Title: Sandstorm
By: jean-prouvaire
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Greg Sanders/David Hodges
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Written for onebedficathon
Summary: The 'full David Hodges experience' is quieter than anything Greg could have expected.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

***

Storms don't frighten a man who grew up with California earthquakes. It's the realization that he can't drive home that strikes real terror into Greg's heart.

There aren't many people left in the lab by the time the storm hits--the sensible ones watched the Weather Channel and left early--but when Greg walks dejectedly back from the parking lot, face already pink and raw from the rising wind, the breakroom couches have been staked out by Henry and Archie and the janitor's locking the doors.

"Wouldn't be right to let any of you try to drive in this," the man explains gruffly.

"What about you?" Greg can't figure where anyone else is going to sleep. Anything that might even be used as a pillow on the floor has already been commandeered by the idiots who ignored the storm warning.

"Me? I'm calling a cab." The janitor grabs his jacket and starts off.

"Why can't I do that?" Greg yells after him. Like hell he's going to let anyone else off that easy.

"You think you can get a cab in this weather?" The janitor, already halfway down the hall, snorts with derisive laughter. "I got connections. You're just shit outta luck."

Greg must look so pitiful at this--it's probably his most useful talent, 'a blessing and a curse,' as Hodges would say--that the janitor stops, sighs long-sufferingly, and turns back to whisper conspiratorially to him. "Storage closet down that hall there--there's an emergency cot. I'm only telling you this because that leftover coffee you leave in the breakroom pot every night? Better than Starbucks. Keep it up, kid." The man pats Greg on the shoulder and runs to catch his cab.

Greg's mother always did make him stay in his closet whenever there was an earthquake warning. He supposes it'll be just like old times.

The thought doesn't exactly make him squeal with joy.
*****
Two hours of fitful sleep later, and Greg wakes up imagining he can't hear the rain slamming on the outside windows anymore.

He rubs his eyes and nudges the closet door open with a foot. The rain, from what he can hear, does seem to have died down enough to drive in. He's sure as hell not about to spend any more time sleeping in a broom closet than absolutely necessary, and he makes for the exit with all haste on the off chance that the janitor's left it open.

Somewhere, a branch slams hard against a window, loud enough to be heard throughout the lab and over the sound of the wind and rain picking back up, harder than ever. Greg squinches his eyes shut and whimpers.

He's stopped outside the trace lab, and as he turns to trudge back to the closet, he notices that Hodges is still here. It figures that he'd have ignored the storm alert too, only he hadn't stopped work in time to reserve a couch in the breakroom before the younger techs claimed them. He's just taken off his lab coat and folded it under his head like a pillow, and he's sound asleep in his chair with his head resting next to his microscope.

Greg watches him through the glass. It's almost heartbreaking how uncomfortable that looks. Sleeping on a cramped couch under a jacket is one thing, but this--

He presses his nose to the glass wall and observes for a bit, just watches the shallow rise and fall of Hodges' tense shoulders as he breathes. It's oddly mesmerizing, until it's all disrupted by a crack of thunder that wakes the trace tech up with a start and sends his desk chair rolling back towards the opposite wall, dumping him onto the floor.

It's not funny, really. Greg tries his best not to laugh. He opens the door and offers a hand to pull Hodges up off the floor.

"I'm touched," says Hodges dryly, "but no thanks." He gets up, painfully stiff, and dusts himself off.

"It's still raining."

"I've noticed." Hodges stretches, trying to work the knots out of his neck. Greg can't help but notice the wince. "I meant to catch a ride home with Bobby, but I got caught up with the results from Sara's double homicide and the bastard left without me." He sighs. "But then, if he'd stayed, I'd have ended up having to share my desk with him overnight, and it's just so comfy I can't bear to let anyone else take it."

For once, Hodges' chattering is reassuring instead of annoying. It's lonely here without the rest of the night shift around, dark in the hallways and the closet, and it's nice to be reminded that he's not completely alone until morning.

"Where are you sleeping? Archie and Henry took the couches, unless you're sharing."

Greg shrugs modestly. The closet is nasty, but it is better than what everyone else has. "Emergency cot in the broom closet. The janitor liked me enough to show me where it was."

His lips quirk a little at the envy on Hodges' face, but the schadenfreude is short-lived--Greg doesn't really want the poor guy to have to sleep in his desk chair all night, does he?

"Kinda pathetic, isn't it?" says Hodges ruefully. "A little thundershower and the broom closet's suddenly the height of luxury? This would be nothing in New England. It's like how in North Carolina they close all the schools and the supermarkets get cleaned out of milk and bread if there's half an inch of snow in the forecast, and then kids in Maine have to go to school in like eighteen feet of it because blizzards happen every day there?"

Greg doesn't tell him to shut up for once, just grabs his arm and drags him down the hall. That in itself is enough to keep Hodges quiet, out of sheer surprise.

"Is there an extra cot you didn't mention?" he asks hopefully, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Nope." Greg shuts the door, turns on the light, crawls into bed and scoots over. "I'm sharing. Because I'm a nice guy."

He beams at the look on Hodges' face. This is the best entertainment he's had all night. If he could just ignore the inappropriate little thrills of adrenaline--because yeah, it's been a long time since he's shared a bed with anyone, but this is Hodges, for god's sake, and he's only doing it...well, because the thought of his friend having to go back to the dark, chilly trace lab and curl up at his desk again makes him sad.

