few moments. Instead, other conversations of those passing by filled the gap and pieces of gossip, news, and luaghter came and went with the sea of people along side them.

"I mean, not that it matters, but I kind of- wondered, maybe, that if you're… Do you like women?" he asked, unable to give it any fancy phrasing and instead just laying it out on the table.

Ryan swallowed. "Uhm…" He coughed and suddenly wished a cab would just pull up already. Better yet, lose control of the acceleration and just run him over.

"You don't have to answer."

Ryan laughed a little at Eric's worried expression, worried that he had stepped over the line.

"If I don't answer, doesn't that answer your question anyway?" Ryan asked, his frantic nervousness dying away to a mellow, accepting sickness. Eric knew. Ryan couldn't change that. He was out to someone else and God, he hated it!

"Not necessarily. But I'm not a judge, man. Even if you're bi or gay or whatever, doesn't matter to me. You're a good guy and a great CSI."

"Fine." Ryan took a deep breath and turned towards Eric. "I like guys."

There.

He said it.

Three little words.

Eric looked almost… impressed. Okay, that wasn't exactly what Ryan was expecting, but he doubted that Eric would start running down the street with his arms flailing in the air, screaming that one of his best friends was less than straight.

"You do?" Eric asked as a cab finally, finally pulled up.

Ryan didn't reply, merely opened the door to the cab and Eric walked around, following Ryan's actions, hopping in and buckling up.

"Yes, I do. Are you okay with that, or should I pack up my stuff and move to another state?"

Eric gave Ryan an amused smile before looking out the window, towards the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas. It looked like a normal city in the light of the sun, but when night came, it morphed into something bright, grand, a little tacky, and a lot sinister.

"It's never up to anyone, Wolfe. Would it make you feel better to know that we're both in the same boat? Or would it weird you out?"

Ryan tried not to choke on his own oxygen. Was Eric saying what he thought he was saying? It was possible that Ryan was over analyzing every syllable that left Eric's mouth, but he wasn't sure that was the case.

"What?" he asked, trying to remain as calm as possible. "Are you saying that you're… like me?"

"Nick kind of guessed last night. You know how Ellie Jenkins last occupation was at The Alaska?"

Ryan nodded, listening intently to Eric's story.

"Well, The Alaska is the hotspot for people like you and me, my friend. He saw that I wasn't freaked out and he just sort of… guessed. I told him just because someone doesn't get KKK on everyone in there doesn't mean they were gay."

"So you didn't tell him at first?"

"Didn't need to. But he was professional about it, so it could've gone a lot worse. I figured the subject of homosexuality was going to come up a lot in the next few weeks anyway, so I didn't exactly deny it."

"Not to offend anyone from Texas, but wasn't Nick a little…"

"Rigid and uncomfortable? Absolutely."

"Oh."

"That's what he said."

"Well, maybe it's not his phobia. You said he acted professional. Maybe he's really okay with it but doesn't want to bother you."

"So maybe the glass is half full. I like your optimism."

"Maybe he likes you and just happens to be wanting to ask you on a classy date to IHOP."

It was Eric's turn to blush and he stared out the window again, unable to hide a small smile.

"Classier than Denny's, you mean?"

"I never knew you to be a comedian."

"I get delirious when I'm hungry. My internal clock says I should be gobbling down some steaks about now."

"I guess that means we're hitting the vending machines again."

Yep. They were definitely back and their secrets were revealed to each other. Somehow, Ryan wasn't as panicked as he thought he'd be. They were real friends and it felt good.

"I just hope they haven't run out of Skittles."

…

"Is this where I'll find you from now on?"

Eric jumped a little, startled at the voice and nearly dropping his case file in the process. It had been a quiet, uneventful, and almost peaceful first ten minutes of work that night. He had been contently pouring over the DNA results of last night's casino excursion and, embarrassingly enough, downing a bag of Skittles and cup of coffee as he did so.

Eric quickly swallowed his mouthful of candies before looking up from his stooped position, giving Nick a somewhat guilty smile.

"There's a vending machine, isn't there?" he asked lightly.

Nick rolled his eyes slightly before taking a seat across from the Cuban, stealing a few Skittles in the process.

"Don't you ever have a real breakfast?" Nick asked, a sweet southern drawl to his voice. Eric was almost reminded of Cal, but of course, it wasn't the same.

"I do in Miami." The response sounded lame, but it was also some sort of conformation: I do in Miami. Of course he ate regularly in Miami. That's because he lived in Miami, which was why he wouldn't allow himself to find anyone significant in Las Vegas. It would be complicated and messy and he was too tired for that. Even if it meant being lonely, it was the preferable alternative to being angry and upset all the time.

The reasoning was perfect and the logic was flawless.

So he didn't bother to ask himself why it didn't seem to make any sense.

"Well, since you're here on time tonight," Nick began, placing some colored printouts on the table, "I figured we could head out to The Alaska again."

"Oo, a date."

Nick gave Eric a look and the Floridian immediately wished he hadn't spoken. Trying to lighten the mood, huh? Great going. You're about as subtle as an exploding bomb. Eric resisted the urge to kick himself. What was he thinking? No jokes, no quips, no nothing, especially not after the night before.

"More like DNA swabs from all the employees. As I recall, the real janitor couldn't account for his whereabouts that night."

"Yeah, but Ellie Jenkins was murdered in Miami," replied Eric, tapping the side of his coffee cup with his index finger thoughtfully. "Even if their alibis were sketchy, they would have to have gotten on the plane to have killed her."

"So we need the tapes from the Miami airport."

"Which means we need Yelina and Warrick."

As if both reading each other's minds, they immediately stood and began towards the A/V lab, where Warrick had been going over hours of airport footage. Most of it was meaningless and they weren't even sure what they were looking for, but with a leap of faith and a little luck, something might pop out at them.

So far, though, nothing had been of any use, and as Nick and Eric sat down from across the screens, watching black and white footage of hundreds of people boarding and buying tickets, it seemed as if the case had run smack into a brick wall.

"Hey Warrick," Nick greeted as he and Eric entered the usually dark A/V lab. Warrick and Yelina looked up from some screens as Archie fast-forwarded through an hour or so of footage.

"Hello," Yelina replied. She gave Eric a small smile before motioning towards some chairs. "Pull up a seat, gentlemen. We were just about to break out the popcorn."

"So I guess we're getting nothing from the tapes?" asked Nick as he followed Yelina's invitation and pulled up a rolling office chair.

Warrick rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Yelina and I have been watching this for almost a day. The airport has a dozen cameras in the lobby alone. With all the security measures, we have dozens of tapes we need to go through, but I have a feeling we're going to wind up with the same result."

"The result being a whole lot of nothing?" Eric guessed. Warrick nodded in response. "Right. We see where Ellie Jenkins enters the lobby still wearing her show dress and buys a ticket at a booth. Thing is, she doesn't have any luggage. Not even a purse."

"So I guess tracking down any lost personal belongings is out of the question," Nick murmured. "Even with these surveillance tapes, we still don't have anything."

There was a silence for a few minutes, the whirring of the tape machine the only sound in the room. It was almost disheartening- no one wanted to leave Ellie Jenkins without justice, but they couldn't seem to find even the slightest clue as to what could help them discover her murderer. The four CSIs continued to watch the screen, despite the fact they all knew they would gain nothing from it. They couldn't think of anything else they could do to solve the case: there were no prints, no paper trails, not even a good, old-fashioned suspect.

It wasn't until Gil Grissom threw open the door that the four looked up, tearing their attention away from the screen.

"We need a Plan B," he announced and then turned and left the room. He left no space for questions or arguments. Yelina and Eric exchanged curious looks, but Warrick and Nick knew that when Grissom got an idea, they could only follow.

So they rose from their seats and did exactly that.

…

"Look who decided to listen to his alarm," said a voice when Ryan entered the lab.

"I thought we went over this story already," Ryan replied, grinning at Greg before making his way over to the coffee maker, where he knew a fresh hot pot would be brewing for them both.

"We did, but it's just so much more fun to relentlessly tease you instead."

"I see you've been taking pointers from Eric. Teasing me relentlessly is his favorite hobby as well."

Greg smiled in return as he meandered over to Ryan, his body just barely brushing with the other's as he leaned against the wall casually, watching as Ryan made his coffee.

"What exciting set of prints do we get to run today?"

"I note the sarcasm in your voice."

"Good. No one else has."

Ryan smiled slightly. He knew Greg was impatient to get back into the field, but the overwhelming amount of DNA involved wasn't giving him the opportunity.

Ryan turned from the making of his coffee to reply with something witty or charming, two things he so rarely was, but the moment he turned he realized how close they were actually standing. Their noses were almost touching, which meant their lips weren't far behind and Ryan practically jumped out of skin, because suddenly Greg leaned forward a mere inch and a half and their lips connected.

That, and he dropped his coffee.

He didn't notice that part at first; rather, the warm lips that were on his own was the only thing on his mind. This perfect man was kissing him, so what did he do? Ryan, being of the logical, level headed, Spontaneity-is-the-Devil psyche quickly broke away. He was horrified someone might have saw, and even more horrified of caring. He immediately regretted breaking away; it wasn't long enough and in reality, he felt like being a little reckless for once.

You didn't, he told himself, mentally pleading with God that when he opened his eyes, his coffee would still be in a cup, on a small table, steaming and not spilt all over him. Only he was hyper aware of the hot liquid that was on his pants leg and shirt. It was searing, brown, and probably staining his second pair of perfectly good clothing. Obviously, God wasn't taking requests today.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Greg had kissed him. Greg kissed him. And now the other man was looking at him with a worried expression; Greg opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. It seemed as if both their states of mind had taken a leave of absence.

"I'm sorry," Ryan whispered, finally managing to find some words hidden deep within his autopilot mind. He wasn't talking about the kiss, such as it was. He was sorry he couldn't control himself better, he was sorry that his brain wasn't working right, and he was sorry he was having feelings for one Greg Sanders. He immediately stepped away, breaking away from the other man. "About the coffee. It's… it's all over the place."

"That's okay," replied Greg, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He knew, as Ryan did, that something more than a kiss had just happened between them, only neither man could place what it was. "It was probably my fault."

"I'll –uh- grab the paper towels from… somewhere," Ryan said, quickly turning, his dignity fracturing with every step he took. I can't believe how monumentally stupid you can be he screamed to himself. They were quiet as he began going through the cabinets, seeing where some extra napkins might be lying about, hoping the sudden ice could be broken.

"There are some paper towels in the fourth drawer to your left," said Greg, finally managing to find his voice amidst the heavy, awkward silence that had suddenly filled every crevice of the room. Ryan didn't respond, merely followed Greg's directions and true to his word, there they were, waiting to clean up the mess he was so good at leaving behind.

"I'm… really sorry to make such a mess." Ryan heard himself speaking, but he couldn't make himself look up to meet Greg's eyes. Instead, he got on his hands and knees and began soaking up his second coffee disaster in the last four days; his first, if you all remember, was in Miami with Calleigh.

"Here, let me help."

"I've got it."

"Ryan…"

The thick tension was thankfully cut by Calleigh herself, poking her head in through the lab doors. She smiled brightly at them both and opened her mouth to speak before catching sight of the disarray. She didn't need to know what happened because it didn't matter; she knew Ryan only got nervous about one thing, nervous enough to make a mess like this. Her eyes automatically shot to Ryan and she sort of grinned at him. Ryan knew he would be grilled later, asking the why's and when's of the entire catastrophe. He returned her look with one of distress: Please, say something. Break the pressure.

"Hey you two," she vibrantly began, quickly scanning Greg before speaking again, talking as if she couldn't practically feel the heavy silence. "The Bosses are calling us. This case needs a makeover and I think Grissom might have a new plan. We're in his office when you guys finish up."

She gave them both another look before shoot a worried glance over to Ryan. Knowing she couldn't say anything about it without making it worse, she gave them both another slightly confused smile before leaving.

Greg watched as Ryan quickly finished cleaning up the spill before shrugging out of his lab coat, still not looking at him, almost as if he were ashamed, and left the room without a word.

Greg could do nothing but follow, worry now with every step he took.

…

The door creaked extra loudly, of course, the way all doors do when someone comes in late. The meeting had started when Greg and Ryan tried to sneak in, but it was an office and they would have been noticed anyway. Ryan quickly took a seat next to Calleigh, while Greg choose to hang in the back, neither speaking to each other.

Gil looked over his glasses at the two, but choose not to say anything in terms of their tardiness. Greg gave him a look: You treat us like crap the rest of the time. Want to yell at us for being late at a meeting where we aren't even needed? Sure. Go ahead. Try it.

Grissom wisely looked back down at his notes, away from Greg's obvious somber and moody expression. "I have a feeling we've hit a dead end when it comes to Ellie Jenkins case. We don't know what or who we're looking for, so I propose we turn this around and give it a new angle."

"And how do you suggest we go about that?" asked Catherine, holding her case file but not actually reading it. They all had case files, but they were useless, filled to the brim with information they couldn't use yet.

"We've been trying to get Ellie Jenkins to tell us something. The question is, why would someone want to kill her? She had good friends, a good working relationship, and no significant other to speak of. What's the motive?"

"Maybe it was a random mugging. A junkie needed some quick cash," replied Nick. "Saw her in Miami, grabbed their gun and took her money when they were finished."

"That's a good theory. There wasn't a purse or wallet at the scene in Miami," Calleigh replied, twisting the ends of her blonde hair around her finger in thought. "It was two shots to the chest. Kind of cold and impersonal. A lot of people who aren't familiar with guns just shoot blindly."

It was a good theory, but all ten knew that such a predicament wasn't the case. It was never so simple.

All were silent, until Greg finally spoke. His voice lacked its usual enthusiasm and Ryan couldn't bring himself to look at the lab tech. He felt sick knowing that he was part of the problem.

"She didn't have any luggage, she didn't have a purse, and all she was wearing was the dress from The Alaska. She walked in and bought a ticket to the first available flight. She was running from someone. There wasn't any time to pack for a Florida vacation."

Sara nodded, biting her lip. She gave Greg a look, one mixed with admiration and concern. She could tell he wasn't exactly the ball of energy he usually was, and that worried her. "Greg's right. No one just takes a flight for the fun of it, especially not without a change of clothes or toothbrush."

"So we start with the teller who sold her the ticket," said Warrick, nodding, beginning to see bits of a puzzle that were coming together. "Maybe they saw someone following her."

"We've been looking at the casino too hard. Her troubles were at the airport," agreed Grissom. He glanced over at Horatio, who had been silent, listening to the theories and what-ifs. "What's your opinion, Mr. Caine?"

Horatio took a moment to respond. "She died on a motel roof. Someone had to have gotten on that plane to follow her. They might have even checked into the motel."

"Okay then," Catherine said, rising from her seat, a new energy now buzzing around the room, affecting all but two. "We've got a new plan. We start at the airport and work our way backwards."

…

The lab.

Again.

Ryan didn't want to be there, and Greg didn't look that thrilled either.

The heavy silence had returned with a vengeance and wouldn't stop biting at them. Neither man could imagine working this way and Greg, ever the talker, finally cleared his throat, because enough was enough. He had been an idiot to kiss him, but he felt propelled and in the moment. Which was stupid as well, because rash things were always regretted later. He could only hope that he didn't ruin their relationship for good.

"I'm sorry." The words were truthful and Ryan managed to look up and even meet his eyes. Greg sounded as miserable as Ryan felt. "The kiss was a mistake. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable." It was dumb thing to say, and he knew it. Of course he made Ryan uncomfortable, thus the lack of their usual words and banter.

"Don't worry," Ryan replied, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry I spilt coffee all over the place."

"That's not your fault either. I caught you off guard."

"A little," Ryan admitted, finally smiling at him. Greg tried to return in, but in truth, that smile was killing him.

"Are… are we good? I'd understand if you would prefer to work with Archie or Hodges or… someone else."

"We're okay. You're… the most fun person around here. You're a great friend and we work well together."

Greg inwardly winced. Friend. That's all you are to anyone.

"So. Wanna hit breakfast?"

This time, Greg didn't question whether or not his brain and mouth were working together properly, because this time, he knew what he was asking. It felt pretty good and he actually wasn't that nervous when he approached Ryan. Why should he be? It was all or nothing, yes or no. Greg wouldn't die if the invitation was turned down, but going home to an apartment full of fish to be miserable by himself wasn't exactly appealing.

In his mind, Greg knew he was asking Ryan to breakfast for all the wrong reasons, but Ryan would never know about any feelings the CSI might have for him and even if he did, Greg would never make any romantic move. Well, besides the kiss. The repercussions that would inevitably follow could leave behind a mess too big for any two people to deal with. One-night stands weren't Greg's thing any more, even if it meant that his only company outside of work happened to be his fish and his neighbor in apartment 12B, the nice old lady that remembered his birthday last year.

Breakfast was an extra hour or so to flirt (even if Ryan never caught it), stare (even if Ryan never saw it), and actually talk (because there was more to a relationship than just sex. Greg ignored the fact that they weren't actually in a relationship, which he considered a minor detail at best.)

"Is this déjà vu?" Ryan asked, grinning up at him from his place at the counter, his belongings now spread out in an organized fashion all over the surface. Extra books, extra files, extra pens. It was a good thing too, because Hodges just finished stealing Greg's last known writing utensil and that pack of manila envelopes had somehow disappeared into the deep, dark recesses of his desk drawer.

"Déjà vu? Perhaps. Or it could be me, Greg Sanders, asking you, Ryan Wolfe, if you would honor me with your presence at a table where food will be served."

"I like that. The 'honor me with your presence' really gave it the extra flair."

Greg grinned as well, leaning over the other side of the counter and making himself content by merely watching Ryan work.

"How much flair would I need to make you accept?"

"I don't know. Rumor is that you danced around wearing a showgirl's headdress once. That would add a lot of flair to whatever you're saying."

Greg titled his head, as if considering the idea. "You drive a hard bargain. It's unfortunate I left my headdress in my other lab coat."

Ryan laughed, giving Greg an amused look before returning to his task at hand. "Denny's?" he asked, and Greg let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. Ryan's inquiry meant "yes", and that's all Greg could possibly hope for. Ryan was obviously man enough to have breakfast with a guy who, two minutes ago, hadn't been able to speak to him due to shame. And Ryan was also dedicated. This wouldn't affect their work, and Greg was thankful.

"I figure I'd show my classy manners and allow you to explore the culinary delights of the local IHOP."

"IHOP?" asked Ryan, quirking an eyebrow. He had a feeling that this would become an of-the-norm event: breakfast –wait, dinner- no, "brinner", with Greg. He wished he could make himself care or even rationalize, but before the default "logic Ryan" could say anything, the rarely seen "spontaneous Ryan" sprang forth.

"Sounds great. Sure you're not too tired?"

