Title: Little Changes
Author: Lament
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Fandom: CSI
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sigh.
Author's Notes: This is my response to a challenge at Talk CSI. It had to involve car washing. Okay, so this involves truck washing, but still.
Summary: Nick reflects on the little changes in his life. Response to a challenge from Talk CSI.

***

I should go out there and help. I really should. A thoughtful boyfriend wouldn't stand here, leaning against the window pane, watching while his significant other washes his truck. Then again, from where I'm standing, I have a very nice view of Greg in a wet t-shirt and an equally-wet pair of jeans. I swear, I think Greggo's taking on more water than my truck.

Yesterday, I pulled a double, so I barely even noticed when Greg came dragging in from his shift this morning. I have this vague recollection of someone moving around in my line of sight, but then I must've slipped back into unconsciousness. It wasn't until about a half an hour ago that the sound of Nine Inch Nails wafting through the bedroom window nudged me awake. Not the best thing for a sleep-addled mind to wake up to, especially one that's accustomed to country music.

After I woke up, I rolled over to put my arm around Greg, but I all I found was empty space. Weird. By all rights, he should've been lying in bed next to me, sleeping the sleep of the dead, or at least the sleep of someone who's just worked five nights in a row. So I rolled out of bed and wandered to the window, toward the sound of Nine Inch Nails. There was Greg, standing in my driveway, washing my truck and doing his level-best to saturate the entire block

You know, I've never considered myself the kind of guy to get sappy over silly little things. Don't get me wrong. I'm sensitive—a little too sensitive sometimes—but I never really thought I'd find myself getting wrapped up over the little changes in my life since Greg moved in.

Greg and I have been together for almost two years. But it wasn't until last month that we finally bit the bullet and moved Greg in with me. I'll admit that I was more than a little hesitant about Greg living here. It's not so much a fear-of-commitment thing. It's more that I'm used to my own space. I have a routine, and it works pretty well. Having Greg and all of his eccentricities here full time was a little forbidding. I thought we'd get on each other's nerves, that he'd drive me insane with his Ramen noodles and his Marilyn Manson and his insistence on singing while he makes breakfast. Who sings while they make breakfast?

He has his own weird little way of doing things. Like he refuses to hang the towel up straight after he's taken a shower. I walk into the bathroom, and it's hanging there, all bunched up. I've told him over and over again that it won't dry right if he doesn't hang it up straight. But he always forgets. That's the kind of thing that used to drive me crazy. Now, though? Now, dumb little things like that have come to mean the world to me.

Grinning, I watch as Greg walks over to the faucet by the side of the house and turns the water on full blast. He's pulled the nozzle off, and he's only got a tenuous grip on the hose, so when the water shoots out, Greg loses his hold and it curls back on him, soaking him to the skin. He shouts some obscenities at the unruly hose, and then he yanks it back up and stalks over to my truck.

I really should go help. I should. He's starting to look like a puppy that's been caught in a rainstorm.

After a while, Greg stops and bends over, lapping up some of the water from the hose. He was smart enough to put the nozzle back on, but still, the spray shoots up and douses his face and neck.

Finally, I decide to take mercy on him. I amble into the bathroom and grab a dry towel from the linen closet. Greg doesn't seem to notice me when I emerge from the house, so I walk up behind him. With both arms, I encircle his waist. "Hey handsome," I say. I press my body tightly against his, not caring that I'm getting soaked, or that the neighbors might be watching.

Greg cranes his neck around. "Hey, sleepyhead," he grins.

I lean forward and peck him on the cheek.

"I wash your truck, and all I get is a kiss on the cheek?"

"And a towel," I say, tossing the towel over his head.

Greg snatches the towel and wraps it around his shoulders. "Still," he pouts. "That hardly seems fair,"

"Life isn't fair," I say.

"No," Greg says, grinning roguishly. He takes a step backward and scoops up the hose. "I don't suppose it is." He aims the hose at my face and makes as if he's about to press the trigger and spray me. But then, he licks his bottom lip and lets the hose travel down my body until it's aimed just below my waist.

"Don't you dare aim it there," I laugh.

"I think I should," he says sweetly.

"Don't," I say, in what's supposed to be a firm voice.

"I'm going to," he says. Grinning broadly, he starts to press the trigger, but at the last minute, he turns it away from me, and gulps a quick drink from the hose. Then, he tosses the hose onto the ground and bursts out into a fit of giggles.

"C'mere," I say, motioning him toward me.

He wanders over and presses himself against me. "I think I've created a new body of water in your front yard," he says. "I don't it qualifies as a lake yet, though. A pond, perhaps."

"It'll dry," I say. Nipping at his neck, I whisper, "Let's go inside, so I can properly thank you for washing my truck."

"Finally," he says. "I thought you'd never ask." As we walk into the house, he sops up some of the excess water from his hair and arms. Holding up the towel, he says, "Hey, Nick. I'm going to go hang this up, okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Hey, Greg? When you hang it up…"

"Yeah?"

"Hang it up however you want."

***