Title: Then Again (An Adventure in Uncertainty with Misters Stokes and Daniels)
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #21 violence; pillage/plunder; extorion
Warnings: alcohol; forensics conferences; confusion, desperation, resolving without resolution
Disclaimer: The only thing I own right now is a bottle of NyQuil. And oh, how I love it.
Author's Notes: And we're back to angst. I am fairly sure that hawkeyecat read this through. If she did not, then she just gets credit for being awesome. (And we'll pretend like I'm not dumb. Sound good? Okay then.)

Bobby Dawson didn't like forensic conferences.

Then again, neither did Nick.

They commiserated about the "long-winded ego fest" on the plane trip from Las Vegas to Chicago, chatting pleasantly over little baggies of peanuts and pretzels. Other than a panel on a new striation-recognition program the University of Chicago was developing ("still in the beta phase, which Archie say is geek for ‘utterly useless'," explained Bobby) and the presentation of a paper on fiber dating ("I wonder if they go out for dinner and a movie," Nick joked), it promised to be three mind-numbing days of listening to individuals far geekier than either of them defend their oh-so-brilliant contributions to the field of forensic science.

Bobby's panel was the first day, so he did the usual first-day-of-a-conference-things, hob-knobbing with other ballistics experts from across the country before settling down at the panel. The program would be interesting, if the university ever got it off the ground, and he stuck around after to chat about some of the features he – as a ballistics technician at the country's top crime lab – would like to see in such a system.

It was late evening when he made it back to the hotel, having spent the day wandering around the city and seeing the sights (including a stop at the illustrious Museum of Science and Industry, a little guilty pleasure when he probably should have been reading up on trigger pressure and powder types). His stomach rumbled ominously, reminding him that a hot dog on the street did not a dinner make, so he stopped into the hotel bar to order room service.

Instead, he found Nick Stokes nursing a shot of dark liquid and murmuring something to the bartender.

The bartender glanced up from their conversation when Bobby entered and patted Nick on the shoulder before moving away. Nick downed his shot in response, and then glanced up. His brown eyes caught Bobby's, bleary but yet still sharp, and he frowned before ordering another.

"I'm a dumbass," Nick informed him as he, unsure of what else to do, slid into the next stool and ordered a ginger ale. "Fuckin' dumbass. Figures, right?"

Bobby frowned. "Why?"

"Why? That's the question of the century, ain't it?" Every word was like taffy, pulled to the brink before breaking, thick with alcohol and that deep Texan twang. "Just am, Bobbo. The evidence never lies." Realizing his own words, Nick snorted. "That's what Griss says. Evidence never lies."

The bartender slid him another shot, and he flipped it back. A long silence settled over them, broken only by a conversation at the other end of the bar.

"Nick, you should be in bed," Bobby finally said, and caught his hand before he could raise it and flag down another. "The bartender'll charge your room. C'mon."

"I don't wanna," Nick complained as Bobby scribbled down his room number – 413, just next to his own – and helped his drunken friend to his feet. "I wanna hang out with Mr. Daniels. He's a good guy."

"You're trashed, Nick," Bobby scolded, smiling ever-so-slightly.

Wrapping an arm around Bobby's neck, Nick grinned. "I am," he agreed, almost merrily – a strange change, given that he'd just been complaining. "I'm smashed. Hammered. Shmuckered."

"Snookered."

"Wh'ever, man. I'm gone."

The elevator bell chimed and Bobby struggled to get them both into the car, Nick leaning heavily against him. He was almost dead weight – conscious, but definitely not helping – and the doors closed just shy of his toes. "Gonna tell me why you're drunk?"

"‘Cause I gotta be," Nick replied, pushing his cheek into Bobby's shoulder. He smelled sharp, like some sort of soap, and Jack Daniels. "Ain't that what ya do? Get drunk?"

"People get drunk for a reason."

"That's the reason."

"Right."

Another chime sounded and they arrived on the floor, Nick staggering against Bobby's side and struggling to stay upright. He at least managed to get his key card out on his own – something for which Bobby was eternally grateful – and they plunged into the darkness. The door shut, hard, behind them, and suddenly Nick was shifting his weight and pressing Bobby against the closed door.

"He dumped me," Nick murmured, almost breathlessly, his breath hot against Bobby's face. Despite the darkness, Bobby could see the outline of Nick, broad shoulders and face looming dangerously close to his own. "Dumped me, ‘cause I couldn't say it. Said ‘cause I'm in the closet." He raised a hand from where it was resting against the wood, gesturing to the hangers and bar just beyond them. "That's the closet. Ain't in it."

Drawing in a slow breath, Bobby tried to step away but was blocked by Nick putting his hand back against the wood. "Nick – " he began, but Nick just shook his head.

A breath of silence, and then, suddenly, Nick was closing off the distance and kissing him.

It was not a leisurely first kiss, slow, sweet, and unfamiliar, but rather hard and fast, unrestrained passion communicated through lips, teeth, and tongue. Nick's hands moved from the door and onto his body, one arm wrapping around his waist while the other reached up and found the back of his head. Bobby tried, briefly, to pull away, but Nick's ministrations were too much to bear and as soon as that pillaging tongue ran along the back of his teeth, he groaned and gave in. His hands shifted, too, traveling across tight muscles and gripping the solid ass that Nick always kept hidden under his blasted blue jeans.

Teeth raked against his lower lip, and then moved, shifting to nibble his jawbone and neck. Nick's devilish tongue hit all the right places, and it was only as the hand in his hair shifted down and around to his front and brushed along the fly of his jeans that Bobby's mind finally flicked back on.

"Nick... Nick."

Nick groaned against his skin, pleasant vibrations, and cupped his groin.

"Nick!"

Bobby reached up and grabbed his shoulders, pushing the other man away roughly. Nick stumbled backwards, grasping the nearby closet bar to keep from falling. Hangers clattered to the dark floor. Bobby found the light switch and flicked it on, and Nick, like a scared animal, smashed shut his eyes. His chest was rising and falling under his black t-shirt.

Swallowing, Bobby reached up and raked a hand through his hair. "Nick, you're drunk," he explained slowly, watching as Nick's eyes slowly opened and stared at him, bloodshot and unfocused in the light. "I'm not gonna – "

"Yeah, right." Nick's voice was dark as he released the bar and stepped away. He turned his back to the door and peeled off his t-shirt, tossing it on the floor before wobbling unevenly toward the bed. "Wh'ever, man. Later."

He sighed. "I'm not sayin'..." Nick attempted to bend down and untie his shoes but nearly fell over, and Bobby shook his head as he stepped forward to help him. "I'm not saying no," he said softly. He touched Nick's shoulder, only to have the tantalizingly bare skin jerked away. "Just... Not when you're drunk."

Nick looked up at him, brown eyes still unfocused, and nodded weakly. A few minutes later, Bobby flicked off the light and stepped out into the hall, watching the door shut behind him.

He didn't see Nick at the conference the next two days, or anywhere in the hotel, and when he checked in at the airport, he was informed that his travel companion had requested his ticket be moved up to the earlier flight, citing a "family emergency."

Back at the lab, they got along with the same casual friendliness they'd always employed, minus the pats on shoulders and nudging of elbows. Other than an awkward sideways comment to Grissom ("yeah, Griss, it was a good conference," said Nick, looking at the floor) and an embarrassing interaction with Jacqui ("I didn't ‘get any,' thanks," Bobby grumbled irritably), life was all platitudes and acquaintanceship, the same way it'd been before the interference of one Mr. Jack Daniels on their lives.

Nick Stokes never mentioned what happened that night.

Then again, neither did Bobby.