Greg merely gave him a look and Ryan was hit with a suspicion that the other man was probably never tired.

It was like déjà vu, really, as he and Greg made their way down the hall and towards the break room to sign off for the day. Once again, unbeknownst to the two, Calleigh was carefully watching them from over the top of her surveillance report, elbowing Yelina slightly before nodding towards them both. Archie was ignoring the laughter of the two women and he idly wondered whether should alert Greg to the fact that he and Ryan were the next hot item. David Hodges merely rolled his eyes.

Ryan knocked slightly on the doorframe before leaning against it. Eric was sitting at a table, reading the DNA comparisons both men had finished earlier, chewing on some gum he had beaten out of the machine.

"Hey Eric," said Ryan, observing the Cuban at his very worst. A wrinkled shirt, sloppy hair, and dark circles under his eyes made him worse for wear. Ryan gave him a sympathetic look before he spoke again. "Continuing your healthy candy diet, I see."

"And 'funny Ryan' emerges. You are a man of many talents, my friend."

"Sorry. I couldn't resist."

"I can see you're all broken up about it."

Ryan smiled a little, but it didn't last. In the end, his concern for Eric overrode everything else. "You look beat. Greg and I are heading out to the IHOP and you're welcome to join us. They serve real food."

Eric momentarily turned his attention to Greg, who was standing next to the darker haired CSI. The fact was that Ryan was probably one of Eric's best friends, and despite the tempting offer of food that didn't come from colorful wrappers, he wasn't about to tag along. You had to be both deaf and blind to get the vibe coming from them both. Eric would only mess things up, and that's the last thing he wanted for Ryan.

"I'm good. Thanks, though." He turned to Greg, giving him a small wave. "How's it going, man? I hear Ryan axed the music."

Greg grinned. "We compromised. No heavy death metal and we keep it a reasonable volume, so he brought the Beach Boys."

"Wow. That's stretching it pretty far when it comes to Ryan."

"I pride myself in being a bad influence. I'm sure your boss will thank me later."

"I'm sure I'll thank you later when he decides to blast out some Marilyn Manson or something." Eric rose from his seat, fighting back a yawn. "Anyway, I think I'll call it a night. Nick and I get to start fingerprinting parts of the airport tomorrow."

"You hide your enthusiasm well," observed Ryan. Of course, finger printing ticket booths and looking for blood in restrooms didn't exactly sound like a day worth getting up for.

"Need help? Dusting? Blood spatter? If you want, we'll be the first to dive into the sewers," offered Greg, Eric's absolute exhaustion not lost upon him either.

Ryan turned and gave Greg a look, crossing his arms across his chest as he did so. "We?" he asked, in a you've-got-to-be-kidding tone of voice.

Greg gave him an innocent look. "But I thought you liked hiking through miles of raw sewage."

Eric laughed as the two approached the brink of serious banter. He held up his hands as a peace offering. "No sewer diving will be required, boys. We're progressing."

Eric didn't want to dwell on how much or little they were actually progressing in terms of the Ellie Jenkins case. He wanted Ryan to be comfortable and not have to worry about his nonexistent failures when it came to solving her murder. If anything, Eric was the one failing. "So you two are hitting the IHOP?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"We certainly are," replied Greg, smiling widely and slinging his arm around Ryan's neck. "Ryan and I are escaping to a wonderful place where other pancake lovers such as ourselves can eat and not have to hear about low carb dieting."

"It's nice to know you two lovebirds are getting along so well."

"Eric!" said Ryan, remembering his embarrassment from last night and wondering if he should bother saying goodnight to anyone anymore. Sneaking out a back door somewhere seemed more logical, merely because his best friends wouldn't be there to hint at secret relationships between himself and almost-complete strangers.

"Aw, Ryan. There's no need to be ashamed of us," Greg lightly retorted, following Eric's lead. "Just imagine what our children will look like."

Eric gave Ryan an innocent look. Ryan didn't return it.

"Anyway, I just came by to invite you to breakfast or something," Ryan continued through not-quite-gritted teeth. He knew he must have been as red as a tomato and he hoped no one noticed. "I'll see you at the hotel in a few hours."

"You have your room key?"

"Yes, mother. And I'll look both ways before crossing the street."

"I'm just saying that I'm dead serious about the hallway deal."

"I'll see you in a little while. Get some sleep."

"I will, I will. Now get out of here before you starve to death."

"Want me to bring you back anything?"

"Sure. Whatever's on special would be great. I'll pay you back."

Ryan gave Eric a look that read he would clearly not allow any payback of any kind before he and Greg left. Eric sighed before sitting back down. He hoped Ryan wasn't getting into anything he wouldn't be able to get out of again.

…

Ryan tried not to be uncomfortable in front of Greg when it came to Eric's teasing, but the "lovebird" comment was just beginning to dig beneath his skin and for a few minutes, Ryan couldn't think of a word to say. Coupled with the earlier kiss, he began to think that this entire breakfast idea was bad one.

But as they walked, talking about nothing in particular, Ryan found it hard to be uncomfortable around Greg. So they continued on for a few blocks and Ryan's discomfort evaporated into the thick night air of Las Vegas. If they accidentally brushed shoulders or hands, so be it. It didn't matter. It was just them, and somehow Ryan couldn't make himself feel wrong about it. Kiss or no kiss, they were still friends.

"So Eric and you seem to be really good friends," Greg commented as they strolled down, hands jammed in his pockets and donning a sweatshirt to fight off the cold that sometimes crept in from the desert.

"Yeah, he's great. When I first signed on, he wasn't exactly jumping to be my best friend or anything."

"Because of Tim?"

"They were a team and I took over after he died. I didn't blame anyone for how they treated me. I probably would have acted the same way if I knew Tim like they did."

"You two are hitting it off now, though."

Ryan laughed. "That's us. Practically joined at the hip, unfortunately for Eric."

"Should I be jealous?" Greg asked lightly, although he wondered if Ryan and Eric really did have something he should be jealous over. After all, Eric was a good-looking guy with a charming personality and he wouldn't blame Ryan if he was swept away. Greg was half decent looking with very little charm to work with. Instead, he was just weird.

"Jealous of Eric?" Ryan couldn't help but laugh again at the mere thought. "I don't think so. I guess I should count myself lucky that he and I are friends, but trust me, there's very little to be jealous over. He keeps stealing my pens."

"Ah. You realize you should buy some stock in BiC or something."

"There is nothing wrong with carrying around extra pens."

"Two is extra. Nineteen counts as excess."

"How would you know?"

Greg shrugged innocently. "I needed a pen today. I grabbed one from your bag and just happened to notice the millions of others you carried around."

"I don't have nineteen pens."

Greg shrugged innocently. "You used to. Now you only have eighteen because I really needed something to write with."

Ryan spotted the blue and white lights of IHOP, their glow promising real food besides that of Greg's (admittedly spectacular) coffee and Skittles. They entered (Greg propping the door open for Ryan, ever the gentlemen) and were met by a waitress with bleached blonde hair and dark roots, white teeth, and very tired eyes.

"Hi. How many in your party?"

"Two please," replied Greg. "Sanders." The woman nodded before jotting it down in the notebook, her long, fake nails clicking against her pencil.

"That'll be forty five minutes."

"Forty five minutes?" asked Ryan, vaguely wondering if he could sit around for such an extended period. "That's a long time."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but that's usually the minimum wait time in the morning."

"I don't suppose the fact that we're in law enforcement is going to help us any? You know, get us a great table and a meal for free?" asked Greg, although Ryan could tell he wasn't up for that long of a wait either.

She smiled and laughed a little. "I'm afraid not."

"Then we're sorry to take up your time. Thanks anyway," he replied, before steering Ryan out of the restaurant and back to the street.

"No breakfast there, I guess," mused Ryan. "I saw an Arby's down the road, if you can handle roast beef this early in the morning."

"You know, you need a real taste of Las Vegas," replied Greg as they began walking back down to where they parked, Greg's arm somehow finding its way around Ryan's neck in friendly, we're-just-two-guys-lookin'-for-grub sort of way. Because Ryan knew in any other circumstance, that's what two guys would be like. And they were just two guys. So it was a bad, bad idea to lean into any sort of embrace Greg offered.

"I know a spot that serves the greatest pancakes known to Nevada and there's no waiting time, decent prices, and fan girls won't mob us the moment we step inside."

Ryan couldn't stop his laughter. "And where's that? The middle of the desert?"

Greg grinned in return. "My place."

Somewhere, Ellie Jenkin's ghost told herself that maybe her death wasn't a complete waste.

***

Act 5: City of Sin

I tremble for what we are doing. Are you sure you shall love me forever? I fear and I hope.
-Lady Mary Pierrepoint to Edward Wortley, 1712

He wasn't there.

Eric could have guessed this, but still, his hotel room was empty and he knew that if he called Ryan's cell, he would have caught him in an embarrassing, I'm-with-Greg-but-not-with-Greg moment, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin whatever he and Greg had going on. He was elated that Ryan might have found someone significant, someone worthwhile, but the other side of the situation was not as blissfully easy to ignore. Ryan would be hurt when they had to head back to Miami, because Ellie Jenkins's case would either be solved or freeze over and either way, they couldn't stay here.

Not here.

Not in Las Vegas.

Eric sighed. He was tired and certainly needed some shuteye, but sleep was evading him yet again. The burdening case, Ryan's inevitable heartbreak, this uncomfortable state of affairs with Nick- it was keeping him awake when all he wanted was to fall head first into a deep, coma-like sleep.

He tossed in bed, his sigh painfully loud in the empty room with Ryan absent. Listlessly, he thought about the things he could do to induce sleepiness: watch reruns of whatever's on at six in the morning, go to a movie and get hopelessly lost in the process, or risk being spotted buying whatever cheesy novel the lobby bookstore was currently selling.

Or he could just lie there until shift started again.

Since seeing a movie would have taken entirely too much effort and buying the latest romance novel would have practically been a crime, he figured he might as well make do with what he had: some energy grain bars he had stolen from Calleigh and a T.V. with reruns that left much to be desired.

Trying to sleep was making him even more restless, even more aware that he was exhausted but not tired. It was apparent in the silence of the room how alone he was, and it was even more obvious that his mind would always wander back to this… situation with Nick. It was difficult because whatever opinions Nick might have of him could possibly be true and that was the last thing Eric wanted. He liked Nick, and that was the problem. He liked Nick. And God, he was an idiot for even allowing himself to get involved in anything that could conflict with the case. This was his fault and now it was his responsibility to think of something brilliant to settle it, making it so Horatio wasn't giving him those strange "I know exactly what's going on" looks.

With another sigh, he kicked his blankets off and padded towards the television, attempting to make himself as comfortable as he could on the uncomfortably cold and lumpy couch, complete with a bad upholstery choice.

He pressed the power button on the remote control.

"That's right! The amazing, ten in one storage system can hold up to twent-''

No.

"Shirley, would you look at this? It's a fantastic deal! Now these aren't actually real pearls, but look at the glow and how it offsets your skin! These manmade pearls look so authentic but are only a fraction of the price! We are going to sell out of these quick ladies, so you'd better get on that phone right now and-"

No.

"…aren't enough natural resources left to continue the SUV craze. Reports indicate that the warming trend in the United States could be a direct result of fuel emission. It's unclear on whether the government will outlaw these gas-guzzling vehicles, but a plan was brought to the Supreme Court this Friday. In other news-''

No.

"God is power! God is light! And when the devil comes to take your soul, when the Devil comes offering the temptations of the world, you look Satan straight in the eye and resist the temptation of si-''

Definitely not.

Finally, after two more channels of badly animated cartoons and an offering for free hair replacement treatments, he stopped at a Miami Vice rerun.

It struck him how sad he was- a single guy, tired and lackluster in his hotel room in Las Vegas, alone and watching cop shows that had been canceled decades ago. Had the world made him so weary already? Shouldn't he be out at a club with bright lights and pounding music? Even the thought of club hopping made him tired and he realized he was double his age already, practically ready to put in the retirement slip.

But Ryan and Greg were blatantly hitting it off, Calleigh and Sara were joined at the hip, and Horatio had actually laughed today, something he hadn't done since… since Tim died. Eric held his head in his hands, trying to concentrate on what the characters with scripted lines and written endings were saying. Tim was another death that he couldn't stop, only this time he was a friend that he could never get back, permanently lost to all the ruthless bits of humanity.

Everyone else was having a relatively good time, despite the circumstances. He wanted his friends to be happy and he was never one to ruin a good thing. He tried to ignore this selfish feeling of loneliness that was rising up in him again, and he thought that maybe if he could immerse himself in the T.V. for a while, all thought about Nick's obvious discomfort and Tim's loss would cease.

So that's exactly what he did.

He hoped Ryan was faring better.

…

"Wow. This is a nice place," Ryan said, immediately taking in and appreciating the surroundings of Greg's apartment. He wasn't just being polite either; Greg's apartment wasn't half bad. There was a great view of the city and the colorful fish that were swimming around in a large tank made it much more… alive. Blue, yellow, pink: the night-lights of Las Vegas matched the fish perfectly and they swam, ignoring him, as if he belonged there and was nothing to be concerned about. "You've got a great view too."

"Well, you are standing in the middle of my living room," Greg replied. He knew he shouldn't have said it, of course, but he couldn't resist; Ryan left it wide open. Ryan gave Greg a look from his place at the tank- not angry, more like embarrassed and almost, if he dare even think it, flattered.

"I meant the view of the city."

Greg grinned as he shed his coat and tossed his keys on the first available flat surface. Flat surfaces in his house tended to get covered in papers, magazines, and other nonessential items in a day's time: he would certainly never find those keys later.

"I know exactly what you meant," he lightly replied, making his way towards the kitchen, which was currently filled with frozen dinners and other bad-for-you foods. He had a distinct feeling that Ryan was more of a health food kind of guy, going more for the baked chips and water policy. He probably wouldn't be able to stand the pile of dishes in the sink either, or that weird purple blob in his fridge that was possibly once a red onion.

"So what will it be, Wolfe? Eggs? Toast? Both? Oh, pancakes," he said, answering his own question and immediately turned to a cupboard, pulling out some sugar and flour. "Rare is the chance that I actually have time to make these. I'm always running fashionably late for work."

"You make pancakes from scratch?" Ryan asked, wandering over from the fish to the counter where Greg was laying out some measuring spoons and a pan. Greg being domestic was something Ryan hadn't quite envisioned, and yet there he was, still crazy and refined all at once. Light streaming in through curtains made his blonde streaked hair brighter, his smile more intense, and every aspect about him up the scale in terms of "Greg-ness". He was undeniably beautiful in more than one sense, and Ryan couldn't stop the slow pang of regret as it hit his gut.

"I certainly do. It's a recipe passed down from generation to generation, until I was the only one left to pass it down to. Needless to say, the entire Olaf clan wasn't exactly filled with confidence when it came to my culinary skills."

"Olaf?" Ryan asked, a huge smile beginning to grow. It seemed like a family name that this man would certainly be part of. Anything weird or "out there" was of the norm for Greg and Ryan almost wished he could be spontaneous and limitless as well. But he wasn't any of those things; his books and CD's were in alphabetical order and the pictures were hanging straight on his wall, not tilted or skewed. There was nothing about him that Greg could possibly find appealing or even vaguely exciting.

"Grandpa Olaf was a man of brilliant genius, God bless his soul. That's obviously where I get my brains."

"As well as your modesty?"

Greg laughed, pausing a moment to shake his head before looking up and smiling at Ryan. Ryan practically flinched when he met the other's eyes. What was this? What was this nausea inducing, dizzying, nerve wracking emotion that hit Ryan every time Greg so much as looked in his general direction? He was no M.D., but it was possible that these were side effects of a serious case of insanity.

Ryan broke the eye contact as soon as he caught himself returning it. Quickly, his mind geared up and began racing with his mouth and he briefly wondered what stupid thing he might say if he didn't watch his words. "Need some help? I'm not particularly bad at cooking. At least, no one's said anything about it yet."

"No, no. Don't be ridiculous. I'm the host and as such, I refuse to let you labor while in my presence."

Ryan gave him a smile. "I really don't mind. I hate making you do all the work."

"I know you do, but I can make these blindfolded. Grampa Olaf made them all the time and I'd certainly hate to break the tradition."

"Then I'll just sit here and be useless."

"That's exactly what I mean for you to do. Relax and don't think about work."

"I don't always think about work."

"Oh, really?" Greg asked, turning to face him from the stovetop. "What are you thinking about right now?"

These terrible feelings I'm having for you. "Eating."

Their chitchat kept them laughing as Greg continued to measure, mix, pour, until within a few minutes, a batter had been whipped up and a skillet was hot on the stove, cooking the first batch of what Greg called "Grampa Olaf's Oddly Odoriferous Griddlecakes." ("Odoriferous is a good thing," Greg explained once he saw Ryan's look of trepidation.)

Seeing that Greg was almost finished cooking, Ryan took the initiative by getting two glasses from a cabinet and some milk from the refrigerator.

"You might want to check the expiration date on the stuff," Greg warned, grinning at the look Ryan gave him when he spoke. "I haven't cleaned out the fridge in a while."

Ryan was silent, almost as if he was afraid to look, because along with Greg's charms came Greg's strange quirks and somehow, Ryan wouldn't be the least bit surprised that Greg had out-of-date products in his refrigerator. Finally, slowly, he turned to the carton of milk on the counter. His eyes scanned the label for the sell-by date.

"Greg, this expired two weeks ago," he announced, turning towards the other man with a raised brow. "That's really gross, not to mention slightly hazardous to your health."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"I don't suppose you have another carton?"

"Maybe in the back of the fridge. Way back, past the kingdom of soda cans. You might fall in if you aren't careful."

"Because that's where everyone keeps fresh food, right? Way in the back where you can't reach it?" Ryan was almost laughing at Greg's childish expression.

Greg served up and garnished the pancakes while Ryan took it upon himself to uncover the secret carton of fresh milk that he was sure was hiding in the dark, cobwebby corners of Greg's fridge. He also threw away a carton of bad eggs, a head of wilted lettuce, some runny cottage cheese, a couple of brown bananas, a small bag of dated ham, and a purple blob of what might have been red onion.

"Well, you're certainly a scientist," commented Ryan as he bagged the trash and left the kitchen, taking it and tossing it in the dumpster just beyond the back door.

"What's that supposed to mean?" inquired Greg from the doorway; hand on his hip and an amused smile on his face.

"All those experiments you've got going on in your fridge. I'm scared to go any further."

"You know Wolfe, you get funnier every day."

"I've been hanging around you too long."

They reentered the kitchen and Greg grabbed two plates off the counter and set them on the dining table before turning back to get some forks and knives. The pancakes were slathered in whip cream and strawberries, Ryan's guiltiest breakfast pleasure.