He doesn't even try to figure out when he started thinking of Hodges as a friend. That's been bugging him on and off for a while.

Hodges doesn't argue, just pulls off his overshirt and shoes and gingerly gets under the blanket, careful to keep distance between them, which Greg thinks is just stupid--they're both grownups and they can deal. "Quit acting like I have cooties," he complains, hogging the blanket so that Hodges will just have to come and get his half if he wants it.

There's a bit of a pause. "But you do," says Hodges, sounding pained. "If I get too close, my hair might turn all peroxide-blond and I'll start wearing ripped-up Iron Maiden shirts to work."

Greg bites his lip to hide the smile and rolls onto his side. "You don't have enough hair left to be worrying about what color it is anyway."

Hodges' indignant gasp is positively brilliant, and he's offended enough to take the entire blanket and wrap himself up in it and turn his back on Greg. It's the last thing Greg remembers before drifting off again.
*****
He's woken again, an hour later, by the thump of a roll of paper towels falling onto the floor. He's cold, but he can't quite bring himself to wake Hodges up by taking the blanket back. He props himself up on one elbow and watches the man sleep.

It's strange...Hodges sleeps on his side, curled into a ball, fetal position--a defensive position. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, as though he's afraid of something.

It's only me, Greg thinks.

He rests a gentle hand on Hodges' shoulder, unsure why everything's depressing him so much tonight. There's nothing for either of them to be afraid of. It's only a storm.

He presses his forehead against Hodges' shoulder from behind and absorbs warmth from his closeness. "S'okay," he murmurs sleepily, half to himself.

"I knew you were awake." Hodges' voice is quiet, as emotionless as Grissom's. Greg tenses.

"I could've been sleeping," he offers lamely.

"You were breathing too fast to be asleep."

"I could have been hyperventilating. I hate storms."

Hodges sighs, and in one smooth motion rolls onto his back. Greg finds himself with his face pressed into the man's armpit and has to admit that he kind of smells nice.

"You were touching me," Hodges mutters, and Greg moves guiltily away. "...Nobody does that."

"Yeah, well." Greg exhales slowly. "Not my fault you need to get laid."

"I just don't get it." Hodges looks over at him. "You know?"

The uncertainty in his voice gives Greg pause. He thinks, worrying his lower lip.

"You just...looked scared," he says, after a while. "And you were warm, and I'm cold, and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

The lack of a response worries him until Hodges scoots a little closer and lets Greg's arm brush against his side.

Greg swallows, pulls half of the blanket over to his side, and quietly rolls over to lay his head on Hodges' shoulder again. And after another moment, he drapes an arm across Hodges' waist and pulls him just a tiny bit closer.

Hodges turns his head as if to say something, drawing in a quick sharp breath, but whatever it is is discarded and he lets the breath out slowly and doesn't jerk away from Greg's touch.

He shifts position a little and his legs get tangled with Greg's and it could be an accident, but they both know it isn't and they know just as well to pretend that it is for the moment.

Like it's just as much of an accident when Greg's knee moves between the other man's legs and brushes against his groin--like Hodges' intake of breath when Greg rubs against him like that is just surprise and not arousal--as if it's completely unintentional when Hodges' hand slips under the hem of Greg's shirt and slender fingers brush against hot, bare skin. When Hodges lets out a quiet, shivering breath and his lips brush against the skin of Greg's neck and Greg mewls in a way that can't possibly be mistaken for anything other than oh god yes yes do that again--

It's out in the open now and there's a moment where both of them hold completely still, don't even breathe--and then Greg, panting, lays both hands flat on Hodges' chest and presses him down into the mattress and swings a leg over to straddle his waist, staring down into his eyes with wild hair and a fuck me now before I hurt you look on his face, and Hodges looks positively terrified, like Greg's never seen him before--he's never seen the man with his guard down, and it's beautiful.

Hodges fists his hands in Greg's shirt and drags him down to crush their mouths together--scared or not, he's as desperate for this as Greg is. Greg rocks against him, savage and hungry and it's all Hodges can do to get his hand between them and clumsily unfasten both their jeans, yanking the zippers down with none of the grace he handles test tubes and trace evidence with. He isn't talking--this is completely out of the realm of his expertise. It occurs to Greg in a flash of revelation just how deeply he's being trusted here.

David talks to cover up his nervousness--he chatters more around Nick and Warrick and Grissom because they intimidate him, frighten the hell out of him, make him feel unworthy, and he'd die before he let them figure that out. For him to be completely silent as Greg slides hands up under his undershirt and pulls it over his head, as he slips his hand inside Greg's boxers and closes uncharacteristically hesitant fingers around his cock...for him to not make a single sound as he flips Greg over and trails kisses down his stomach, glancing up at him after each one as if for confirmation, and takes Greg's cock into his mouth with the fervent enthusiasm of a man who's fantasized about this for four years...for him to bite back any hint of a gasp or a moan or a plea for more when Greg strokes him to a climax so hard that his knuckles are white where his fingers clench the blanket--

It's taken Greg two years, but finally, he understands what was meant by 'the full David Hodges experience.' And his promise never to betray David's trust, as he rests his head on David's chest and cuddles close to fall asleep against his warmth, is all the stronger for being unspoken.

***