Title: Watching, Waiting
By: flipflopadd1ct
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They disgust him, and it's why Robert does what he does. It's why he watches. It's why he waits. (Mostly from the POV of a serial killer; still involves Nick/Greg; very different from what I usually write).

***

Robert Keater hates them.

Oh, how he hates them!

They disgust him. They disgust him because they are what he is not.

They disgust him, and it's why Robert does what he does. It's why he watches. It's why he waits.

The Las Vegas heat is stifling, muggy, but Robert does not notice. Sweat drips from his tangled hair, dripping onto his dirty, faded jeans. Sweat slides along his neck and underneath the frayed collar of his tee, stained where the bulges of his overweight body soak the fabric. Yet he still does not notice.

His distended stomach is pressed against the steering wheel, heaving with each slow, heavy breath.

Traffic is speeding along, loud and crowded, but Robert does not notice that either. Robert is busy, and when he is busy, that which has nothing to do with his current activity means nothing to him.

Like traffic.

So, Robert is busy. Robert is watching. Robert is waiting.

~

Nick tosses his McDonald's bag into the nearby trash can.

"I hate that stuff," he says, sitting down at the table again. "Don't know why I keep getting it."

Greg grins, pushing his sunglasses higher into his hair. "Afraid of getting fat, Nicky?" he teases.

"Hey, I'm not the one eating the Big Mac and Super Size fries."

Greg responds by taking another oversized bite of his sandwich. "What can I say? I'm a growing boy!"

"Right, right..."

Nick has grown restless. He looks at his cell to check the time, then lets his gaze wander over the crowded plaza. He sees a little girl drop her ice cream cone, two birds fighting over a lost fry, a dusty Toyota that needs washing.

Yes, he and Greg needed a break to stop and eat, but with every second they waste the case grows colder.

~

Robert hates fast food.

It's what makes Americans obese, he thinks as he glances at the empty wrappers and cups and cartons scattered around his car. They are signs of yet another addiction that Robert can't seem to shake.

Robert wonders why his next victims are eating such vile filth. It's simply not right, he thinks. They are young, hard-bodied, athletic, attractive. Men like them should not eat trash like fast food.

The brunette gets up and stretches as the lighter-haired man throws away his trash, and rage ripples from the depths of Robert's heart. They are showing off. They are showing off their bodies, their sex appeal - everything Robert can not and does not have.

His rage quickly reaches a boiling point and he screams, slamming a thick fist into the steering wheel.

In a second his tantrum subsides and he returns to a state of compuser.

Robert continues to watch. He is a lover of detail and he soaks in every last detail of his prey.

The brunette's name is Stokes. The other? Sanders. Robert knows this because he watches.

There is a reason the two have become prey. They think they're clever, Robert grins to himself, thinking no one else knows their secret. But Robert does.

They are much like the last couple Robert killed. Robert followed Stokes and Sanders out of pure interest one night, after they had left one of the more private gay bars in Vegas. Soon, he discovered they were working his third double murder. He had laughed maniacally with glee. Oh, how glorious, how ironic would it be to kill the men investigating his handiwork!

That's when Stokes and Sanders became prey. Delicious, enticing prey.

Stokes and Sanders would be the fourth gay couple killed. All of them attractive, all of them deserving death for being who they are. Robert hates that he can not have what he wants, so he takes out his frustration, his despair, his rage the only way he knows how.

As he watches Stokes and Sanders order smoothies, Robert's thoughts drift. He fantasizes about the looks of terror on their faces, about desecrating their perfect forms, about holding a knife against their throats, and he laughs.

Traffic speeds along, but Robert does not notice. It's such a trivial detail. He only focuses on the important things. His attention to detail was perfected in his study of art, back in college when he was young and attractive. He's progressed to a new style of art, in his opinion – every murder is another masterpiece. That attention to detail is so perfect that the police have come nowhere near discovering who has murdered his victims.

That thought makes Robert smile.

~

Nick and Greg are unaware that they are being watched.

"This is the toughest case I've had in a while," Nick says, letting out a long breath.

"We've got, what, nothing?" Greg agrees.

"Pretty much," Nick nods.

Greg ticks the details off with his fingers. "We've got his MO, at least. All his victims are under 35, attractive, athletic, and gay. They're stripped naked, tied together with their partner or whatever, and beaten to death."

"Hate crime, maybe. Someone out there's pissed off."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"They're definitely all connected. At least we've got that, too."

Greg leans forward, his chin resting on his fist. "Cold cases suck," he finally says.

"Don't worry. There'll be more," Nick teases drily.

It's sad, but true.

"Think we could be victims? We fit the victims' type..." Greg trails off.

That, too, is sad but true.

Nick nods gravely in response. It's not something he'd like to think about. "We've just got to keep our eyes open. Anyway, we should head back to the lab. Maybe someone else has found something."

"Sounds like a plan, Nicky."

Together, they head for Nick's car.

~

Robert jolts. Stokes and Sanders are leaving.

It's time! Oh, it's time; it's time; it's time!

The lust for death has consumed his entire being again, and it's now all that Robert can think about. He can not wait anymore.

He turns on the ignition and pulls into the busy street.

Without warning, Robert Keater's tiny Camry is totaled by a speeding truck and he is instantly killed.

Nick and Greg are first on the scene.

***