"I think Grandpa Olaf would be proud," Greg said from behind Ryan, slinging his arm around the other man. "Two guys who cooked a decent meal and didn't burn down the place in the process. Will miracles never cease?"

"Thank you," Ryan said, surprise laced in his words as he indicated the pancakes with a tilt of his head. "These are my favorite."

"I know," Greg replied, handing him a pair of eating utensils before taking a seat across from him. "I asked Calleigh. She seemed eager to tell me all kinds of stuff about you. Your favorite movie, your favorite color, your favorite pair of socks…"

"You asked her? Greg, I hope you didn't go to any extra trouble for me.''

Greg didn't meet Ryan's eyes; instead, he picked at the strawberries on the top of the plate. "I figured it was the least I could do to apologize for… what I did today."

Ryan felt his poise bottom out, making way for shock. Was Greg really going to bring this up? Ryan had weighed the pros and cons of bringing it up himself, but he figured that it only made sense to ignore it if the both of them had been relatively comfortable around each other even after The Kiss. "Greg, there's no reason-"

"I know you want to do well on this job and the last thing I wanted to do was mess it up for you, you know? I didn't mean to make it awkward. You're a great CSI and I'm lucky that you're still talking to me, much less trusting me not to jump you in my apartment after tempting you with breakfast."

"You don't have to apologize. It's no one's fault."

"It's the only decent thing I can do for you. I've already embarrassed you enough."

"It- it wasn't embarrassing."

"Ryan, you don't have to be polite about it. As you can probably already tell, I like both girls and guys. Moreover, I like you. But I stepped over the line and invaded your personal space and I'm very sorry. I plead my case with pancakes."

"There's nothing to-''

Greg looked up and Ryan felt that strange fluttering sensation in his stomach again.

"Would you please just say I'm forgiven?"

"Greg, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Besides completely cross the line?"

Ryan was surprised at the amount of guilt that was evident in Greg's voice. He always seemed so laidback, taking everything with stride and now he was begging to be forgiven, terrified that he might have made Ryan uncomfortable. It made his well-hidden self-doubt and anxiety clearly visible and Ryan realized that there were a million layers to this man. He resisted the sudden urge to uncover each and every one of them.

"Okay, then. If it makes you feel any better, consider yourself forgiven." Ryan felt ghastly saying it, but it seemed to be the only thing to alleviate Greg of his shame, although Ryan couldn't think of a single thing Greg needed to apologize for.

Greg's relief was plain as day and he let out a small sigh before smiling at Ryan from across the table.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Greg grinned again, his usual sparkle finally returning. "And shall I also say congratulations? We have created the most delectable pancake of all time. We'll sell the recipe to IHOP, make millions of dollars, and retire to a big-shot condo in Florida playing golf and bingo for the rest of our days."

"And we'll never have to wait forty five minutes for a table at any dining establishment again."

"Amen, my brother." Greg raised his orange juice glass and Ryan did the same; they clinked them together before taking a drink. Greg immediately dug in. Ryan, ever polite and (dare we say it?) reserved, began by actually cutting his food.

They were at ease now; any awkwardness that might have been there was gone. Still, Ryan couldn't help but yearn for a small piece that was missing somewhere, the piece that seemed to appear when they had kissed.

…

"So."

Ryan looked up from his backpack and idly wondered if Las Vegas was the city of déjà vu. However, he didn't hide his eyes from Eric; instead, he sucked in a silent breath before turning to face him, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Eric a look. He didn't want to be intimidating (he could never pull it off) but he at least wanted to hold his ground. Eric would question. And Ryan… well, he would at least try to meet his eyes instead of rummaging through his backpack this time.

"Is there something on your mind that you would like to ask me, Eric?"

Eric gave him an amused and somewhat impressed grin. "Whoa. I've never seen 'tough Ryan' before. Every day I learn something new about you. Must be this city."

"I know what you're going to ask," Ryan continued, trying not to return the smile. He knew Eric was only concerned and maybe, just maybe, all of Eric's "you like him, you just don't know it yet" theories were starting to come true.

"Who says I was going to ask anything? I'm merely a concerned when my friend stays out to who-knows-when in the morning."

"I didn't stay out that late."

"Of course you didn't. I was hallucinating when you came in a mere five hours ago." Eric gave him a triumphant look, and Ryan had to reluctantly admit that the Cuban had a definite upper hand in this battle.

"At least I didn't fall asleep on the couch. Watching Miami Vice no less."

Eric wisely chose not to address that matter. Instead, he stayed on topic, something he could tell Ryan was trying not to broach. "You can't win this, my friend. Where'd you two lovebird head off to? IHOP?"

Ryan paused a moment. To admit they went to Greg's place might be a little suggestive and even if Eric knew that nothing would ever happen, he would still prefer to keep the unyielding repartee to a minimum.

"Yeah," he replied, turning back towards his current activity of pretending to be doing something more important that talking with Eric. "It was good."

"Good?"

"Fantastic? Spectacular? Mesmerizing? I'll call it a whole bunch of things if you'd like."

"I see my sarcasm is rubbing off on you."

"That's giving yourself a lot of credit, don't you think?"

"Ryan," Eric began, a huge smile on his face and warning tone to his voice. He was about to continue his comment when his cell rang. Ryan and Eric exchanged a curious look; Horatio was just in the next room and Gil never had any reason to call before.

Eric flipped it open. "Delko," he answered. It didn't matter who it was, they'd find out soon enough.

"Hey Eric."

"Nick?" Eric quickly turned from Ryan's line of sight, hoping his face wasn't giving his slight embarrassment and nervousness at talking with Nick again. But Ryan, ready for some serious payback, didn't allow Eric to hide. He followed wherever Eric turned to make sure he could get a clear view of the slight blush that Eric was now donning.

"Yeah, it's me. You getting ready?"

"Uh, sure. Me and Ryan were just about to head down to the lab."

"Don't bother. A janitor found an entire stack of pictures in a garbage can at the airport. They were all of Ellie Jenkins."

Eric looked at Ryan again, but this time it was solemn. Ryan paused as well, now frowning, his expression questioning what news Eric had just received.

"Meet you down there?" Eric asked Nick, shrugging on his thin coat and grabbing his key and backpack. Ryan followed suit, because the case was slowly beginning to reveal itself. Ellie Jenkins was important and they wouldn't rest until she could as well.

"I've already got you a bag of Skittles."

…

It didn't take long to find Nick, despite the large size of the airport: the swarming of police officers and K-9 dogs gave away his location in a mere few seconds. He and Ryan had taken two separate cabs and Ryan made him promise to call if anything important was discovered and Eric, ever the best friend, assured him that he would be the first to know.

"Hey, Eric!"

Eric turned from his spot and there Nick was, waving him over, a young Hispanic man standing next to him.

Eric approached carefully. The man seemed scared out of his mind and kept trying to protest his being there. He was wearing a custodian's uniform and was tugging at the hem of his sleeve, watching Eric with terrified brown eyes. For a moment, Eric was reminded of Ryan when the man made his nervous gestures.

"His name's Phillip Carez," Nick supplied once Eric had made his way past the sea of K-9 dogs, analysts, and officers. "He's the one who found the pictures in the garbage can."

"Does he speak English?"

"A little. Said he saw the pictures and called the police because he had seen Miss. Jenkins's photo in the newspaper."

A man, innocent or guilty, was in their presence and it was their job to decide which one he was. Eric quickly turned to the man and held out his hand.

"Hola. You speak English?"

The man nodded quickly. Eric felt like the bad guy as he often did, making people like Phillip Carez consider themselves threatened by the American justice system.

"Yes."

"Okay, good. Thanks for sticking around, Mr. Carez. Can you tell me how you came about those photographs?"

"I-I was just doing my work. I was taking care of the garbage and putting in new bags. I was mopping the floors. My boss says that-that I don't need papers to-''

"Don't worry Mr. Carez, we don't need to know anything about your papers. Just tell us about the pictures."

"I was bagging the trash but knocked over the can and it all spilled out. I was cleaning everything back up but there was a stack of pictures of this girl I see on the T.V. They said she was dead, so I call police."

"Did you see anything else?"

"No. No. I-I stay where I was until they came."

"Did you touch the photos?"

The man nervously nodded. "Yes. I moved them. They would be ruined by sodas in the trash."

"Okay, that's fine. Listen, thanks for calling us. We're going to take your picture and prints and you'll be free to leave." Eric knew Nick had asked all the relevant questions already and there was no reason to keep Mr. Carez any longer than necessary. He could remember his father's own nervousness when it came to American police and the last thing he intended to do was jade someone else who just wanted the best for themselves and their family.

Nick silently watched as Eric took his camera and inks, making sure Philip Carez was dealt with as compassionately as possible. What was it about Eric? He wasn't sure. All he could possibly be certain about was that he couldn't let anything he might feel for him interrupt their case. Just because Eric was good looking and smart and kind didn't mean Nick could just walk right up and ask him for drinks. It meant that Eric had distanced himself from Nick the night they visited The Alaska and the Texan couldn't guess as to why. Sara, who was positive she was hit by occasional bouts of ESP, claimed to know the answer: "He's totally into you!" But such a miracle couldn't be real, because miracles were acts of God and God didn't exist.

Phillip Carez practically flew when Eric released him. Nick took job of rounding up the officers and analysts and sending them back to the department; he and Eric could take care of the rest. The airport was too big to analyze and there were millions of prints in any one location of the building. All they needed were the contents of the trash and the can itself; anything else was secondary.

When the hustle and bustle left and only Eric and Nick remained, silence immediately took over. This was the part Nick didn't know how to handle. He could charm his way out of most anything, but Eric was one of the few who wouldn't buy it.

"Ready?" Nick asked, replacing his kit tools and bagging the prints they had collected off of the garbage can. Eric silently nodded, doing the same, and they walked out after giving the approval to reopen the area where they had previously been working.

Eric was dreading the truck ride back to the crime lab. He and Nick wouldn't speak; playing whatever game they'd been at for the past two days since Nick guessed about Eric. Would this be of the norm? Would they be only in the company of silence, a smothering quiet? He had a feeling they would unless one of them spoke.

So, grabbing hold of every fiber of courage he ever possessed, Eric did.

They had been driving for almost two minutes, two very long sixty-second periods of time. He remembered the advice Ryan had given him the night before: "Just talk. Do whatever it takes. He can't possibly be upset because you're gay." Calleigh, who had oh-so-innocently overheard, immediately agreed with Ryan and wasn't shy of putting in her two cents. Eric knew that if he couldn't do it for himself, he would have to bring up the conversation with Nick to at least appease Calleigh.

Just talk, Delko. You're good at that. It can't be like this anymore.

"Nick?"

Nick seemed relieved by the noise and turned to Eric. The white moon hanging in the sky of Nevada lit the interior of the vehicle only slightly; Nick could vaguely make out the Cuban's features, but he was almost thankful for this circumstance. He wasn't sure he could talk to him face to face anyway. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a problem with me?" It sounded as if Eric was forcing the words out of his mouth and Nick couldn't blame him. He knew what Eric was talking about; he knew it couldn't be an easy question to ask.

"No. Why would you think that?"

"You haven't spoken to me in the last two days."

Nick didn't have anything witty or charming to say to that, which meant his first defense was all but annihilated. How was he supposed to respond? He sent a silent prayer to the non-existent God his family so believed in and struggled for a reply.

"I'm sorry. I didn't notice. I guess it's the case."

Eric let out a small, unbelieving laugh and a little bit of the tension faded away. "Nick, dude, you can be candid around me, okay? I'm sorry if any aspect of me makes you uncomfortable, I really am. I think you're a great CSI and I don't want anything between us to be awkward. I'm still the guy you knew before any of that stuff at The Alaska happened."

"Who you are doesn't bother me." Nick finally looked at Eric, wanting to make sure that his point was understood. He wanted to make sure Eric felt at ease around him, not on his tiptoes in constant worry of what he might think. "You have my word."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

He could practically feel Eric smile, and Nick couldn't help but feel a bout of relief. Whatever misunderstanding between them was draining away, replaced by a companionable atmosphere.

"Good. That means we can go over this case while I search my backpack for food sustenance," Eric remarked, quickly unzipping some pockets of his bag and beginning to dig through them. He was sure Calleigh had given him some sort of trail mix bar or something else disgustingly healthy.

"Don't bother," replied Nick, reaching into the coat of his jacket and pulling out a small red bag. He tossed it over to Eric, who was momentarily speechless. In his hands was the unmistakably bright package of the best artificially colored and flavored edibles on Earth.

"These are Skittles. I thought you were only joking when you said you had some for me," Eric said, unable to stop his eager hands from ripping open the top of the package. Did he seem pathetically eager? Maybe so, but he was hungry and not even the Apocalypse could stop him from at least chomping down a few.

"Joking? I don't know a whole lot about you, but I know there's no way you would have eaten before you got to the scene," replied Nick, shrugging casually. "So I just got to the vending machine before I left."

"Thank you."

"Your sharing is thanks enough."

"I don't remember hearing anything about sharing."

Nick laughed as he held out his right hand right side up, waving his finger expectantly. "Of course you didn't. Just don't share any of the grape ones."

"I like grape Skittles."

"Then this partnership will work out well."

And Eric, for once, could believe that it would.

…

It was the end of shift.

Eric took a quick look around the lab, already sure that Ryan had left. The younger man had probably headed towards the break room with Greg to say good-bye, as was their custom, but Eric had been immersed in organizing photos and prints that he had lost track of the time and wasn't in his usual spot.

Eric grabbed his backpack and left the building. He had already said his farewells to Calleigh and Horatio and was actually anticipating a good day's sleep. The case was progressing and his relationship with Nick wasn't suffering in the least. For once, he felt good about his job and everything in his life, despite Miss. Jenkins's case, felt solid.

He hailed a cab and went through the motions: directions, drive, pay. His was brain was on autopilot and all he wanted was a hot shower and a dreamless rest. But as he was climbing the steps of the hotel, his clothes wrinkled and looking rather scruffy, he heard his cell phone ring, its shrill tone making his head hurt. He quickly answered it, hoping he wouldn't have to return to the lab. Frankly, he was too tired to concentrate on anything anyway.

"Delko."

"Hey Eric."

Eric took in a deep breath; it was Nick, and Eric tried not to let his high school crush appear too evident in his voice. He was a grown man, after all, and all this thought of Nick was really becoming ridiculous.

"Hey Nick. What's up?"

"Actually, nothing. Tomorrow's Saturday and Grissom wants us to take a day off. Let the day shift take a little of the load."

"Oo, tempting. Guess that means I'll be sleeping in, huh?"

There was a pause at the end of the line, and Eric wondered what he could have possibly said to make Nick go quiet like that. Finally, after a slight silence, he could hear Nick speak. He almost sounded… nervous, which seemed a little out of character. Nick gave Eric the impression of being a take charge, accept-no-prisoners kind of guy.

"Actually, I was thinking I could take you to lunch."

"Me?"

"You and Ryan and whoever," Nick replied, his words rushing together and sounding slightly nervous.

"I think Ryan'll be hanging out with Greg. I might be the only one to take you up on your offer."

"That's fine. You need some real food anyway."

"Are you sure you're not going out of your way?"

"I'm sure, unless I consider Reno-911 reruns to be the highlight of my one day off."

"Which you don't?"

"That's the point I'm trying to make."

"Then I accept," Eric replied, trying not to grin stupidly in the middle of a hotel doorway.

"Cool. I'll pick you up. You've gotta see Las Vegas, man."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Eric made his way to the familiar elevator and rode up and unlocked his hotel door, trying to wipe the huge, idiotic grin off of his face. He idly wondered if Ryan was there but wouldn't be surprised if he weren't. It occurred to him that he himself was a little late to arrive back, something he'd been teasing Ryan about endlessly for the last four or so days. If he were to be caught, not only would it be embarrassing, but it would be blatantly hypocritical to Ryan as well, and that wasn't exactly a battle he was armed to win right now.

Slowly and quietly, he pushed the door open. The lights in the room were out. Ryan was probably gone and he could-

Suddenly and without warning, light filled the room and Ryan Wolfe stood there next to the lamp, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Eric knew he would never, ever live this down.

Ryan grinned.

"So."

***

Act 6: Wherever We Are

My heart laughs in my bosom; where I am, there I think of you.
-Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi to Anna Schulthess, 1769

Ryan woke the next morning in the silence of he and Eric's hotel bedroom. There was very little noise; a T.V. could be heard through the walls, muffled laughter from the hallway, and a car honking its horn from the streets below. Sun was actually streaming through the blinds; a rare sight the past five days, considering the midnight shift so rarely saw the dawn. But despite this serenity, this peace that seemed to encompass the room, Ryan's body felt rigid and his head hurt from lack of proper rest. Ryan slowly sat up and moved to wipe the sleep from his eyes, despite the pain this caused his head. He paused a moment from his task.

His hand was wet from the tears in his eyes.

He knew he had been crying in his sleep, but he hadn't done that in a long time. Why now? What could he possibly have been upset over? He ignored the shame he felt, the weakness that hit his gut and made him sick. He felt hung over, although he hadn't had any alcohol in months and he was certain he hadn't drunk anything more than a soda last night. Despite the comforting fact that he was now awake, Ryan couldn't shake the dream that had been haunting him the past five nights; even before then, even before Las Vegas, the dream would sometimes plague him and he could hear voices in the midst of chaos. Glass, music, smoke, yellow police tape; all these things united together for the sole purpose of making his dreams miserable encounters.

Finally, after a minute or so of trying to shake away his uneasiness, Ryan could hear the telltale sound of a fork and pan clanking loudly together. This was certainly a perplexing reversal of reality. He, Ryan Wolfe, was still buried beneath a pile of blankets in his bed while Eric Delko, on the other hand, was showered and dressed, shuffling around in their small hotel kitchen in an attempt to make an edible breakfast that wasn't, for once, Skittles.

This was an admiral effort, of course, but it still wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Ryan's back up alarm should be ringing shrilly in his ear while Eric slumbered on, unaware that the world even existed. Ryan should be getting up; taking the first shower and dressing in clothes he had pressed perfectly the night before. He should then be waking Eric up by whatever means possible, threatening bodily harm if necessary. The one thing Ryan shouldn't have been doing was crying in his sleep, muttering indiscernible words of a man haunted by Nevada.

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to forget about the entire thing. He concentrated on the sounds and words of reality.

His eyes began roaming for the clock on the bedside table. He finally found it, although it meant turning his head and actually putting forth a physical effort to move. Obviously, he was spending far too much time with Eric and his dazed "just-five-more-minutes" habit.

"Am I late for work?" Ryan asked to no one in particular, his words still slurred with sleep, his body still sore from fitful rest. He tried to keep his eyes open but his exhaustion kept pulling them shut.

Eric, obviously having heard his muffled question from the kitchen, poked his head into the bedroom. "You should have been up an hour ago. By my calculations, if you hurry like hell, you'll only be an hour and a half behind."

