Title: Rehearsed Real Things
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #29 the sound of waves
Warnings: California; stories about childhood; rehearsals; joggers; hand-holding
Disclaimer: Yeah. I wish.
Author's Notes: I recently made a CD with all the songs that remind me of Nick and Bobby, and Ben Folds' "The Luckiest" is on it. This is inspired by a stanza of that song. Thanks to my loverly hawkeyecat, who helped me pick a "delightfully gay" location in California. ;)

Nick's rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head, planned it out to the perfect detail and then rehearsed it a little more, just in case. They wander the beach in San Diego with their arms brushing, chatting pleasantly about the boring non-details of the convention - panels, presentations, and the like - as the sun sets slowly over the ocean, a lazy ball of yellow-orange against a purpley-blue sky. The beach is nearly empty, sunbathers gone for the day, and they step apart as a jogger pushes himself just a little further, kicking up sand in his wake.

Their hands brush when they can close the distance again, but the conversation has ebbed. And that's when Nick says it.

"There was this couple, in my neighborhood, when I was a kid," he explains slowly and carefully, remembering (or trying to) every word that he's rehearsed in his head over the last few weeks. "Old married folks, right? They were, like, ancient when I was a kid. The guy had to be eighty when I started school, and his wife was right around there. Nice older couple, though. Good folks, always givin' out the big candy bars on Halloween and stuff."

Bobby nods - he's a good listener, Nick's noticed over the last months, a good listener and a good friend and a good everything else - and he stops him mid-stride by grabbing his hand. He means for it to be casual hand-holding, the kind of thing they can do in a place like this, but he discovers too late that his clutch is desperate and he tightens his fingers around Bobby's. "When I was around eleven, the husband... He died. In his sleep. No big deal, right?"

He sighed. "He died, and his wife... She was okay. Good health, all smiles and hugs at the visitation and the funeral, and I can remember my one sister sayin' that she'd be around longer than most of us. Outlive us all, you know?

"Couple days after the funeral, she died. Just like that, in her sleep. And my folks, they just said she couldn't keep going on without him."

Nick swallows. He swallows harder than he intends to, and it burns as he reaches forward, finds Bobby's other hand, holds it. Bobby's staring at him, confused but also concerned, and the sun sparks and glimmers off the ocean. The tide laps the sand, a quiet whisper, and suddenly the moment is exactly what Nick imagined the thousand times he laid awake and thought about it - the warm air, the hiss of the waves, the sand in their shoes and the rental car parked a mile away in some anonymous lot. It's the perfect moment, and his heart catches and stomach turns as he squeezes the hands in his.

"I'm just sayin'..." he begins, falters, and finds himself taking a long, deep breath. "I'm just sayin', that's... That's how I kinda feel, you know? About... About this. Us."

Bobby smiles, just then, the perfect, quirky-but-heartfelt smile, and closes the distance between them with a languid ease. Their lips brush, the tantalizing sweetness of an almost-kiss. Nick pulls away, just briefly, staring at Bobby and wondering if he should say or do something else, something to prove he means what he says.

Bobby, however, just shakes his head and shifts his hands. Their fingers intertwine, and suddenly, Nick just knows.

Nick's rehearsed it a thousand times, a kiss on the beach with the sunset and waves and sand, but as it happens - fingers intertwined and lips exploring lips as though they've never kissed before - he realizes that no amount of practicing can ever be as perfect as the real thing.