A/T: I don't have the slightest clue as to what I'm doing, but isn't that half the fun? This story is about David Hodges 'cause (and I think we can all agree on this) he totally rocks. He plays board games, investigates under sinks, and tussles with evidence-bearing deliverymen. He's attitude personified with a side of snarkiness and he isn't written about near enough.

Also, I did as much research on Hodges as possible and trust me: there's not much out there. Any help would be so appreciated. This takes place about… oh, I'd say 6 months after Grave Danger.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing, I tell you!

Snapshots
Act 1: Wherein Grissom is Spider Man and Nick Laughs

He was late.

He was never late.

And therein lay the problem.

Despite what many high-and-mighty CSIs may have thought, DNA techs (himself particularly) could use their common sense and deduce a problem when they saw one or, more appropriately, were part of one.

Considering his highly honed skills of grasping the glaringly obvious were in fully functional condition, David was able to come up with the conclusion that he was half an hour late for shift. Combined with the fact that he was usually half an hour early, the thoughtful employees of the Las Vegas crime lab had doubtlessly assumed the worst and, more likely than not, were breaking out the celebratory champagne as we speak.

Ten-thirty P.M. found David Hodges walking briskly through the crime lab parking lot, quietly asking himself for what seemed to be the ninety-ninth time: Why do you bother? What had he done to deserve this sure-to-have-repercussions-later tardiness anyway? He hadn't performed his usual satanic sacrifice as of late; he hadn't kicked any puppies or stolen any sodas from the machine at work. He was just trying to do his job and the last thing he needed was a boss who was out for his blood.

To understand the entire situation, one must begin at the beginning or, in David's case, Monday evenings. David had two neighbors: the elderly Louise Rainey lived in apartment 2M. She was a perfectly well balanced sixty-six year old grandmother of five who was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had telepathic powers. In apartment 2I lived thirty-five year old Daphne Davis, a concert tubist with a love for rocking out to U2 and reading Agatha Christie mystery novels. Although prolonged exposure to Greg Sanders had made him immune to her choices in music, it was often the tuba concertos that made him wish he lived on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere.

And yet every Monday evening the inevitable would occur: Ms. Rainey would want to e-mail her son. Every Monday evening, she would sit in front of her computer and look at the blank screen for a few minutes, expecting it to boot up by her telepathic powers alone. And every Monday evening at exactly seven o'clock, she would walk the two feet it took to get to David's apartment door and knock persistently because she had, as usual, forgotten the entire computer-booting-and-Internet-navigation process.

Again.

So he would fall out of bed, pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, walk the two feet it took to get to her door, and sit with her, explaining it in excruciating detail while mooching off her delicious leftovers from the fridge.

Again.

But every Monday evening, no matter how many times he explained it or wrote it down, she would knock on his door and ask for help.

Again.

He often suspected that she could navigate her way around the World Wide Web with the best of them (the new iPod he had found in the bottom kitchen drawer wasn't helping her "I'm just a nice, old, technically challenged lady" defense); however, she lived a life on her own with kids and grandchildren that lived everywhere except Nevada, so he kept his grumbling down to a minimum and who could resist free leftovers anyway? Besides, eight was just about the time when Daphne would break out her tuba-rock, so sleep was pretty much some fanciful memory from when he was still living with his parents.

Considering his shift didn't begin until ten o'clock at night, this dysfunctional yet silently understood arrangement never interfered with his work schedule. Tonight, however, he hadn't counted on falling back asleep or Daphne's flooded bathroom; being the man of the trio, it was automatically assumed he could just "fix it". Their landlord didn't know the wrench from the candlestick when it came to Clue; David was, inevitably, the only one vaguely capable of repairing a busted water pipe.

Wasn't it common knowledge that helping people always led to trouble somewhere down the road? Of course it was! Just like 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away' or 'time is money' or 'no one looks good in skinny pants' were the rules of life, so was 'helping other people will never pay off in the end'. Everyone knew this. He knew this. But today was Monday and Mondays were always bad. And it just so happened that he actually cared about the well being of Daphne and the tuba she loved; loved so much, as a matter of fact, that she protected it from water damage by storing it in his apartment until some professionals could do something about the mess in her apartment.

Despite it all, David didn't know what it felt like to have his head torn apart from his shoulders by an angry Gil Grissom, but he was sure to find out tonight. Daphne and Ms. Rainey didn't seem to understand the predicament he was now in; "Mr. Grissom seems like such a nice young man," Ms. Rainey had said. He wanted to tell them both right then that Grissom was usually a stoic boss who lived with riddles, absurdly difficult philosophies, and a love of insects that, quite frankly, frightened those who knew him.