Ryan's groggy brain quickly began reeling. Late? Was he really late? Or was Eric messing with him again? Did they have to day off? Did they need to get in early? Wouldn't Eric be late too? Why hadn't his alarm gone off? Why hadn't Eric woken him? Ryan took a deep breath, trying to force his mind to calm down and think logically. Being late meant making another bad impression, but for once, Ryan didn't care. Unable to stand the bed any longer, he carefully tossed the blankets off and padded into the kitchen/living room.

"Good morning," Eric cheerfully greeted before looking up and fully absorbing the state of Ryan's appearance. "Whoa. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you snuck out last night and hit every bar on the Strip."

Ryan didn't reply; merely sunk into the lumpy couch, praying the throbbing in his head would stop sometime that century.

"Hey, are you okay? You look like hell." Macho men with something to prove usually hid concern for fellow males; Eric didn't bother to hide is worry. He wasn't macho and had nothing to prove and even if he did, his friends came first. He walked over, kneeling so that he was eye level with the younger man.

Ryan shook his head, trying to lighten the apprehension that was practically radiating off the Cuban. "Thanks. Looking like hell is the trend these days."

"Are you catching something?"

"I just didn't sleep well."

"Are you hungry? I've can make eggs and bacon or something."

"Eggs and bacon?" Ryan asked, the mere thought making him want to puke on the spot. He tried to cover up his nausea, knowing it would only increase Eric's alarm. "Is that what I smell burning?"

Eric cast a quick look over his shoulder towards the stovetop before rolling his eyes and turning back to face his friend. "Funny, Wolfe. I'm trying to be a friend here, but I don't feed those who insult my cooking."

Ryan held up his hands in surrender, a small smile on his face. "All right, no more insulting your too-crispy bacon. If you insist on pampering me, how about some toast and an orange?"

"And maybe a Tylenol?"

"Since you absolutely insist."

"Trust me, I do. And FYI, those circles under your eyes look worse than mine do."

"Ouch. The ultimate insult."

"You're really asking for it, Ryan."

Ryan laughed, ignoring the pain in his neck and shoulders. "Why am I not terrified?"

Eric smiled, walking towards the fridge and rummaging for some fresh oranges. He dropped some bread into the toaster before tracking down the Tylenol, his own omelet still cooking slowly and, thankfully, not burning. After a few minutes of scavenging the medicine cabinet, Ryan's toast popped up and the meds were successfully located. Ryan watched as Eric went from one place to the next, buttering the toast and getting him a glass of Coke, a helpful beverage when one was assaulted by a headache of such a strong caliber.

"Thank you," Ryan murmured, truly grateful when Eric brought him his grub. Without Eric, Ryan probably would have just lay miserably in bed and starved instead. "You take good care of me."

"If I didn't, who would? You'd probably live on the streets without my wise and timely guidance."

"Wise and timely advice? FYI, I hope you know I can't take a lot of crap so early in the afternoon," Ryan said, sporting a large grin. Eric laughed before rising to go check on his breakfast which, in all technicality, was actually lunch, but Ryan had stopped bothering with the labeling of mealtimes. As long as they ate, what did it matter? Their hours were ruthless and so was breakfast. Lunch. Whatever.

"So what are you doing today?" Ryan asked, quickly beginning to peal his orange. There were few things he loved more than fruit, but he would hate to see some of the stuff in Greg's fridge or, even more frightening, his freezer.

"I'm going sightseeing with Nick. He even promised me some real food. Haven't had that it a while, have we?"

Ryan heard Eric speak, but wasn't until a few moments later that his answer really began to decipher itself in his brain. When it finally sank in and his brain registered the huge mistake Eric was about to make, Ryan could only manage a meek, "Sightseeing with Nick?" in response.

"Yeah. Besides, I'll get lost in all that mess out there. I need someone to drag me around or I'll be stuck here all day."

"You're spending an entire day with Nick, out of work?"

Eric looked up from his carefully cooked breakfast, now out of the pan and garnished to his liking, and gave Ryan a quizzical glance. "Yes," he replied, slowly, as if speaking to a child who couldn't quite grasp his words. "Is that a problem? You can come with us if you'd like."

Ryan shook his head, hoping he could explain himself. "It's not that. It's just…"

"Just what?"

Ryan's mouth went dry for a few seconds. What was wrong with Eric's plan? Theoretically, it was an ideal arrangement. But that look in Eric's eyes… it was the same Ryan had when he and Greg went to breakfast together. Eric didn't want Ryan to join them, because he wanted time with Nick, just as Ryan wanted time with Greg. Which meant Eric was inevitably tackling the same problems and questions that Ryan was.

Eric liked Nick. Like liked Nick. And that wasn't good for either party involved with their fiasco.

"Nothing," Ryan replied, slightly stuttering on his words and thus giving himself away completely. "I'm not saying anything. Sounds like a lot of fun."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Eric didn't look at the younger CSI and Ryan couldn't blame him. Frankly, Ryan was being a little hypocritical about Eric's relationship. Wasn't Ryan in a similar situation? Eric wasn't stupid. He knew what Ryan was getting at, and like Ryan himself, he wasn't prepared to face it.

"That's the idea," Eric nonchalantly responded, as if trying to end the entire conversation. He looked uncomfortable and a little ashamed; Ryan felt sick knowing that his own careless questions were the reason for his friend's sudden change in personality.

And most of the time, Ryan would go along with it and allow the conversation to drop into oblivion. He didn't like to attract attention and he didn't like getting on the wrong side of people. He certainly didn't want to upset Eric. But there were some things that he couldn't stop himself from saying; Eric was one of his closest friends and Ryan didn't want him to have to know what it was like to fall in love with someone three thousand miles away.

"I just don't want you to be hurt," Ryan said softly, hoping Eric wasn't upset with him and his "I'm-allowed-to-get-into-one-sided-relationships-with-people-who-live-far-away-but-you-aren't" complex.

"Me getting hurt? Have you seen yourself this past week?" Eric asked, giving Ryan a muted look, his tone reflecting the same emotion.

"What? What's wrong with me?" Ryan asked; his voice was saturated with denial but it only masked his true anxiety. The truth was that he had seen himself the past week and he was sufficiently terrified of what might result.

"What's wrong with you?" Eric asked, completely exasperated and abandoning his previous task of eating. "You and Greg! You think I'm going to be hurt? Fine, maybe I will. But can you honestly say that when you have to say goodbye to Greg, you're not going to leave half your heart buried somewhere in this desert?"

Ryan wanted to say something in return. He wanted to act just as cool as Eric was being, but the older man's words held no untruth. He was right. It hit Ryan harder than he ever knew it could; he would get on that plane and fly back to Florida, but God, it would tear him up into an infinite number of pieces, scattered across three thousand miles of a nation.

Eric looked away. Ryan couldn't say he felt much braver.

"Sorry," Eric finally muttered, leaning tiredly against the table. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for."

"No. You're right," Ryan whispered, rubbing his eyes, hurt and fear and panic settling firmly into his gut. He too abandoned his meal. "It's going to be hard to leave. I should have never allowed myself to ever… It's my fault. I knew better."

"Ryan, it's no one's fault. You like Greg. It's natural."

"I got on that plane and told myself that it was only about Ellie Jenkins. I came here so afraid that I would mess up the case. I think I've messed up my head more than anything else."

"Guess this is our reality check, right?" said Eric, smiling rather unhappily and looking out the window towards the rush that was Las Vegas, towards true sun and artificial light. "A reminder that we can't get involved?"

"I just don't want you to feel like I will when we have to leave," said Ryan, finally looking up to face his partner. "I didn't want to make you angry. A day with Nick sounds great, but…"

"I know. I'm courting disaster."

"We both are."

They both fell silent. The sun continued to shine through the glass, lighting up the city. People walked by, cars zoomed past; the world actually seemed brighter. And yet there they were, trapped by both affection and logic; they both knew logic would inevitably win with them.

"So I guess I should cancel," Eric quietly suggested after a stretched hush. "You and me could go out and get hopelessly lost, have too many drinks at a local bar, grab a cab and have a bad hangover for work tomorrow. I hear that's what a lot of other miserable screw-ups in love do."

Ryan smiled and, unable to help himself, laughed. "Although that sounds like an excellent plan, Nick is going to be here in about five minutes. It would really be a shame to let him down now that you're both ready to go."

"Let him down?" asked Eric, incredulously. "Trust me, he can find plenty of other people to hang out with. I won't be letting him down by any means."

Ryan popped a slice of orange into his mouth, looking thoughtfully towards his friend. "You think so?"

"I know so," Eric replied.

"He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to spend some extra time outside the lab with you. Besides, what was that story Calleigh was telling me about?" Ryan asked, a sneaky grin beginning to grow. "As I recall, you guys were on a case. You were at some sort of bar dusting for prints and all these women thought you were a bartender. They were offering you money and calling you a whole slew of things that I don't want to think about."

Eric tried in vain to fight off a grin and a blush at the memory. "That's Cal's version. She's the hopeless romantic."

"Be that as it may, Nick definitely sees something in you. My case in point is that he would be let down if you decided to bail. So you're going to go out and have a great time. You're going to see Las Vegas and then you're going to come back and tell me all about it in excruciating detail."

"I thought going out was the recipe for disaster?" Eric asked, curious but unable to hide his smile. Ryan could tell that no matter how reckless and stupid and illogical their plan was, Eric wanted to go with Nick nonetheless. Far be it of Ryan to stop any happiness his best friend may be granted.

"Won't know 'til you go. Besides, all I plan on doing is lying around, doing nothing. You don't want to hang out with me. Your plan is much better."

"They usually are, compared to yours."

"That really hurts."

"I can tell you're all broken up about it."

Ryan laughed again, shaking his head as he did so. He picked at his toast and then set it back down, not really hungry. Was it his fault that Eric was now doubting himself? Should he have even of brought it up? Was it really better to have secretly loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Ryan doubted it was. It was easier to not have met the person than to be torn apart from them, to always have those memories. You can't miss what you never had and you can't have what you never knew.

Ryan pulled at another orange slice, not meeting Eric's eyes. When he spoke, his voice was the only sound in the room.

"I'm just saying be careful."

"I will be."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

There was nothing to be thanked for, but Ryan knew what Eric was saying. Thanks for looking out for me. Thanks for being a real friend. It would have felt good to have that appreciation if it wasn't darkened by inevitable anguish.

So when the knock came, when the chance that Eric shouldn't really take was waiting on the other side of the hotel door, Ryan gave Eric an expectant look and Eric tried to return this look with one of his own. This was a failed attempt; he ended up sporting a nervous smile instead. With a knowing grin, Ryan padded towards the door, peering through the peephole just to make sure before unlocking the deadbolt and chain, opening it to reveal one charming, breathtaking Nick Stokes.

Ryan gave the Texan a small, friendly wave. "Hi Nick."

"Hey Ryan," Nick replied, giving him a polite smile before a more concerned frown formed. "No offense, but you look worse for wear. You feeling okay?"

"Just need some more sleep."

"Huh. Greg can really wear a guy out, can't he?" Nick asked, quirking a dark eyebrow. Ryan couldn't fight the small blush that rose to his cheeks. What was that supposed to mean? And where did Nick ever get that idea?

"He certainly does. Drags me to every restaurant in the city."

Ryan could feel a presence behind him and instinctively knew it was Eric. He felt relieved; Nick was one of the nicest guys he's ever met, but talking about Greg with anyone other than his own internal monologue was something he couldn't manage that easily.

"Hey," Eric greeted Nick, smiling. Ryan observed Nick as their exchange began: Nick's hands were wiped anxiously against his thighs, his eyes were definitely focused, and his smile was nervous but real. Maybe Eric didn't catch it, but Ryan certainly did. Was that cologne Nick was wearing? His clothes were casual but not t-shirt and jeans; Ryan wouldn't have allowed Eric to leave with him if it had been. It was more like an "I tried everything in my closet on before I finally found this" fashion. Nick probably looked good in anything he wore; he was trying to impress but wanting to appear as if he wasn't. It was actually kind of sweet. It was unfortunate that Eric was oblivious.

"All right. I'll see you guys later," Ryan said as Eric joined Nick in the hallway, a nervous energy radiating off of his skin.

"Okay. And get some sleep. Otherwise you'll be all grouchy tomorrow, and no one wants that," Eric advised, grinning. Ryan shook his head, hoping to one day have a decent comeback.

Ryan said his goodbyes before shutting the door, locking it and turning to face his empty hotel room. He closed his eyes and leaned on the door, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, the headache and sickness fully surfacing once more in the vacancy and silence of the room.

This was going to be much more painful than he could have ever anticipated.

He idly wondered what Greg was doing before quickly abandoning that thought. He would no longer entertain thoughts of Greg. He was going to get some sleep, hopefully dreamless, and enjoy the quiet for once.

He went to bed feeling ill.

…

Knock.

Knock.

Pound.

It was an oddly similar situation compared to that morning, merely at a different time of day.

Ryan was roused by the sound of someone knocking persistently on his hotel door. The energy it was going to take to actually get up and answer it seemed too great and he was tempted to just let whomever it was find some other door to knock on instead. But it could be Calleigh or Horatio and the last thing Ryan wanted to do was ignore them; after all, he hadn't seen very much of them the past few days and it could be important. So with a small groan he threw off his blankets again and padded towards the door. Weren't they exhausted like he was? What were they thinking? It was an opportune time to catch some shut-eye; only caffeine induced druggies or crazed weirdos were up in times like these.

Ryan finally stumbled towards the door in one dignified piece (Eric usually stubbed his toe or ran into a wall when he was groggy enough), fighting back a yawn as he did so. After wiping the sleep from his thankfully dry eyes, he peered through the peephole, his CSI curiosity beginning to overtake his drowsiness.

Impossible hair, brown eyes, and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. That's how Greg looked on the other side of Ryan's door.

Ryan froze on the spot.

His immediate and default response was to go hide under his blankets again and ignore that ever-present feeling of attraction and guilt. But that wasn't really an option, so throwing the door wide open and letting Greg in was Ryan's second choice. The fact remained that his dark hair was messy and his sleepwear was rumpled and Ryan wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to let Greg see him at his most unprepared and, frankly, humanistic state.

So Ryan did what he knew he wanted to do anyway, despite the many reasons why he should just let Greg leave under the assumption that the room was empty. He took a deep breath before unlocking the door and opening it slightly, revealing only a portion of his bedraggled condition.

Greg looked up, surprised that the door was finally opening.

"Hey," said Greg, flashing Ryan a bright grin.

"Hi," replied Ryan, returning the smile and sinking into the comfortable feeling that always came with Greg.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" he queried, both a worried and sheepish look beginning to form. Even if he had, it was to late for that now.

"No, of course not. Would you like to come in?" Ryan asked, opening the door so that Greg could enter, feeling self-consciously naked in his white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. But this was Greg, so there was little reason to ever be embarrassed. Greg could always top someone else's horror story with one of his own, able to constantly tip the scale in terms of both the humiliation and absurdity levels.

"Sorry about the room," Ryan began, giving Greg an embarrassed look as the other man took a casual look around. "If I could, I'd make Eric clean up his messes. He's a hopeless case."

"Like me?"

"Actually, no. You're much worse, if such a thing is possible."

"I see kindness isn't one of your strong points," Greg said, laughing a little before making himself at home in one of the table's hard wooden chairs.

"It's a work in progress. Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm cool. Sorry to drop in unannounced."

"Please don't worry about that. I need some human contact anyway."

"Speaking of which," Greg said, flashing another smile, "I heard Nick was hanging out with Eric today."

"He is. He said something about real food and that's all Eric needed to hear."

"That's a man for you. Food and sex is always on their mind."

Ryan laughed again. His headache was pretty much gone and the sickness in his stomach had disappeared completely. The Floridian wouldn't be surprised to discover that Greg had secret healing powers just waiting to be discovered. Just being with him made him feel lighter, better than he had all day.

"So," Greg began, slowly, "You stuck here all afternoon?"

"Pretty much. Maybe I can catch some of those enticing Reno 911 reruns."

Greg shook his head quickly. "That's where I draw the line. I'll cut the cable cord first before I even let you near that remote control."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"That's –uh- actually what I came down here to ask. You want to go somewhere? Food? Club? I hear it's your first day off in a while."

Ryan didn't reply first. Wasn't that what Eric was going? Having fun? Enjoying himself? Not hiding from what could happen? He was actually living a life; Ryan had stopped living a long time ago.

Be brave for once, Wolfe.

"Sounds like fun. Any particular place you like to go?"

Basically, that was a "yes" from Ryan Wolfe. Greg fought down the urge to jump up and down in a celebratory dance like the idiot he could sometimes be.

"Oh, I don't know. Vegas is a big city." Ryan allowed Greg to turn it over in his mind, the pros and cons of clubs and food and all the things the bright city had to offer.

And suddenly, Greg smiled. Big, bright, beautiful; Ryan felt the same regret hit him again.

"You like swing dancing?"

…

The club was actually a respectable one, which knocked Ryan for a loop. Whenever Ryan went to clubs (very, very rarely would he agree to go with Eric) there were always half-naked girls, lots of booze, and music so loud that he couldn't even understand the words, much less those who tried to speak to him. Needless to say, Ryan wasn't a big fan of any sort of dance club and when Greg suggested it, he was hesitant to say the least. When Greg suggested The Swingers, he was ready to lock himself in the bathroom in protest. And when Greg gave him that excited, lopsided smile, Ryan surrendered himself to the inevitable.

Ryan was more or less a fashion outcast, so Greg helped him pick something out of his suitcase; dark slacks with a white shirt and gray jacket that Greg claimed didn't make him look too much of a complete loser.

"I hope you know I've never swing danced before," Ryan warned as he made sure the door was firmly locked behind them and silently hoping that Greg might change his mind. They could go to a safe movie instead, which offered a monumentally smaller chance of humiliation in front of gobs of people.

But Greg wasn't easily deferred. He smiled again, obviously very enthused about their plan and hit the down button of the elevator impatiently.

"I'll show you how. Besides, Swingers is so much better than some of the other clubs in Vegas anyway."

"I don't really go to clubs. I don't like loud music and I hate drinking."

"I know," Greg answered, giving Ryan a cheeky grin. "About the loud music, at least."

"But you're going to drag me to this one anyway?"

The elevator let out a "ding" before the doors slid open. Greg considered the question as they got inside and the doors slid back shut.

"If I'm going to irreparably scar you for life, I figured some traumatic dancing would be the first logical step," Greg replied, gazing at their reflection in the elevator's metal doors. They were standing together, shoulders barely touching. They fit together perfectly; one taller, one shorter, one crazy and one not. One was tactful, the other not so much. Greg couldn't remember feeling this way about anyone before. It made him feel feverish and sick all at once, as if he were catching the romantic version of the flu.

