Title: Lightning Doesn't Strike
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: NC-17; strangers; shift changes; Southern accents; lightning
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Yes. I can't pay my credit card bill, but I own CSI. Riiiight.
Summary: Sometimes, there are things Nick does, but he never does them the same way twice. Because lightning can't strike.
Author's Notes: Slightly AU, but that's alright.
Written for challenge #5 ("hey, you know...") at 30_kisses

They meet in a bar.

It's the kind of bar Nick seeks out and finds, a hundred miles from Vegas and over the border into another state. He's been there once before - he likes to be erratic with his pattern, though when you plan it out, really, it can't count as erratic - and it's warm inside, full of dark, sweat-slicked bodies pulsating under the lights. The beat of the music fills his ears as he slides onto a stool and orders a drink - a beer, just a beer - and the stranger saddles up to him, breath hot in his ear.

"Come here often, cowboy?"

There's a Southern drawl in the stranger's voice - a deep rumbling from somewhere Eastern, maybe Alabama or Georgia - and a shiver runs up Nick's spine. He bites it down, swallows his goose flesh and accepts his beer from the bartender. "Sometimes," he answers, just as cryptic, and tosses one - just one - sideways glance at the stranger. Hazel eyes flash back, and he takes in what he can get out of the subtle, strobe-lit darkness - gold-brown curls, enigmatic smile, the perfect kind of body. He looks back at his beer and takes a sip. "When I feel like it," he states, shrugging.

"Must be once in a blue moon." He's being stared at, but he ignores it, and focuses on his drink. "This is the first time I've seen you."

"I travel around," he admits, shrugging.

The stranger nods, a lulling head motion Nick catches out of the corner of his eye. "Must be," comes the casual response. Nick watches as his companion turns away, looking out at the dancing throng, and he takes a closer look at the well-worn blue jeans, the blue-plaid button-down shirt, and the broad shoulders. A perfect sculpture, he decides, and takes an appreciative sip of his beer. He could be Adam, or Adonis, or something in between, though he really shouldn't wear blue with those eyes of his.

He turns back, away from the dance floor, and catches Nick staring. Nick's first response is to drop his eyes in embarrassment, but the rules at bars are different from the rules back in Texas, so he sets down his beer, instead. "See something you like?" he questions smoothly, the hint of a smile on his lips. "Or you just lookin'?"

"Observing's my thing," Nick replies. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five, setting it on the bar. "Wanna get out of here?"

An eyebrow arches in response, and the stranger eyes him, the gaze hungry, almost eager. "Sure," he agrees, and adds his own bill to the bar tab before standing up. Nick walks ahead of him and can feel those eyes on his ass, both exhilarating and mortifying at the same time. He swallows down the pang of doubt he feels and pushes out the door into the cool, California night.

"I know a place," the stranger volunteers as they near Nick's truck, and he glances at him over his shoulder. His face is earnest and honest, something Nick hadn't noticed in the darkness of the bar, and he second-guesses his choice. "Couple miles down. They don't ask questions. Know where they are."

"Yeah," Nick agrees, and thumbs his finger over the button to the keyless entry. He means to get into his truck, but the stranger is staring at him with those intent, earnest eyes. Suddenly, he forgets what he's doing and surges forward.

They kiss hard, against the side of Nick's Tahoe, a desperate moment made entirely of teeth and tongue and everything Nick's been looking for but has been too scared to actually need. His hands roam a muscular back while the stranger grips his ass and forces their groins together, and the budding erection he can feel pressing against his own is promising.

They pull apart, and the stranger smiles. "Follow me," he urges, and brushes a kiss on the corner of Nick's mouth before parting for his car. Nick leans against the cold metal, unsure that he can actually get into his vehicle, but somehow manages.

The sedan leads them to a small motel, and Nick ponies up the cash so quickly that the desk attendant raises both eyebrows at his desperation. By the time the door to the newly-rented room closes, they're kissing again, hard and deep. Nick sheds his t-shirt and the stranger's ugly blue-plaid thing - Nick wants to burn it, but he throws it against the wall, instead - and then jeans go. They hit the bed naked, eager, and it's only after there's lips on his inner thigh that Nick realizes he left the lube in his jeans.

"Always be prepared," the stranger chortles in his ear, and Nick rolls them over so he's on top, straddling thighs and cock as he presses hungry, yearning kisses on all the skin he can reach. The strange, honest face is rough with stubble, and it burns against Nick's own, but he doesn't care. He squeezes the lube into his hand and palms his erection, slicking it from head to tip. When a hand that isn't his reaches to help, he hisses and bites down on the stranger's neck.

"Stomach," Nick manages to mutter out, and within seconds he's leaning over that taut back and pressing a finger into the other man. The groan that fills the room sends shivers up his spine, and he has to take deep breaths, slow himself down.

"Got a name?" The question seems out of place, and the stranger's voice is rough with sex as Nick presses a second finger into that dark, hot warmth. He gasps and lulls his head against the pillows, but Nick knows he's watching out of the corner of those sharp eyes.