The elevator ride was a short one, but long enough for Greg to tell Ryan wasn't entirely comfortable with the entire dancing idea. The insecurities that Ryan faced with his job was one thing; the insecurities about boogieing down in front of other human beings was on an entirely different plane altogether.

"If you hate it," Greg started, "We won't stay. Anything you want to do is fine."

Ryan gave the other man a sideways glance as they left the hotel, venturing out into the bright city of Las Vegas. Someone, somewhere, might be winning the jackpot or losing everything they had. That was both the magnificence and cruelty of the city; it was all a game of chance and it was never predictable.

"You like dancing, don't you?" the Floridian asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

"It's almost better than being a rock star."

"When's the last time you went?"

Greg chewed his lip in thought as he stuck his hand out at the corner, hailing a taxi. "I think Sara and I went a couple of months ago. She forgot my birthday and I told her that if she went with me, I'd forgive her. Y'know, until next year. She forgets every time."

Ryan tried to ignore a small bout of jealousy that hit him from out of nowhere. Greg went dancing with Sara? Okay, he could deal with that. It wasn't as if it mattered. It was ridiculous to even consider being envious of her.

"A couple of months? Then I guess I'm going whether I like it or not. But if I make a fool out of myself, you're going down with me."

"It's a deal."

"Club" was a pretty loose term and not exactly the best word used to describe something. When Ryan envisioned Swingers, he could see a broken down structure with numerous building violations, a couple of druggies in the corner, and a heavy cloud of smoke coming from those who lived a cigarette inclined life. But when the cab pulled up, it wasn't exactly a building. Quite the opposite; it was a large wooden veranda complete with potted trees strung with white lights. There were very few druggies to speak of, the women were actually wearing clothes, and there was a live band.

Ryan hadn't seen a live band in what seemed like an eternity. Not rock and roll or death metal; in other words, not Greg's kind of music, but a real jazz band with the works. Sure, Ryan still had 999 more reasons why he shouldn't be here, but the music certainly wasn't one of them.

"It's a real band," said Ryan, a hint of admiration in his voice. Greg grinned and led them up towards some umbrella-covered tables, complete with some half-decent 1940-ish ornamentation.

"It surely is. Rumor 'round the lab is you're a jazz guy at heart. I figured swing is the next best thing."

"That's amazing."

"Yes, well, everyone says that about me." Greg gave Ryan another quirky grin as the darker haired man rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Can I get you a drink? Or do you thoroughly hate alcohol with every fiber of your being?"

"I pretty much stick with water," Ryan replied, ready to buy it himself, not wanting Greg to feel as if he had to do things for him. Ryan was capable, just a little terrified. "But I can get it myself. You don't have to-''

"One water it is," said Greg, obviously not allowing Ryan to get a word in edgewise. "I'll be right back."

Ryan knew protest would get him no where; instead, he let Greg make his way towards the bar and watched him buy a bottle of water for a self certified health freak and something red and probably slightly alcoholic for himself. Across the veranda, the band was tuning, getting ready to jam. Ryan watched in fascination, bits and pieces of his old saxophone days flitting through his mind. They were testing tempos, leafing through some sheet music and fake books, talking amongst themselves as they adjusted their fedoras. Wetting reeds, fiddling with mouthpieces- it was all part of the thrill of performing in front of others. And for once, since the plane touched down in Nevada, Ryan wasn't thinking about Ellie Jenkins. He felt guilty.

"You look pretty fascinated," said a voice; Ryan didn't even need to hear it to somehow know it was Greg. "You play in a band once?"

Ryan took the bottled water Greg offered before giving him an embarrassed smile. "I used to in high school, then I joined one for some extra money in college."

Greg looked genuinely interested as he leaned forward from across the table, couples streaming in as the band continued to prepare themselves. "What did you play?"

"Alto sax," Ryan answered, laughing a little. "Marching band and then jazz. It was fun, but I didn't have time to keep it up when I started the patrol, so I think it's sitting and rusting in my attic somewhere."

"Do you play anymore?"

"Not really. I never have the time."

"We'll have to remedy that," said Greg, looking thoughtfully at Ryan. The darker haired man fought down a blush and took a sip of water, diverting his gaze and instead observing the crowd around them. The veranda was open, so they could see both the sky and the casinos Las Vegas was infamous for. It really wasn't as bad as Ryan first imagined it would be.

"So. Are you ready to learn from the master?" Greg asked, rising from his seat, every part of him outlined by the light of the casinos, his own excited glow making him the most beautiful man there.

Ryan bit his tongue. No, he wasn't ready. But this was Greg, after all, and "no" wasn't in his vocabulary.

"I don't guess I have a choice, do I?" Ryan asked, taking a deep breath before capping his water and rising from his seat as well.

"Not this time," replied Greg, smiling. "Now c'mere."

Ryan took a quick look around; other couples were practicing, at least, and there were those who looked as if they weren't sure what they were doing there either. This was a little comforting to know.

Greg walked him to the corner of the floor, feeling intoxicated at his closeness to Ryan. When he first thought of asking Ryan here, he wasn't really sure what the other man would say. Victory was nearly his when Ryan agreed, but he was beginning to retrace his steps backwards through his mind. This hadn't been a good idea from the beginning, because he hadn't planned on this insanely fast heartbeat he had going on. He was obvious and that was the one thing he didn't want to be. He wanted to be suave and smooth, someone Ryan could really fall for.

"Alright then. Welcome to Greg Sanders School of Dance. My name's Greg and I'll be your instructor."

Ryan let out a short, genuine laugh, bowing his head in an attempt to hide his embarrassed blush. Greg grinned. At least he was relaxing at the idea of dancing.

"Before you freak out, remember that swing dancing is like riding a bike. The first rule of Greg's School of Dance is that there's no such thing as messing up. Even if you fall flat on your face, that's not actually a mistake. It's just a move that no one's thought of yet."

"That's not exactly filling me with a lot of confidence, Greg."

"Second rule: you don't need confidence, you need me, your instructor." Greg, with exaggerated flourish, stuck his hands out.

"To begin, swing dancing was meant for a man and woman. But those who invented this intricate dance hadn't planned on the gay liberation front, so now there are a lot of variations. The woman puts her hand on the man's left shoulder and clasps her right hand with his like this."

Greg found Ryan's right hand and held it, demonstrating the simple way it was done. Their hands fit perfectly together, like two pieces of a puzzle just waiting to be matched.

"Now your other hand goes on my hip."

Ryan hesitantly placed his hand on Greg's hip.

"Perfect," congratulated Greg. Ryan let out another nervous laugh, his eyes not quite meeting Greg's. It felt a little awkward to touch Greg at first, but he knew he would eventually get used to it.

"Thanks."

"See? This isn't so difficult. Now, I'll be the woman and I'll teach you the steps."

"You're not going to throw me over your shoulder or anything, are you?"

"Nah. That's a highly advanced move, so we'll naturally learn that tomorrow."

Greg grinned teasingly and Ryan found himself relaxing in intervals. He was still alive and breathing. This was a higher success than he previously anticipated.

"Now, you take the first step to the left, like this. Then you go back on your right." Ryan mirrored his foot's movements with that of Greg's own. Left step, right step, back to the beginning.

"Next, we step back from each other. You do it on your left foot, like this and then sort of rock back. Then we come back to each other."

Amazingly enough, Greg managed to get Ryan to abandon his figurative other left foot and reclaim his right; before Ryan knew it, they were doing the basic steps with no problem.

"All right, we're smokin'. Next thing you have to do is twirl the lovely lady –that would be me- with your left hand like this."

Time passed. Ryan eventually began forgetting those around him; he and Greg… they were together and happy and dancing and who cared what anyone else thought? More couples filtered in; laughter, conversation, the tinkling of ice in plastic cups of soda.

By then, the lead member of the band had flipped on the microphone on and gave the large crowd a charming smile, his fedora tilted fashionably and an electric guitar around his neck.

"Whoa, great crowd out there. Welcome to Swingers!" The crowd let out an appreciative roar of excitement. "Who's read to dance?" Another loud who-hah, bigger this time, filled to the brim with energy.

This was a part of Las Vegas that Ryan hadn't expected. No casinos, no life and death roll of the dice. It was people getting together, a huge group that had never seen each other, wanting to dance and let go of everything for just a few hours. It was almost a relief that such feelings existed- among death and hate and greed, it was nice to see a public would still gather together, regardless of the past or future. Music was in the moment and a moment meant everything.

Greg dragged them from the corner and more towards the center.

"You realize that I'll mess up a couple hundred times before I get this, right?" Ryan asked, unconsciously tightening his grip on Greg's hand.

"Have you forgotten rule number two of the Greg Sander's School of Dance?"

"Right. There are no screw ups."

The trombonist and saxophonist put their instruments to their mouth; a bassist plucked a few strings, the drummer clicked his sticks together, indicating a tempo. Ryan remembered all those things he used to know before the music started. Immediately, those around them began twirling and laughing, getting into rhythm of the song. At first, Ryan didn't really move- it was one thing to embarrass himself but quite another to embarrass Greg.

Greg gave him a smile despite those shuffling around them.

"Rule number two, remember?"

So Ryan counted in his head like he used to in band, waiting for the right time to being. 2, 3, 4 and he went step, step, rock step, step, step…

They were dancing. And only then did Ryan realize it might seem a little weird to a bystander that he was dancing with another male, but Greg wasn't a label. He wasn't gay or bi or masculine- he was a genius who could dance and make great pancakes and loved music like he loved life. Who cared who danced with or dated whom? For once, Ryan couldn't bring himself to worry about it. Greg was amazing and Ryan counted himself lucky to be with him like this, having fun and laughing; messing up completely and totally not caring. Who else could have that with someone?

Time passed and they continued on, Greg teaching him more steps and variations as the evening progressed. But both eventually succumbed to thirst; Ryan was surprised by the workout someone got dancing like that. They found their table again, laughing and leaning into each other as they made their way past the floor and to their previous seats.

"So," said Greg, grinning widely, "I see you haven't died out there yet. I might even have to beat off a few vicious looking women who were eyeing you."

"I'm sure they were. Probably giggling at the dozens of times I stepped on your feet."

"You weren't that bad. It's only my big toe that's bruised."

Ryan laughed, taking a large gulp of water before asking, "What time is it?"

Greg took a quick look at his watch. "Nine o'clock."

"I'm exhausted," the darker man admitted, flopping into his seat and leaning back, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars. "I'm sure you're used to all that madness."

"Actually, I'm kind of tired too. Guess I'm getting old."

"You'll never be old."

"Well, I will be the spunkiest guy in the nursing home, but I'll still have to wobble around on a cane. Wonder if the cute nurses'll still think I'm hot?"

"Correction," Ryan said, shaking his head at Greg's comment, "You'll grow old but you'll never grow up."

There was a stretch of silence before Greg smiled softly and Ryan ignored the familiar pang of regret that always assaulted him in times like these. "Want to get out of here?" Greg asked, rising from his seat. He didn't give Ryan much of a chance to argue about it, considering he knew Ryan was tired anyway. They muscles hurt from the constant movement; they certainly weren't old, but they were slightly haunted and tired.

The air was cool enough to walk in, which was so unlike Las Vegas. But neither man questioned this luck; instead, they walked past large groups and bright lights, side by side, arms barely touching.

"So. Was all the effort it took for me to drag you down here worth it?" Greg asked, elbowing Ryan lightly.

Ryan smiled. "It wasn't that bad," he admitted. "I had fun. But Calleigh'll never believe I went dancing."

"Why not, huh? I'm your witness. You danced in front of real people and didn't melt into a big puddle screaming 'What a world, what a world.' This is huge success on your part."

"I can't believe I didn't want to come here."

Greg gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?"

"Cal called the night before we left about the case. It was a big spring and I couldn't stop thinking that I was never going to get through this. But I also knew I had to prove to everyone that I could do this job, so I was the first one at the airport."

"I think that's a mission accomplished when it comes to proving yourself."

"We haven't solved the case yet."

"But we will."

Ryan was silent. Would they really? Greg was the optimist; Ryan was the realist. But he didn't want to think about death and forensics right now- he wanted to blend and be like everyone else, not be drug down by ghosts clawing for their adequate revenge.

"Probably. But I'm glad that I've had the chance to come here despite the case."

"And why's that? Don't tell me it's the hospitable atmosphere."

Ryan smiled. "I don't know. It's… it's hard to explain."

"Well, for one thing, you never would have met me. Your life would have remained a gray, meaningless expanse of time without my presence."

"Maybe in not so many words."

"But it's still true?"

"Possibly."

"You're such a tease."

Ryan bit his lip, staring ahead. Cars, streets, voices, stars; all part of the night they were having. But he realized a day ago as he cried in his sleep, a strange meaningless occurrence, that rejecting Greg's advances had been a huge mistake. Sure, if Greg made another move, he'd be open for it. But he had laid down the law and Greg had respect for him, so no more unwanted advances would be made on Greg's part.

…

After a while, they eventually caught a cab. Both knew it was far too long a walk back to Ryan's hotel or Greg's apartment; in the end, they choose to spend a few more hours at Greg's, simply because he had real food that they wouldn't have to pay for.

"You hungry?" Greg asked as he unlocked his front door. Ryan noticed the slight tremble of Greg's hand when he heard the keys jangle together, making for a small noise. It certainly wasn't nervousness; it wasn't until a few moments later that Ryan realized it had to be the after effects of the infamous lab explosion he had heard so much about from Las Vegas techs. It had been big and loud, destroying everything within its fiery reach, shattering windows and walls and tables. And then it almost killed Greg. Ryan hated to think about it.

"A little. Do you have any pretzels or something?"

"Ah, the health freak speaks. I suppose deep fried and highly salted potato chips are too good for the likes of you?" Greg asked as he began to rummage through various packages on the top of his fridge.

"Is it so wrong to be a fit human being?"

"Well, I have pretzels, but they've long since turned stale. Ah ha! Trail mix sound good? It's a fresh bag."

"Trail mix actually has a lot of sugar, especially if dried fruit are added."

Greg turned and gave Ryan a pointed look. "Tonight, Ryan Wolfe, you're going to be rebellious. You went out. You mingled. You danced. And you're going to consume sugary foods."

"Now that I think about, trail mix sounds really good."

"You bet it does. And I can't wait until Calleigh hears about this. You, eating sugar? Has Hell frozen over?"

"You get funnier every time I see you."

"Which has been with alarming frequency, hasn't it?"

"I guess that's your way of saying that you're tired of me already."

Greg shook his head, grinning. "Not possible, my friend."

They found their comfortable space on the couch, Ryan on one end with a bag of trail mix and Greg on the other with some Mint Milano cookies. Greg threw his shoes haphazardly across the floor and Ryan put his side by side, neatly under the table where no one would trip on them later. They didn't turn on the T.V. or radio; simply sat, munching on foods that weren't all that healthy for the either of them. But they were being wild and crazy that night and it was their celebratory meal, declaring that they could party hearty with the best of 'em.

"So," said Greg around of mouthful of cookie, "Tell me about Miami."

Ryan paused a moment. Its humid air was his oxygen and Florida was all he'd ever really know.

"It's always hot. The air is constantly humid but the oceans are blue. And you think you're among all these beautiful rich people until you start digging through the poor communities and uncovering the rest of the population. There are so many others that everyone ignores. It's hard to watch sometimes."

"Surfers get good waves down there?"

"I hear they do, but I wouldn't know first hand."

"Imagining you out there is sort of funny. Ryan Wolfe, surfer. I just can't see it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

Greg gave a small laugh before sobering up, placing his cookies on the coffee table and obviously having lost his appetite. "You'll have to go back there soon."

"I will," the Floridian agreed, the reminder causing the knot in his stomach to grow. It was regret and the pain of separation; not having Greg around wasn't really fathomable. Working alone in the Miami lab? It was a hard image to conjure up, made worse by the fact that it was bitterly realistic.

A silence hung between them. And before Ryan could really begin to argue with himself, begin to weigh and pros and cons of every move he made, he set down his bag of trail mix and moved from his seat at the end of the couch toward the other side. He crawled up until he was facing Greg, who tilted his head.

"You really are being rebellious, aren't you?" Greg softly asked.

Ryan swallowed down his irrational fear and doubt. He was being rebelling against the common sense he was known to drown himself in, the logic and realism that he lived his entire life by. He wanted to take an opportunity for once, and even if he failed miserably, there are chances worth failing for. This was one of them.

"Sometimes," Ryan quietly began, "I let these amazing possibilities pass me by because I'm too scared to take the risk. And then sometimes I do take the risk, but I let this crazy fear of success keep me from going any further. I'm a whole box of contradictions and my OCD does a good job hiding the chaos in my head. I'm a mess and I hate that."

"You're not a mess."

"I'm a coward."

"You're none of those things."

"Aren't I? You kissed me yesterday. I wanted you to kiss me. And what did I do? I let my logic speak for me. I hate taking big chances and I hate not knowing what's going to come next, so I ran away. I just don't want…"

"Don't want what, Ryan?" Greg whispered. Ryan looked up and met his eyes- he knew he couldn't lie to Greg. Not right now. Not ever again. He saw in Greg what he saw in so few others; honesty, fear, affection. Even if Greg were scared, he would still jump despite any danger of failure. He, like Las Vegas, would take the gamble and run with it.

"I don't want to pass this up," Ryan gently finished. "I don't know what to call this thing we have between us. It's a huge chance for us to take, but I would rather risk it than be safe. Not that you have to reciprocate any of my feelings," he continued, the beginnings of a ramble starting to form. His awkwardness was returning full force; the stuttering, the blushing, the words that ran together. "I'm a really serious guy and I've never liked one night stands. To me, you're much more than that and…"

He forced himself to stop speaking.

He had no words. There was no reason to further this shame.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. If only he could start again, re-edit his dialogue; really think things through before opening his big mouth. But he couldn't; the words had already been said. He couldn't take them back and try again. God had by now witnessed his foolishness, storing his declarations in a box somewhere, ready to pull them out when the occasion arose.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, moving away from Greg and losing the warmth that had fueled his entire brave decision. "I'm so sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Greg asked, now shifting from his frozen position and sliding next to Ryan who was sitting at the end of the couch, looking regretful and confused.

"For throwing this all on you. I should have known better. I just didn't want you to think that I didn't feel the same way."

"So you… like me?" Greg asked, uncertainty laced in his words. Hope, doubt, desire; all those things crammed together in four words, in one question. All he wanted was an answer.

Ryan gave a short laugh. "Much more than I should."

"So if I kiss you, you're not going to file a sexual harassment charge against me?"

Ryan shook his head, turning to meet Greg's eyes and, for once, not looking away.

"No. No charges."

"And you're really sure?"

"I'm positive."

Greg gave him one more look, searching for any ounce of hesitation that Ryan could still of had. He saw none.

He cautiously leaned in closer, barely brushing his lips against those of the other man's. It was sweet, timid, as if he were almost afraid of what Ryan might say, despite the reassurances from earlier.

Ryan pressed back.

It was a huge relief on Greg's part; as each second passed, they began to peel away the uncertainties and fears of rejection. For once, time and place didn't exist. It didn't matter that Ryan lived in Florida and Greg resided in Nevada; they didn't care that time was against them. It wasn't about logic or deduction or science or even crime- it was about emotion, something true and raw, waiting to be released. This was how they felt and it would seem like that would be the only important thing.

They paused a moment. Their eyes fluttered open and Ryan gave him a shy smile, a blush tinting his pale skin.

"Am I that bad of a kisser?" A question laden with fear of taunting or comment; how humiliating was it to be told that you were a bad kisser? Especially by someone who you held in such high regard? "I haven't done it in a long time." An unneeded excuse on his part, because Ryan was perfect to Greg and there was certainly nothing wrong with the way he kissed.

Greg shook his head. He was aware of the stupid, dazed smile he was sporting before he leaned in and kissed him again. Ryan met his lips; pushed him back so that Greg was lying on the couch and he was on top, exploring each other with their mouths and hands, their skin suddenly ultra sensitive when it came to the brush of each other's fingertips.

Ryan moved from Greg's lips to his neck and collarbone, sensitive skin that drove Greg crazy when treated like that. His breathing became faster, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest at any moment. He heard someone's moan echo off the walls before he realized it was his own.

"Ry- Ryan," he gasped out, shifting to give the other man better access. He couldn't manage to say anything else before his lips found themselves another task; his trembling hands itched to take off all the layers that Ryan was wearing. Ryan's knee had found its way between Greg's thighs, pressing against parts of him that shouldn't be teased unless Ryan was ready to take this to the bedroom.

Greg knew he had to speak before he did something he might regret. Not only did he care for Ryan, he respected him as well and he didn't want to push the other man to do something he didn't want to do. Maybe if he were less of a gentleman then he'd try to con Ryan into Doing It; he'd be no better than the sickos he in prison, of course, but conning was such a tempting offer. It just wasn't the classiest. And even though Greg never claimed to be classy, he certainly wasn't scummy. He'd never treat Ryan that way, no matter what the rest of his body wanted.

"Ryan, wait," he panted, his body rebelling against his mind. His body was rip roarin' to go, screaming for them to move past the making out session and to dirtier deeds, but his mind knew better. This was more than just a careless fling and it would be wrong to treat it as anything else.

"What is it?" Ryan asked, a worried look on his face. "Did I do someth-''

"It's not that at all," Greg said between shallow breaths. "God, it's… I might do something out of bounds. Making out- I just, I don't want to pressure you. But I might go crazy if we… if this is all we –uh- do. God, this is embarrassing," he said, covering is face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I think I'm losing my mind."

Ryan smiled. Genuine, bright, and possibly the most beautiful Greg had ever seen.

"Don't be embarrassed. I think it's good. You're a gentleman."

"I hope you don't mind."

"It just so happens that I don't."

"Oh. Good. That's good."

"So how far do you want to go with this?"

"I should think that's pretty obvious. But I'm not the one deciding. If it had been up to me, I would have thrown you down and had my wicked way with you days ago."

Ryan took one of Greg's trembling hands; he knew it was part of the package when it came to the explosion, but he also knew it was nerves. Ryan couldn't blame the other man for his confession. In truth, Ryan had barely managed to keep himself in check before he did something regrettable.

Their fingers intertwined; Ryan kissed the shaking hand lightly.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asked, his voice a hush whisper.

"Down the hall, to the left," Greg replied. When had his voice gone in octave up? Why did he feel like he was in high school again? How was Ryan able to make him feel this way?

Their eyes met and Ryan smiled before rising from his position above Greg, disentangling himself from their knot, ascending from the couch. Greg's eyes followed him uncertainly. Would he get his coat and say goodnight? Or would he, miracle upon miracle, head to the hall and make a left?

Ryan gave him a teasing, terrified grin. "Are you just going to sit there?"

"You're sure?" Greg asked, mentally kicking himself even as he asked the question. Why tempt fate, dumb ass? He's saying yes to you! Don't push for anything less! But Greg still wanted to be certain, because sleeping with someone, like most everything else, was irreversible. You give yourself to someone completely. That meant something.

Ryan quirked his eyebrow as he turned towards the hall and made a blessed left; his voice echoing from Greg's bedroom, their hearts thundering in their chests.

"Are you just trying to let me down nicely? Because I can tell when I'm not wanted."

Before Greg knew it, he was shedding his coat and following Ryan's amused voice. Bouts of laughter could be heard before they both fell into the sheets.

***

Act 7: Circumstance's Location

I was full of the tenderness with which you have inspired me, when I was in the company of my friends. It shone in my eyes; it spoke in my tongue; it governed every motion; it showed itself in everything. I must have appeared very strange to them; extraordinarily inspired; divine!
-Dennis Diderot to Sophie Voland, 1759

It had been a good day.

Clarify that: it had been a great day. It was just as Ryan promised it would be, and Ryan was usually right about the parts of life Eric hadn't been in touch with for a very long time. A day with Nick wasn't awkward and it wasn't weird. He didn't take him to loud and tacky tourist spots; there were millions of little corners in Las Vegas that everyone seemed to miss. Nick had been there a long time; he knew the roads that were often overgrown with history and he knew the people that made Eric feel right at home.

They had been occupying a booth in the back of a restaurant that served real food; they were engaged in conversations about Speed, about work, about all the things they hadn't spoken of in a while. It was there that Nick suddenly became quiet and still like stone, like glass, like steel.

It was then that Eric knew there was a problem.

People screamed when they saw the gun.

(My name is Ellie Jenkins, and this wasn't how life used to be.)

…

Two minutes later found them hurdling through a crowded plaza brimming with tourists and residents alike.

"HEY!"

Neither CSI turned to respond to the bellowed call. The gunmen were definitely gaining speed and trying to flag them down; they couldn't afford to lose time. The men had guns while Nick and Eric did not. Their voices shot through the air and found the ears of their intended victims.

"Hey, fellas, we just wanna talk!"

As a general rule, those were never good words.

The two men doing the chasing resembled Cruella DeVille's henchmen. One was tall and lean, the other was short and a little round about the middle. They were in civilian clothes and the taller one was wearing a cap with the Las Vegas 51's baseball logo on the front. The shorter one was wearing glasses.

"We officially have a problem," Eric muttered as they sped through the crowds, attracting the attention of just about everyone. "Not that I've ever been chased down before, but we need a car or a weapon."

"And we're around all these people. A big chance for collateral damage," Nick responded as they made a mad dash around the corner towards a crowded street filled with both cars and pedestrians. They didn't pay attention to the lights; red, green, it was all elementary. The only thing they needed was to get away.

"HEY! Slow down!" Another warning from their two pursuers pushed both Nick and Eric towards a faster run. When they heard the screams and then a gunshot, they knew the situation was quickly getting out of their hands.

"Taxi?" Nick asked as they made a break across the street even through the moving traffic. The two men followed them anyway, a chorus of angry beeping cars protesting their pursuit.

"Not enough time," Eric replied between breaths.

Beside Nick was a tourist cart overflowing with cheap products and knockoff sunglasses. He quickly grabbed it and swung it around in front of them, blocking their followers before giving it a rough shove towards them.

"Neither of us have a gun," admitted Eric as he quickly began looking for another means of weaponry. "Guess we'll have to improvise."

"I call dibs on the metal pole," Nick said, quickly grabbing a gate pole from the fire escape above them.

"I call this guy's cell phone," Eric replied. The man is question wasn't politely asked or even informed of the situation; his cell was ripped from his hand. He opened his mouth in protest, giving the Cuban an offended look, but Eric cut him off by saying, "If you know what's good for you, you'll start running."

The man, not stupid by any means, took the advice and headed for the hills while Eric made good use of his electronic find. He frantically cleared the last call and dialed Jim Brass' number directly.

"Yeah, Brass, this is Delko. We're on Flamingo Road and Eastern Avenue. We need backup ASAP." Nick bought Eric twelve precious seconds worth of time; he heaved the metal pole straight towards one of their pursuers and knocked him right between the eyes.

There was another angry shot; Nick and Eric turned quickly and began toward the opposite direction as fast as their legs could move.

"Hear that? Hurry the hell up!" Eric yelled into the phone. "We're heading East. Two suspects carrying weapons in pursuit of two unarmed CSIs. Now would be fucking great!"

"Any more ideas?" Nick asked breathlessly as they instantaneously turned a left and began running again, Eric shoving the phone in his pocket.

"No, that was about it. You?"

"Staying alive sounds pretty good right about now."

They made a break for it across four lanes of traffic, this time blessedly still. They needed a way to defend themselves and they needed it in a hurry. It would take –what?- three minutes if dispatch was nearby.

"YO! Don't make us shoot again!"

It was the voices of the two armed men; they sounded out of breath, but so were Nick and Eric.

They continued down their path, making sure not to make any wrong turns into dead end alleys. The minutes they spent running felt like days before the blessed sirens wailed.

There was cursing. There was the frantic turn of two cowardly gunmen. There was the pursuit that followed.

There was a shot.

They were captured.

Eric fell to the ground, exhausted. Nick fell as well.

And Nick kissed him.

He was crying.

…

The room was still and silent.

Ryan and Greg's calm and methodical breathing was the only movement throughout the entire house, save the ticking of clock hands and the lazy swimming of Greg's fish. Their breaths were in and out, their arms intertwined around each other, sheets rumpled and clothes scattered about the place, draped over chairs and pooled on carpet. The blackout curtains were certainly doing their job properly, because Greg's room was dark, making it as if the sun didn't even exist.

It was serene.

It was perfect.

And then the phone rang.

Because Ryan Wolfe was a sworn creature of habit, his first impulse was to reach out and answer it, thus ceasing the shrill sound. They had been in a deep sleep; coma like, almost, dreaming and being part of worlds not fully realized in the land of the living. Their subconscious's told them stories of yellow crime scene tape, music, glass, smoke; even though it was a frighteningly familiar dream, one that haunted them both while they slept, the fact remained that they were still peaceful with each other for a single day. They were both comfortable and at ease for the first time in a long while, and it was understandable that Ryan would want to eradicate the source of sound as soon as possible.

So he answered it.

He blindly stretched out his right hand towards the bed stand, rummaging around for the wicked device and using only his ability to touch and feel to do so. In spite of everything, opening his eyes to look for it didn't seem probable at the moment; it was too dark and he was just too tired to even try. A few seconds and another ring later, he finally felt the cord and then the phone itself; he grabbed it, silencing the piercing ring. This victory, however, was not nearly rewarding enough. A much more satisfying scenario would have the caller at the hands of a shooting squad.

But there were no shooting squads and absolutely no way of avoiding duty and the bitter hours of reality. With a tired groan and small sigh, he put the phone to his ear, eyes still shut and wishing the world could just be normal for a few more hours with no crime scenes and no preempted deaths.

"Wolfe," he said, his voice gravely with sleep and displacement. The only thing he truly recognized and welcomed was the warm pair of arms around his waist that tightened in protest at the interruption.

There was silence at the end of the line. For one brief and joyous moment, the thought of escaping real life graced Ryan's mind. What if it was just some annoying telemarketer or electronic message? He and Greg could ignore it and act as if they hadn't lost a minute of slumber. They could sleep until they were actually rested, make breakfast, shower, and get the day off they so rightfully deserved.

"Hello?" he asked again, ready and willing to hang up.

There was another brief pause before the silence disappeared into nothing, replaced by Nick's unmistakable voice.

"Ryan?" His voice held a hint of uncertainty before he spoke again. "Is that you?"

Oops.

Ryan's heart painfully hit the bottom of his stomach the moment he detected that Texan accent. What was Nick calling for? Had there been a break in the case? Was someone hurt? The numerous and grim possibilities began running frantic laps around in his head. More than anything, however, was the panic of being caught in a most compromising situation.

"Nick?" the Floridian asked, his voice sounding similar to that of a mouse's squeak before catching at the end. Even if he hadn't been captured by Greg's embrace, he wouldn't have been able to move due to the sheer horror of the situation anyway. CSIs weren't stupid by any means. How could they be? Ryan could only guess that Nick had already figured it out; after all, what would Ryan be doing at Greg's apartment during sleeping hours other than sleeping after some admittedly exhausting activities?

"Yeah, it's me. I… is Greg there?" the other man asked, fumbling slightly over his words. It was evident, even in Ryan's sleep deprived state of mind, that Ryan himself wasn't the only one uncomfortable by their current dilemma.

"I- yeah, I mean… he's here, he's just… hold on, would you?"

Ryan quickly sat up, covering the receiver with his right hand. His heart was thudding painfully against his chest and he was sure he looked as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Greg!" he whispered, a tone of trepidation to his voice. "Greg, wake up!" He shook the other man's shoulder for emphasis and, to his relief, met a bewildered pair of brown eyes a few seconds later.

"Ryan? What is it?" He sounded concerned and, understandably, displaced. He sat up, glancing around for the time before meeting Ryan's flustered gaze.

"It's Nick. He's on the phone."

Greg suddenly stilled, reality quickly setting in. Even without a cup of his infamous Blue Hawaiian coffee, Greg was certainly grasping the problem if the little frown on his lips was any indication.

Ryan handed him the phone uncertainly.

Greg took it, giving him a small, reassuring smile. He held the phone with one hand and clutched Ryan's left hand with his other, giving it an encouraging squeeze. Ryan felt himself slightly relax. But then, Greg had the particular and uncanny ability to do that.

"Hey Nick," Greg greeted, his voice even, as if to say Ryan just answered my phone at two in the afternoon. But don't make anything of it, because you and I both know that there's nothing to be awkward about. "What's going on?"

Nick, along with Ryan and Greg, was a scientist. He went through situations, thought them over, and came up with a logical conclusion. This was certainly a situation and he would do the same as he always did. His conclusion was that Ryan was indeed answering Greg's phone at telltale hours in the day, and unless Ryan had just fallen asleep there, it was pretty obvious what had happened. But Nick was nothing if not a good friend. He wasn't going to make a big deal out of it because there was no reason to; if Greg and Ryan could be happy, even for just a few weeks, then he certainly wasn't going to stop them.

"I'm really sorry to call, but Eric and I were just pursued by two pretty enthusiastic gunmen."

Greg's eyes flew open and he clutched both the phone and Ryan's hand harder. "Oh my God! Are you guys okay?" Ryan quickly shot Greg a concerned look, obviously worried by the question.

"Yeah man, we're fine. They're in custody, but now we've got a ton of trace to deal with. We have their car and clothes and we're hoping it might lead us to Ellie Jenkins's killer. I'd give it to Hodges, but he's got cases stacked to the roof." There was an apologetic pause before the inevitable struck with brute and unforgiving strength: "I really don't want to ask this, but would you and Ryan mind-''

"We'll be there in half in hour," Greg interrupted. "I just can't believe that happened. What were you guys doing anyway?"

"Don't worry about us. You can get the details later," Nick replied, alleviating Greg's concern while, coincidentally, avoiding the question. "Just make sure you let Ryan borrow some of your clothes or something. For the love of God, though, not one of those bad shirts."

"Nick!" Greg protested, turning a slight shade of red despite the fact he was still in his own home.

"Okay, okay," Nick relented, amused at Greg's rare show of embarrassment. "You've guys got half an hour before Grissom starts sniffing you out like a bloodhound."

"Got it. See you then."

They quickly said their good-byes before Greg hung up the phone. Ryan turned an anxious eye towards him.

"What is it? What happened?"

Greg took a breath, still trying to process the information himself. "Apparently," he began, hoping to word it properly and keep Ryan's alarm down to a minimum, "Nick and Eric were chased down by two men with… weapons. They think it was about the Miami murder."

"Guns?" Ryan asked, incredulous. Although Greg hadn't specified the particular weapon, Ryan jumped to the most logical and correct conclusion. "They were chased down by guys with guns?"

Greg and Ryan had spent a fair amount of time with each other and Greg had a good idea as to how Ryan would react to the news: he'd worry excessively. And a mere few seconds later, Greg was proven correct. Ryan's beautiful brown eyes grew the size of saucers before he combusted, metaphorically speaking.

"They were what?" His voice was filled with a frantic fear. "What happened? Where were they?"

Most of the time, both Greg and Ryan were calm and rational. Whilst Greg was more eccentric and prone to sparse but emotional outbursts of the "I have to prove myself" variety, Ryan's panic attacks usually revolved around his friends and affected him on a much deeper level. He was shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it, ready to form words but unable to speak. Within his eyes Greg could see the wheels of his mind turning over these facts, observing them from every angle, trying to connect them together.

"Ryan-'' Greg began, attempting to calm him down.

Ryan didn't seem to hear the other man. "Are you sure they're okay? If anything happened to Eric-''

"Ryan, sweetie," Greg interrupted, softly. "They're both perfectly fine. There's nothing to worry about."

Ryan heard the consoling words before they actually meant anything to him. He took a deep breath, trying to imagine what it was Nick had said over the phone. He seemed to sound okay, not frightened or nervous. Greg didn't seem to be worried about it either, although he often took things with stride. Coupled together, the facts seemed to present themselves: Nick and Eric, though maybe just a bit shaken, weren't threatened or harmed in the least. They were still good to go.

It was another crisis diverted.

"And you're sure they're okay?" he asked uncertainly. "Because if they're not-''

Greg nodded in response. "I'm positive. I would never lie about it."

Ryan took another deep breath before sighing, completely aware that Greg was right. "I know you wouldn't," he replied. "I'm sorry I freaked out. It's just… Horatio can't lose another guy. Calleigh wouldn't be able to handle it either."

"I know. You don't have to apologize, Ryan."

"Did he call from the lab?"

"Yeah." Greg smiled before rolling his eyes. "Probably mooching off my coffee, too. I'll let them slide just this once." It was evident he was trying to be upbeat, but the absence of sleep was already beginning to show. He closed his eyes tiredly, too exhausted to worry about his stolen coffee before resting his head in the crook of Ryan's shoulder. "It's early," he muttered. "You're probably tired."

"A little," Ryan admitted, smiling despite himself before tracing lazy patterns up Greg's arm. "We both are."

"Only because we fell asleep way past my usual bedtime," Greg replied, his voice muffled. Even though Ryan couldn't see Greg's face, he could tell that he was grinning like the cat that caught the canary. "If you recall."

Ryan laughed before shaking his head and running his fingers through his shaggy dark hair, trying to tame it the best he could. "I certainly recall, Mr. Sanders." Greg looked up from his resting place just in time to receive a shy smile. "But I don't have any clean clothes. Or a toothbrush."