"No," Nick replies quickly, and replaces his fingers with his cock. The warmth and tightness nearly overcomes him as he pushes in, and he tries desperately to be gentle, to savor every second. The stranger raises his hips, though, and presses back, popping Nick's patience like a pin against a balloon. He thrusts forward, a surge of lust that causes them both to growl deep in the backs of their throats.

"What…should I call you?" the stranger questions, a rumbling deep in his chest. "Cowboy?"

Nick leans forward, burying himself deeper, and from the sound of the moan escaping those dry, swollen lips, finding exactly the right angle. "Anything," he breathes, his voice almost a whisper. "Anything at all."

The sex is rough, hard, and over too fast, with hands and lips on every inch of skin and sweat dripping, like come, onto the bed sheets. Nick lays against the other man for a long moment as they recover, his chest heaving and his head reeling, and realizes only when the warmth is gone that he actually fell asleep. The stranger is buttoning up his ugly shirt, and his hair and face are damp. The room smells of sex and shampoo, and Nick can see through his post-coital haze that the bathroom light is on.

"I gotta go, stranger," he says, and turns to the bedside table. He scribbles something down on the pad of paper, there. "But listen. If you ever wanna call…" He punctuates his statement by setting down the pen. "Well, you can find me."

Nick nods and watches blearily as the stranger leaves, and then reaches for the pad.

On the top-most sheet is a phone number - with Clark County area code, of all things - and a first name. Nick tucks the piece of paper in his pocket but never calls, because lightning - or so he rationalizes - can't strike the same place twice.

==

Two weeks later, at work, there's a change in shift organization and a number of technicians switch from days to nights. Grissom introduces them, in order, in the conference room - Jacqui Franco (Nick remembers her), Archie Johnson, Greg Sanders (who could forget him?), and the new ballistics tech, Bobby Dawson.

Nick chokes on his coffee when he recognizes those hazel eyes, and has to leave the room to recover.

By the time he comes back in, Grissom is conducting some mockery of an all-staff meeting about working well with the new technicians, or at least, Nick thinks he is. He's not sure, because he keeps glancing across the table. Bobby Dawson is doodling on the corner of a leftover napkin, and Nick watches him idly, remembering the other places those big hands had been. Under his lab coat is that same horrible blue-plaid shirt - again, with the blue - and he desperately wants to take it into the trace lab and set it on fire with a Bunsen burner. He doesn't say this, though, or even continue to think about it, but rather contents himself with doodling random numbers on the corner of his own napkin.

When he realizes what number he's doodling, he balls the napkin up into a ball.

"Anyway," Grissom finally finishes, though a glance at the clock reveals it's only been five minutes, "you can go back to your cases. Warrick, I want to see you about that b-and-e. Nick, I think you still have the bullet from your shooting, right?"

Nick nods wearily, not daring to look up from what's left of his napkin.

"Good. Take it to ballistics."

The meeting breaks up and Nick rises, making a beeline out of the conference room before anyone can ask about his impromptu bout of bronchitis. He walks three long circles around the building, evidence envelope in hand, before he musters up enough courage to go into the ballistics lab. Bobby Dawson is putting away a gun so intently that Nick very nearly turns around, but he can see Sara halfway down the hall and doesn't really want to explain a fourth or fifth lap around the lab to her.

"Hey," he greets, and Bobby turns around to smile at him. The smile falters, however, when he sees it's Nick, and he sobers. "I got a bullet for you."

"Grissom said so, yeah," Bobby agrees, and holds out his hand for the envelope. Nick gives him a wide berth as he examines the evidence and states the obvious - a thirty-eight, expensive round, probably from an experienced marksman - before putting it under the microscope to run the striations. The computer hums to life and Nick finds himself staring at the monitor, just so he can avoid those familiar eyes.

"Hey," Bobby finally says, and Nick glances at him to find he's smiling slightly. The silence broken, Nick forces himself to smile back. "You know, about what happened…"

Nick waves a hand. "Forget it." He brushes it off like lint on a dark jacket. "It was a one-time thing, you know?"

"Yeah." Bobby looks back at the computer and drums his fingers restlessly on the keyboard. "Thought you'd call," he admits after a moment's pause, still staring at the screen. "At least, maybe."

He purses his lips and exhales slowly through his nose. "Those things," he begins tentatively, "they happen, and that's it. I don't call."

"I get it." Bobby actually sounds like he does get it, and he steals a sideways glance at Nick. "And if it happens again?"

The computer beeps loudly - no match, or so the blinking dialogue box claims - and Nick shrugs his shoulders. "Lightning never strikes the same place twice," he replies, even though he knows it's trite, and turns around and leaves the room before Bobby can say anything more on the matter.

==

They meet in a bar.

A different bar, a different hundred miles away, with different sweat-slicked strangers pulsating to the music.

They sit side-by-side on barstools and don't look at each other for a moment. Then, suddenly, Bobby reaches down and touches Nick's thigh. Nothing sexual, nothing even suggestive, just an intimate touch that asks a thousand questions.

Nick looks down at the hand on his jeans and then touches it with one of his own, though why, he'll never be sure.

Lightning, he rationalizes, only strikes the same place twice when it's supposed to.