Greg gave him a once over, as if he hadn't discovered every part of him hours before. "You look about my size and I've got some normal clothes to spare. Plus," he said, grinning, "I've got some extra toothbrushes."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "And why would you have those?"

"Well, I could say that I've been planning your seduction for days and bought extra in case I was actually successful," he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. "But the truth is, I accidentally dropped mine in the toilet a few months ago and bought extra just in case I got clumsy again."

Ryan laughed and shook his head. "You never stop surprising me."

"Well, if we had the time, I'd make you force the truth out of me by any means you could dream up," Greg admitted, giving Ryan a suggestive grin. Ryan blushed in return, smiling nonetheless.

"Okay, Mr. Romance. Where's your shower?"

"End of the hall. It's the room with the sink and toilet."

Ryan ignored the sarcasm, preferring to fish for his boxers instead. He finally found them kicked under Greg's bed, having hastily been discarded hours ago. He grabbed them and made a move to put them on before he felt Greg's eyes watching him. He turned rather uncertainly.

"Aren't you going to turn around?" he asked, a note of genuine puzzlement in his voice.

"Turn around?" Greg echoed, genuine puzzlement in his as well. "Why? I think we've crossed all lines of decency, don't you?"

"Oh. Well, I just thought…" Ryan began, searching for the appropriate words and pulling a blank.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, then I'll be a gentlemen. It goes against everything I am, of course," Greg said, quickly turning to face the other direction and allowing Ryan to slip into his boxers. "And I hope you know that you're denying me a perfectly good chance to check you out."

Ryan laughed and his voice echoed from the doorway, where he was making his way towards the bathroom. "Sure. Me, all pale and skinny. You're not missing much."

Greg heard the words and frowned at their meaning as he rose and pulled on his own boxers and T-shirt before searching for something appropriate enough for the other man to wear. Ryan didn't seem much for loud colors; instead, he seemed like a classic guy. Greg began sliding hangers down the rack, glancing at the article of clothing every hanger offered before moving on. Amnesty International T-shirt? Too worn. Theory of a Dead Man t-shirt? It was obviously Greg's and everyone in the lab knew it. Red plaid button-down? Good Lord, hadn't he given that away yet?

After much searching, a white button down was discovered in the darkest recesses of his closet, in the I-Might-Need-It-Someday section. He could never really know when something important would pop up and he'd need something halfway decent to wear, so he stocked up on acceptable ties and jackets; after all, fancy dinners had dress codes and he was pretty sure those codes didn't allow for any sort of color besides black, white, and neutral. Everyone had seen him wear this sort of shirt, but it was so generic that it would go unnoticed.

He quickly uncovered his ironing board (which was being used as a make-shift table of sorts) before beginning the strangely domestic task of ironing both his and Ryan's attire.

He heard the running water of a shower. Although they had debated sharing one, both knew it wouldn't exactly save any time. For one, they wouldn't be able to keep their hands off each other and, secondly, the logistics of sharing a shower were complicated. There was water (higher chances of slipping) and not much room to spare. Both being scientists, they understood the complications of a shared shower and, to Greg's relief, Ryan didn't think it was that romantic anyway.

A few minutes passed as Greg continued his housewife duty. The water in the bathroom shut off and Greg could hear the rummaging of a man in search of spare toothbrushes. Greg smiled in spite of himself. It was so odd; it was as if they had been doing this forever. There didn't seem to be any awkwardness between them except for Ryan's self-conscious image.

What had Ryan meant a few minutes before? Did he honestly believe he wasn't good looking? Did he genuinely believe that Greg didn't find him to be the most beautiful man in Las Vegas? Even then, Greg wasn't referring to looks. Ryan was so kind and truly concerned for people. It was refreshing and Greg loved every quirk and flaw of Ryan's character.

As he unplugged the iron and returned the board to its rightful place (covering it once more with papers and junk) he heard the bathroom door open and Ryan stepped out, bundled up in one of Greg's bathrobes. Ryan walked over, his hair damp and flat for the most part. He glanced at the two selections of clothing lying out before pointing to the white button down and said, "This had better be mine or I'm not leaving this apartment."

"Aw. Don't you like my style?" Greg asked, mock hurt in his voice.

"From what I've been told, you're the only one who likes your style. However," he conceded, "If it's part of you, I'll always like it. Just not much."

"So that means you'll wear it, right?"

Ryan laughed and shook his head before he took the shirt and headed for Greg's bedroom, giving Greg a quick kiss before he did so. "I'm going to get dressed. I think I saved enough hot water for you to get by on."

Greg was going to let him go. Honestly, he was. They were running short on time, but his mind kept pestering him to speak. Very rarely did he listen to himself; most instances, he just managed to dig his grave deeper. However, his mouth and brain often worked independently from each other and that afternoon was no exception.

"Hey, Ryan," Greg said before the other man could leave. "You don't… you don't think you're attractive?" he softly asked.

Ryan leaned against the doorway of the hall and smiled uncertainly. "I don't know. Never really thought about it, I guess. I'm not what you'd call masculine or anything."

Greg shook his head before letting out an over-exaggerated sigh. "I see the cruel conformities of American society have brainwashed you into believing you need to fit the ideal masculine role."

Ryan gave him a curious look. "Why? Wouldn't you want to fit in?"

"Not if I had to sacrifice who I was," Greg replied. "Besides, it took a long while for people to look past my hair and bad clothing. They saw I was a good CSI and left it at that."

"I see a good CSI too."

"Ryan…"

"I'm not some middle-school girl with body issues. I'm just… I guess I've always thought Eric was more ideal."

"Ideal for Nick, maybe. We all have our ideal person in mind and they're all different. You, for example, are my ideal partner. It's just personal preference. Not to mention you look totally hot all wet like that."

Ryan laughed and shook his head, genuinely amused and surprised. "Greg Sanders, you were getting deep and ideological. Then you go and say something like that."

Greg grinned. "I like keeping my audience on their toes."

"Would you just go clean yourself up already?" Ryan asked, not nearly as upset as he should have been.

Greg did exactly that. He quickly finished putting his ensemble together before grabbing a glass to brush his teeth with. He did what he always did: run brush under running water, apply toothpaste, and then run it under the water again. But something was different somehow; it was better and he felt alive. He gazed into the mirror, toothbrush hanging halfway out of his mouth. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, do you? Of course he didn't, but he couldn't seem to make himself regret their night together. He rinsed and then opened his bottle of Listerine. Hygiene was everything.

He was about to get into the shower before he was ambushed by the irresistible urge to do one other thing before he officially began his day.

He walked out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom; he didn't bother knocking. Instead, he merely opened the door and was greeted by Ryan dressing in clothes that weren't even his and looked perfect on him all the same.

Ryan quirked an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be in the shower?" he asked as he began to button up his shirt and tucking it beneath the waist of the slacks.

Greg didn't reply. Instead, he walked over, pressed the Floridian against the wall, and kissed him. It wasn't hot and insistent; it wasn't "I'm going to tear your lungs out" or "I want you here and now." It was sweet and when Greg broke it off, he met Ryan's startled eyes before he whispered, "I think you're beautiful. You should never consider yourself anything less."

Ryan smiled almost shyly, a furious blush beginning to tint his cheeks. "We're going to be late," he whispered in return. It wasn't much of an argument on his part; his hands had slipped around Greg's waist, pulling him closer. They would have given a week's pay to have a few extra hours with each other, but that didn't seem like a request Grissom was likely to grant.

Greg sighed and gave him one last peck on the lips. "Yes, we are. Catherine will kill us both."

He turned quickly and ran towards the bathroom, hurriedly stripping down and turning on the water. Ryan could still hear him talking to himself, muttering things about stupid henchmen and how they ruin a perfectly good afternoon.

Ryan laughed before he finished dressing and began the ominous task of going through Greg's refrigerator in hopes of making a decent breakfast. Or, more appropriately, lunch.

…

"Eric!"

Ryan couldn't keep the sheer delight of seeing his best friend unharmed out of his voice and, to be truthful, he really didn't want to. Eric was the one who was always there; who knew nearly every harsh and unforgiving truth about Ryan and stayed by his side despite it. Eric was his support and his constant reminder that Ryan had no reason to ever give up. The younger man hated those gunmen with everything he had and if they had managed to hurt Eric in any way, Ryan wasn't quite sure what he would have done in his sorrow-induced retaliation. Either way, it would have been regrettable. And permanent.

But the fact remained that Eric was perfectly safe with no war wounds to speak of. Ryan hurried over before throwing his arms around him in a celebratory hug. CSIs and officers alike lived a life that often skated on the brink of fatality. Why suppress joy? It was too precious to merely hide away.

"Whoa, whoa, Ryan. You gotta be cool, man," Eric said, laughing and returning the hug all the same.

"Cool?" Ryan asked as they broke away. He gave Eric a mother-hen glare. "Cool? You were almost shot today and you want me to be cool about it?"

"Didn't Nick tell you I was okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan admitted, giving Eric a relieved smile. "But I just wanted to see for myself."

"And does it meet your requirements? I don't even have a scratch."

Ryan frowned at the thought, but didn't reminisce the fact that Eric had been two seconds away from the end of everything.

"Hey," Calleigh protested, crossing her arms. "Don't I even get a hello?"

Ryan had seen her sitting there with Eric before his attack on his best friend. He had every intention of letting her know how much she was missed; after all, he'd barely been able to see her the past few days, but they had all been so busy that the days and nights were blurring together to form one long, continual moment.

Ryan leaned against the wall casually, as if he were considering it. He shrugged before giving her a teasing smile. "You didn't nearly die, but I guess I could acknowledge your presence."

Calleigh rolled her eyes before smiling as well. "Thanks," she replied. "And there's no reason to fuss over Eric. Horatio and Yelina did enough of that for the both of us."

"Still, I should have been here."

"You couldn't have known," she said. When Calleigh said it, it was often reassuring. She was so peaceful and calm. How did she ever achieve that sort of mind set? Ryan was constantly worrying, moving, predicting the worst-case scenarios in his head. "Even then," she continued, "I looked and couldn't find you anywhere. Were you off with Greg again? Because if you went out to eat yesterday morning, I'll have you know I was starving and you didn't even offer to pick anything up for me."

Eric laughed and Ryan felt his heart hit the bottom of his stomach. "Someone was with Greg last night," the older man said. "They answered the phone at two in the afternoon."

Calleigh shot Eric a curious look, her mind quickly running through a list of possible suspects. She glanced towards a stonily quiet Ryan before looking back, as if certain there was no way Ryan would take that sort of chance.

"Who?" she asked, finally breaking. "I have to know. There's been too much work and not enough gossip."

"Well," Eric said, grinning rather evilly. "He's in this room, and it certainly wasn't me."

Calleigh snapped her head back towards Ryan who gave Eric a panicked look, as if to ask What are you trying to do to me? Obviously, Eric's brush with death made him a bit braver and a lot mouthier.

"What?" Her question nearly cracked the glass around them and both Eric and Ryan visibly winced at the pitch.

Ryan felt her heat ray vision begin to sear his skin and the inevitable barrage of question beginning to formulate in her mind. This was it. This was, essentially, the end of his self-respect and dignity as he knew it. He would henceforth be the living shell of Ryan Wolfe, a man rumored to have no morals and the keen inability to look people in the eye.

"You answered the phone? Why in the world would you- oh my God, did you two-? This is just so bizarre! I mean, it's you we're talking about-''

"Calleigh, calm down," he began, hoping to stop her before she really got on a roll. "It's not that big of a deal."

"What made you go out on a limb like that? Did you guys go drinking?" Suddenly, her eyes went dark and she rose, marching purposefully towards him like a woman on a mission. "Did he force you? Because you never even date, much less jump in the sack-''

"Calleigh, please. We're at work."

"Are you sure you wanted to?"

"Am I-? Lord, Calleigh, I'm sure. You're lucky this is an empty room, but if you go out there like a woman on fire, someone's going to notice. I'm begging you to calm down."

"Calm down?" she echoed, as if not understanding the concept. She took a few steps back and let out a deep breath. "Okay, fine. I'm calm. Honest."

"And you won't mention it to Greg, right?"

"Of course. Secret's safe."

"Great. You on the other hand," Ryan began, giving Eric a cool look, "Had better not say a word, got it? I'm used to public humiliation, but Greg-''

Eric held up to hands in surrender. "I just wanted to see the look on Calleigh's face," he confessed. "No one else will hear it from me."

Ryan put his hand on his hip. "And was her face worth it?"

"Priceless," Eric confirmed. "Now if you'll excuse me, there are some reports in dire need of filing."

Ryan shot him an annoyed look. "You can expect to pay for this later," he warned as Eric laughed and exited the room, leaving only Calleigh and Ryan to occupy the space. His fear of being alone with her stemmed from several others, one of which was that she'd never let up; she'd squeeze every detail out of him that she could. He supposed he owed her that much; after all, she was an endless amount of support and only wanted the best for him. But when she approached, her smile wasn't sneaky or predatory, like some gossip columnist trying to get the dirt on the latest story. It was happy and genuine. She knew of his fear and the fact that he'd overcome it made her proud.

"Is it like a fairy tale?" she whispered, tucking strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "True love and fighting off dragons?"

"Minus the dragons," Ryan replied, smiling slightly at the thought. Calleigh gave his shoulder a small squeeze.

"Love does wonders for you. You've never looked so alive," she admitted, smiling even wider. "You're kind of glowing."

"Thanks." Ryan grinned nervously at the thought, looking down at the table before meeting her eyes. "He's great."

"From that look on your face, he's more than just great."

Ryan laughed again, running his fingers through his hair. It was just a week ago that he could barely bring up the subject of his attraction to other men before completely losing it; now… now, it was different. Something had changed and this feeling was almost one of pride, of unreserved happiness.

"Yeah. He's a lot more than that," he conceded. "Funny. Talented. He's just about everything."

She gave him a wink. "And how talented is he in bed?"

"Calleigh!" This time, his entire face practically turned fuchsia. She raised her eyebrows, ginning slyly, her eyes filled with amusement.

"What?" she asked, innocently. "It was only a question."

"Cal, I swear-''

"Oh, Ryan, relax." He shot her an embarrassed glare when she began laughing even harder. "I was just curious."

"Calleigh-''

He followed her and her laughter out of the room.

…

"Hey Hodges," Sara greeted as she entered through the doorway of his trace lab.

David Hodges looked up warily. Sara Sidle was rarely as sweet as she was today and it was never towards him anyway. No, their battles were rude, crude, and sometimes just plain nasty; her civility was a red flag, as was the man who followed in behind her.

"Sara," David greeted in return, a sarcastic remark at the tip of his tongue. He cast his eyes over to the stranger shadowing her. Where had he seen him before? Ah, yes. He and Sanders were joined at the hip and were obviously so enthralled with each other that they wouldn't notice an exploding bomb unless it somehow managed to physically tear them apart.

David just hoped he could keep his breakfast down at the mere thought.

"Hello Miami Guy," David continued pointedly; no one seemed to want to introduce him. The guest gave David a look that was a mix of both curiosity and amusement, two things David hadn't exactly been aiming for.

"Hodges, this is Ryan Wolfe, Miami CSI. The airport just called and they need someone there ASAP. The tellers who worked the night of Ellie Jenkins' death need to be interviewed."

"An interesting story, Sidle. I don't care."

Sara rolled her eyes before crossing her arms and shooting David a look that would make the average man fear for his life. "They've been stuck in this building for almost a week. They haven't had time to learn their way around town yet."

"So you want me to chauffeur him around? Do I look like a taxi service to you?"

"Bitch and moan all you'd like, Hodges. He needs a ride and we can't spare anyone else."

"Sara-''

"It was Grissom's call. I was just given the amusing task of telling you."

"I'm a lab rat. I didn't get a Masters in chemistry so I could bus the tourists."

Their words were fast and furious and Ryan could sense the need to cut in before it escalated to an all-out war. He hadn't intended to upset someone about it; he could just as easily hail a taxi as he could hitch a ride from an upset tech who was probably more dangerous behind the wheel than any taxi driver he'd ever rode with. He hurriedly turned to Sara.

"I could catch a cab," he offered. "It's how I've been getting around anyway."

She gave him a small smile. "Don't worry. Hodges just has some anger issues."

"About driving?"

"About life. Don't let him scare you off. He's an idiot," she replied, giving David a pointed look.

"An idiot with a Master's in chemistry," David reiterated. "Not an idiot who happens to know how to get to the airport."

"You're an idiot either way," Sara clarified before making her way to the door. "Drive him. He needs help and you're the one who's going to do it. I'd ask Greg, but he's got so much backlog from those two creeps who tried to gun down Nick and Eric that he won't see the sun for days."

"My heart's breaking. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly taking a vacation here. I've got cases-''

"My heart's breaking," Sara parroted back. "Now get him there."

At that, she exited. Ryan wished deeply that Greg could take him or that he could at least call a cab; hell, he'd prefer to walk if that was what it would take to escape the evil glare of David Hodges. He hadn't known the man longer than ninety seconds, but he could already tell that it was going to be a rocky relationship.

David let out a sigh before rolling his eyes and, after giving Ryan a cool look, slipped out of his lab coat and grabbed his keys.

"So. To the airport, Robin?"

Very, very rocky.

…

"Oh my God."

It was the first thing either man had said during the entire ride over to the airport. It had been stony at first, so Ryan merely looked out the passenger window, absorbing the locals and running the case through his mind again and again, trying to find the exact point that needed to be observed. Did the airport really have anything to do with it? Ryan had the suspicion that it did; although it was just a feeling in his gut, it was that feeling that was leading him back to the last place Ellie Jenkins stopped in Las Vegas.

His driver had hardly spoken unless Ryan asked him a question. When he did speak, every word was soaked with sarcasm. Most would have been intimidated and Ryan was close to it, but he had walked the beat for a while and had seen it all. The fact was that David Hodges just wasn't that easy to talk to and Ryan wasn't feeling particularly suicidal, so the drive had been pretty quiet.

But even Hodges had the right to be surprised occasionally; the sight before them wasn't only surprising, it was cause for alarm, especially for those in charge of a murder case.

It was a protest.

Moreover, it was a terrorist protest.

At a crime scene.

Which was, essentially, a recipe for disaster.

There were dozens of people; young and old, black and white, it didn't matter. The moment Ryan caught sight of their signs and posters, he knew it had hit the fan. Before he could even panic about the fact that demonstrators tended to get rowdy and ruin evidence, he and David had to actually make it through the parking lot and to the front door, a feat even Goliath would have had difficulty accomplishing.

"I wasn't aware this case had anything to do with terrorism," David muttered as the crowd quickly spotted their vehicle and began shouting even louder. It was to the point that his car could only inch forward, as the protesters had surrounded it and began banging on the windows and hood. Ryan was aghast and couldn't even manage to reply. Where the hell had this all come from?

They finally managed to make it to a parking space close to the door. As they unbuckled themselves, two officers quickly jogged from the main lobby of the airport to escort them inside. Ryan only barely managed to grab his field kit before an officer practically yanked him from an angry man who was ready and willing to give Ryan a piece of his mind using bitter words and possibly even fists.

"What the hell's going on?" It was the question Ryan wanted to ask but wasn't quite sure how to phrase. He knew it wasn't the officer's fault; someone had to have spread a rumor of some sort. It was David who angrily asked the officer once they got inside the safe confines of the airport. "This is a crime scene! What's the protest for?"

The officer could only shrug hopelessly. "They're arriving in droves but they aren't breaking the law. Technically, they're not actually on the scene."

"You can't get them to leave?" Ryan asked, taking a quick glance outside and noting the growing crowd.

"Like I said, they're not breaking any laws. They have the right to protest."

"Protest what? Terrorism has nothing to do with this case," Ryan noted, shooting the officer a quizzical look.

The officer could only shake his head helplessly. "It was all over the news last night. The local channels said someone called in, claiming we've taped it off because we found a bomb, not a body."

Ryan massaged his temples, the workings of a colossal migraine beginning to form. "This just got a lot harder," he sighed. He was certain Grissom and Horatio would have come themselves if they knew about the mess escalating just outside their still-active crime scene.

And he had to be honest: he was a Level 1 CSI. That's it. He rubbed his eyes, trying to straighten out his thoughts. He was a Level 1 CSI at scene by himself with an angry crowd and no idea as to what he could possibly do about it. Where did he even begin? All he had were some officers, a field kit, and… well, a lab tech that had no hope of ever getting out now. No, the entry way was pretty much off limits to anyone who valued their life.

He sent David an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I had no idea it was going to be like this."

David rolled his eyes. "You've got to stop apologizing if you want any respect around here. But if anyone out there hurts my car, there's going to be hell to pay."

"I have no doubt there will be."

"You have any extra powder in that box?" David asked, casting his glance towards Ryan's field kit. Ryan didn't have to think twice about it; he opened it up and there were doubles of everything. He heard a whistle and couldn't stop the embarrassed blush that began creeping across his cheeks.

"Sanders was right. You've got some serious OCD issues."

"That's really rude," Ryan said, shooting him annoyed look even as he began gathering his supplies.

"Trust me, it's not rude at all. It's me making small talk."

Ryan had the distinct feeling that this was David Hodges' most polite state of self; besides, it wasn't the OCD comment that was bothering him.

"Greg talks about me?" he asked, hoping to be as nonchalant as possible. David gave him a look that clearly told him there was nothing casual about that question; he was as conspicuous as a fly on a wedding dress.

"Your hopefulness is almost as obvious as those clothes."

Ryan froze as still as stone. To freeze was to be obvious; however, that seemed to be his body's natural reaction and he almost couldn't move for a few horrifying moments. He turned slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

David rolled his eyes. "The clothes? Not yours. That little tag on the sleeve is Pressner and Phillips, a Las Vegas-only business."

Doom. That was all Ryan could his foresee in his future: complete and utter doom. The end of his life as he knew it. Even worse, the end of Greg's. He had heard David wasn't Greg's biggest fan and armed with hurtful knowledge was one way to make Greg's already difficult career a much harder path to follow. And although he had never been much of a liar, he had to at least try.

"I ordered them online," he muttered, turning away and gathering the supplies they would need.

"Wolfe, there are two people who run that company. They're in their seventies. A mentally challenged chimpanzee has a better chance of navigating the Internet than those two do."

Ryan's jaw set. He began tugging unconsciously at the hem of his shirt. This was rapidly beginning to present a problem.

David sighed before rolling his eyes. "Don't worry. No one's noticed."

Ryan let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. David didn't seem to think it was that big of a deal; maybe he wouldn't blab after all. "Are you sure?"

"Does Greg Sanders have bad taste in music?"

Ryan couldn't help the silly smile that spread across his face. He didn't need to speak for David to properly read the signs; it was disgusting, wretch-inducing puppy dog love.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Ryan was prepared to respond with something just as sharp until he noticed the small gathering in the corner of the room. It was the tellers waiting for their interview. Ryan took a breath, Eric's reminder sifting through his thoughts until they were clear: you were born to do this job. And if he wasn't, he had a lab tech for backup.

"You know how to fingerprint?" Ryan asked as he handed David an inkpad and papers.

"With a blindfold," he confirmed.

"Good. For the next two hours, you're going to be a CSI."

"That's almost insulting, Wolfe."

However, David didn't argue. He took the supplies offered to him and they began towards the small congregation. It was a rather rag-tag assembly; there were working parents, elderly, and pierced teenagers who didn't look as if they could tell up from down.

"Good afternoon," Ryan began, quickly grabbing their attention. He tried to give them the most charming smile he could muster. "Thanks for coming. My name is Ryan Wolfe and this is David Hodges. We're in charge of a case concerning this airport." He took a calming breath. He had never been one for public speaking, especially when the audience was completely fixated on what he was saying. Besides, he and David weren't in charge per se, but what the audience didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"You were all working the night of March twenty-second. David is going to take a photo and fingerprints and I'm going to ask you a series of questions in reference to that evening," he continued. "Don't be nervous. None of you are responsible for what happened. All we need for you to do is try and recall anything strange or unusual you might remember from that night."

Two hours later, the afternoon had settled into dusk. They had nineteen sets of fingerprints and eighteen similar responses from eighteen ticketers: they didn't see anything and they didn't hear anything. David finished the last set of prints. He gave Ryan a concerned look from a few feet away and Ryan shrugged his shoulders helplessly, giving him a halfhearted smile, as if to say We've got to cover all the bases. This is going to pay off eventually.

"Hello, ma'am," Ryan said, smearing a fake smile on for the elderly woman who approached. There were no more tellers left except for her; the protesting crowd had pretty much dispersed, but Ryan had the sinking feeling that they would return ten fold the next morning, ready to set the world on fire.

"Hello Mr. Wolfe. My name is Leslie Price." The woman wore glasses and had white, curly hair. Her dress was understated and her voice was even and calm.

"Thanks for coming, Ms. Price. I know it's taken us a while."

"I'm sure it's an important case. Ask anything you'd like."

Ryan did exactly that. It was the same line of questioning the other eighteen had received and he got the same reply as he had previously. He was about to write her off; there was nothing she had to offer that was of any use. He sighed and pulled out a photo.

"Did you see this woman that night?"

It took only one glance before she replied. "I certainly did. I sold her a ticket."

Ryan stilled and David looked up at the answer. Ryan's mouth went dry and he gave her another look, one of renewed interest.

"Are you sure this is the woman you saw?"

"Absolutely. She was wearing a showgirl's dress. I thought it was rather odd myself, but this is Las Vegas. I've seen stranger things in my time."

Ryan resisted the urge to break into a celebratory song. Finally, they had found one person who might have seen something.

"And did anyone follow her? Was she running?"

Ms. Price bit her lip, looking thoughtful. Ryan was now a huge spark of life; it had to be the hope that was giving him the sudden energy. He was anxiously rocking on the heels of his feet, praying for answers, for a lead in some direction.

"Well," Ms. Price finally began, agonizingly slow. "She did seem rather flushed. As if she had been running, understand? She bought her ticket and I continued down the line until a rather rude young man cut to the front."

"Did you get his name?"

"No, but he held up a photo similar to yours. He asked if I just sold her a ticket."

"And what did you say?"

"I said yes, of course. He demanded I sell him a ticket right then. I told him he'd have to go to the back of the line."

"Did he?"

"He did once I threatened to call security."

"Was he either of these two men?"

Ryan pulled out two photos of the gunmen who had chased Nick and Eric down earlier. Ms. Price observed them carefully before shaking her head.

"No, it wasn't those two. It was someone else. He almost looked like her."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He had the same face shape. He just reminded me of her is all."

Ryan and David exchanged a look; they knew it was time to track down Ellie Jenkins's family. Most particularly her cousins and brothers.

Which meant he had to find Sara and Calleigh.

…

"David, what about those two gunmen? Did you get anything off their clothes?"

David shook his head as he drove them from the airport back to the crime lab. It was dark out and the traffic was forgiving, so they were making decent time with little distraction. Ryan was somewhat relieved to see that there wouldn't be such an uncomfortable silence as there was when they first set out a few hours earlier. "I gave the rest to Mia, but I don't think we're going to be able to trace anything. Brass said they wouldn't give the name of who hired them either."

"At least they'll be charged."

"Do you think that woman's story is going to help any?"

Ryan frowned. "I'm not sure. But at least we're not standing still anymore, so I think we'll make some headway." He paused a moment before speaking once more, as if he had forgotten to add his last thought. "Hey, thanks for helping with the case today. It really saved some time."

"If you're getting mushy on me, I swear I'll drop you off in the desert."

Ryan laughed. "It's not sentimentality. It's just a thank you."

"I would have left your sorry ass there if I could have actually left in the first place."

"I have no doubt that you would have."

David pulled into the parking lot of the crime lab. It usually always busy; cops, suspects, detectives, CSIs, janitors. However, Ryan immediately spotted one person he recognized. Ryan had decided the moment he first met Al Robbins five days ago that he was a pretty cool guy. He had a good personality for a man who spent most his time with the dead. He was quick, intelligent, and supportive of lost Miami CSIs who had no idea what they were doing there. Plus, he wasn't afraid to go to battle against those of sharp and thorny wit.

"Hello Doctor Robbins," Ryan said as he emerged from David's vehicle, clutching his field kit with one hand and extending the other. "It's nice to see you again."

The doctor extended his hand as well and they shook. "I see you're managing to get around these days. I'm sure David Hodges' taxi service was a pleasant experience."

Ryan gave a small laugh and David rolled his eyes. "He's not irreparably scarred, is he? I think I deserve some credit."

"It wasn't totally horrible," Ryan admitted. "I'll live to see tomorrow anyway. What about you? Dropping off files?"

"All part of the job," Robbins sighed. "That's what I'm supposed to have assistants for, but thanks to the latest round of budget cuts I'll be doing my own legwork for a while. Speaking of which, how's it going with Greg? He driven you crazy yet?"

"Greg?" Ryan asked, smiling at the question. There was certainly no way he could go into detail about it, but he wouldn't be lying if he said that they were doing perfectly well. "He's fantastic. I'm really glad I was paired with him."

"You finding your way around the lab all right?"

"Didn't take long."

"Good to hear. How are you taking to Vegas?"

Ryan had to pause a minute on that. Did he really like Las Vegas? It felt like home and yet something wasn't quite right about it. Was it the ghosts? It's history? The lights and crowds? Or the endless desert that surrounded it?

"He can't navigate his way around town if that's what you're asking," David Hodges replied, shooting the mortician an annoyed look. "How long are we going to engage in pleasantries before we get to the point?"

"For however long it pisses you off," Robbins replied casually, not even bothering to look in David's direction. David pursed his lips furiously as Ryan struggled to hide his laughter.

"Laugh now, traitor," David muttered and almost –almost- smiled.

…

"You got stuck with Hodges?" Even if Ryan hadn't heard the words, the mere look on Greg's face would have portrayed his disgust perfectly. It wasn't shock and it wasn't pity; it was genuine and unabashed horror. Greg actually stopped setting the table in favor of simply staring at Ryan in awe, almost reverence. "And you survived?"

In most instances, Ryan would have brushed it off and not made a big deal out of it. After all, no one had the perfect personality. So what if someone had an extra bit of hostility or impatience? That was understandable, especially if one was working long hours in a crime lab.

"It was kind of uncomfortable at first," he admitted. "He's not really easy to talk to."

"Not easy to talk to?" Greg incredulously repeated as he began laying out the silverware. "The man's a bitter brick wall! He's rude and inconsiderate. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't shoot him." Greg was shaking his head now, muttering about whether Grissom was secretly trying to shorten Ryan's life expectancy. "If you would have told me, I would have been more than happy to give you a ride."

"I know. I offered to take a taxi but Sara said Grissom was pretty set on Hodges driving me there. There wasn't much room for argument."

"I don't imagine so. Still, stuck in a confined space with Hodges longer than sixty seconds is more than most people can bear. I'm glad he returned you in one piece."

Ryan laughed. "I'm glad he did too. He's really not that bad of a guy, though. We actually got a long as the day went on. Doc Robbins knew how to handle him."

"Yeah, Al's pretty cool. The man never seems to let up about my spelling mistakes though. He seriously needs a hobby besides storing dead people in freezers."

"I'm sure spending eight hours a day in a lab gives you a perfect ten on the coolness scale."

"My coolness doesn't need a scale. I'm coolness personified."

Ryan laughed as he began to retrieve their dinner from the oven. They were eating dinner together, a surprisingly domestic act. Still, they were hungry and what better way to eat than eat with each other?

Ryan quickly set the pan next to their plates. "Our gourmet delight. Rubber noodles with artificially colored and flavored sauce, complete with tiny, freeze dried vegetables."

"Put it that way," Greg said, draping his arm over Ryan's shoulders as they both stood to observe the unappealing blob that was cleverly disguised as lasagna. "And I'm tempted to just skip eating all together."

"Oh yeah?" Ryan asked, crossing his arms and raising a curious eyebrow. "What would you do then?"

Greg grinned innocently. "Oh, whose to say? I could read a good book or watch an informative show on the Discovery Channel."

"Both attractive options. Whichever will you choose?"

Greg smiled before leaning in to capture a kiss.

Despite both being hungry, the lasagna was forgotten.

…

"So how are you holding up?"

Eric was brought out of his reverie by a voice he'd gotten quite used to over the past days. He looked up and smiled at Nick who grinned tiredly in return. Eric hadn't realized that he'd been sitting in the DNA lab, staring at a computer monitor that wasn't even on. One glance at the clock told him he'd been there for at least fifteen minutes, looking at a blank screen and thinking about nothing in particular except that he'd almost died and he really needed to get some sleep if he ever hoped to get up the next night.

It had been a long day. He wasn't even sure if he could summon the energy to drag himself to a street corner and hail a cab.

"Me? I'm doing fine. How about you?"

Nick let out a small, tired laugh before sinking onto a barstool across from Eric, putting his weight against the lab's counter. "I'm sure Sara can tell you I've definitely had my share of guns pointed in my direction." He paused before smiling ruefully and running his fingers through his black hair. "It's the only part of the job that I can never get used to."

"You don't say," Eric replied, slightly amused. "I've been in tense situations before, but those guys were pretty strung out. You think we'll get anything out of them?"

Nick shrugged. "I have no idea. The only thing we CSIs can ever count on is evidence, I guess. Brass said he'd handle those two. We can head on home. Speaking of which," Nick continued, glancing around before turning back to the Floridian, "I guess Ryan won't be coming back to the hotel, huh?"

Eric ginned slyly. "I seriously doubt it. He's so love struck that he can barely remember his own name."

"He was really worried about you."

"I know, but I don't want to break his concentration. I told him I was fine and to stop worrying himself over it. He seemed to believe it."

"And are you fine?"

"Just need some sleep."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

There was a lull in their conversation before Nick spoke once more. "It's the same for Greg. He's pretty focused on Ryan right now. I just… I guess when this case wraps up, there's going to be some problems." Nick frowned before he and Eric's eyes met. They both knew Ryan and Greg understood, but it didn't seem to stop them from entering into a relationship that could only bring pain in the end.

The mere mention of the inevitable dilemma sent Eric's heart slamming to the floor. He looked up, giving Nick a once over, hoping to burn the image into his mind permanently.

Because that's as far as he was going to allow himself to get involved.

"You want a ride?" Nick asked, patting his jacket down for his keys.

"Ride?" Eric echoed before realizing that Nick had, in fact, been his ride the entire day. It would only make sense even if hailing a taxi might have been wiser.

"Yeah, sure."

…

The ride had been in comfortable silence despite the circumstances. Eric gazed out the window, taking in the city so famous for its glamour and lights. To him, it was nothing; just another city where people could lose everything and often did. He wasn't sure he could ever live there and hoped he never had a reason for needing to.

When they finally pulled up to the hotel, Nick shut the engine off and it was quiet. There were noises outside; the beeping of car horns, the talk of tourists, the whispers of ghosts, but mostly it was just the two of them and their beating hearts and soft breathing.

"I'm sorry this day turned out to be so screwed up," Nick finally said, sending an apologetic smile Eric's way.

Eric laughed slightly in return before shaking his head. "Not your fault. If it weren't for the guns and insane henchmen, I'd say it turned out pretty well. We're making way on the case."

"Yeah. I've gotta agree that the absence of guns would have made it better."

Another silence fell, one that was charged with words. The two men knew what they wanted to say but couldn't bear to broach the subject. Nick would return to his dark and lonely home; Eric would open the door to his empty and impersonal hotel room, complete with Miami Vice reruns. It would be as it always was but it would also be safe; you had to take one or the other, but you couldn't have both.

They had kissed.

That morning, they had kissed in a relieved, hysterical moment. The kiss had been charged with energy, relief, despair, thankfulness, desperation; it had been a kiss long since been coming and yet neither could seem to bring it up. It desperately needed to be addressed but the two couldn't seem to speak.

However, neither could sit there all morning. Not in a silent car where a heavy cloud hung between them, making their current situation foggy and their emotions even worse. There had to be air.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," Eric finally said, gathering his coat and moving to open the car door. "Thanks for showing me around today. It was great to have real food."

Nick looked away for a moment, as if waging a war in his head before coming to some sort of conclusion. He quickly leaned, grabbing Eric's wrist. Time. Time was everything. He couldn't let it slip away.

"Wait," he whispered, his voice sounding strangled and unsure. He truly and honestly had no idea what the hell he was doing, what he was willing to get himself into. But more than anything, he wanted to try.

Eric stopped his motions immediately. His skin burned from where Nick's skin was on his and he shot Nick a surprised look.

"What is it?"

Nick quickly let go of Eric's wrist before taking a deep breath, hesitant to speak. "I… I'm not really sure how to say this. I mean, I've never done anything like this before and it's… strange, I guess."

Nick glanced up at the other man before laughing at his own stupidity. "I'm making no sense, am I?"

Eric grinned. "Hate to say it, Nick, but no. I need single syllable words. I've never been good at reading people."

Nick laughed again, not truly able to meet Eric's eyes before he said the words he knew would change things permanently without any way out. Move lips, make sounds, form words. But that was how people changed the courses of their lives: by speaking and acting. And he had to, no matter what anyone else might have thought; Grissom or his parents or his friends were irrelevant. It was his life now and he didn't want to live it only halfway.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm really attracted to you."

Eric never thought he would hear those words and he gave Nick a stricken look. Nick smiled helplessly before shaking his head and almost laughing. "But I guess you know that already."

***

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