But there were nights when he could be explosive.

And considering the amount of backlog the crime lab had to deal with, David knew it was going to be one of those nights.

David (having successfully crossed a frantic parking lot and lived to tell the tale) paused just in front of the glass doors of the crime lab before he slowly peered in, ignoring the odd looks from the patrolling officers. It looked as if the coast was clear inside; no Gil Grissom as far as the eye could see. Now all he needed was the Mission: Impossible theme playing in the background and he'd be good to go.

He quietly opened the door, immediately met by the usual craziness of a midnight at the lab. There were detectives, CSIs, janitors, suspects- the entire works. He paused a moment, listening for any voice that sounded like his boss. When he heard none, he walked quickly through the main lobby, pausing at the end of the hall.

A quick peer down both directions told him it was safe to make a break for it. This felt utterly ridiculous, but there were some things he was willing to do in order to keep his job. If sneaking around the lab was one way to keep said job, then so be it.

He took his usual right turn down the busy corridor. The advantage of mingling with the hectic crowd was that he could blend in with his insane surroundings; the disadvantage was that the entire night shift knew where he was and could lead Grissom down the warpath and towards the place where David would most likely die.

The hallways weren't even his biggest concern. No, it was the break room that was always the trickiest. He'd been working there long enough to know where all the booby traps were placed; the break room was where the world-weary workers of the night shift congregated to narrate their tales and choke down another bad cup of Sara's coffee. (Greg was never inclined to share his personal stash, but David always found it. Honestly, if Greg didn't want it stolen, then he shouldn't hide it behind the refrigerator.) You could see everything from that cursed room, including a man just trying to avoid an early demise.

The thing about working in a building with glass walls, however, was self-explanatory: everyone saw you. And whether you liked it or not, you saw everyone else.

With one quick look, it was plain to see that Grissom was, in fact, speaking to Sara in the break room. Whatever they were talking about was probably deep: Sara's rumored butterfly tattoo or the stack of Entomologist Monthly that Grissom kept shoved in the corner. The possibilities were endless, not to mention absurd.

The point was that Grissom's back was turned to the bustling world outside that room. David was in the clear… unless Grissom's spider sense started tingling. David could just imagine the way Grissom would cut off his conversation with Sara, able to sense the presence of an admittedly late lab tech. He'd then turn in a heroic slow-motion moment before throwing himself through the glass wall and capturing said fleeing lab tech with some sticky web that shot out of his wrist. And then (in front of everyone) he'd demand to know why David was half an hour late.

David (who was, in his defense, very tired) continued with this train of thought for about three more feet. And because this was turning to out to be a really bad night, the next few blurry moments were unwanted but not unexpected.

He slipped.

Right there, in the midst of the entire graveyard shift, he slipped in the most comical manner God could punish him with. One leg shot up before he knew what was happening and suddenly he was lying on his back, arms sprawled out, staring up at the ceiling.

Those around him stopped a moment to stare, giggle, or take a picture. One particularly new and sickeningly sweet tech quickly ran up and asked if he was okay. It didn't take long for her to realize that he was perfectly fine if the scathing remark he shot her was any indication.

Having had their fun, the crowd began once more with their duties while he continued to gaze at the ceiling because ow. That hurt. His spine might need some realignment and he felt tempted to OD on some Ibuprofen right then and there. He vaguely realized that his back was wet, which obviously meant he had slipped on a liquid substance. In a crime lab, that was never a good thing. It could be water, but there was also a high chance that it was various flesh-eating chemicals or, even worse, urine samples.

Indeed, tonight was not his night.

He was about to try and actually move, hoping that there wasn't any permanent damage (but just enough to get some paid medical leave) that a face appeared in his line of vision, blocking the fascinating view of a stark white ceiling.

"David?"

Greg Sanders. Great. He'd never live this down now.

"Your keen sense of the obvious never ceases to amaze me, Sanders."

"What are you doing on the floor?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Greg quirked a curious eyebrow. "Lying there."

"See? You'll be a CSI three in no time."

Greg shot him annoyed look before rolling his eyes. "You know, a custodian just left. I think he went to go get one of those yellow "wet floor" signs."

Oh. Well. That was just classic, wasn't it? "He did, did he? Then let's thank God for his excellent timing."

"Need some help? That fall was probably painful."

"Probably," David agreed. "But how will you ever know if you don't experience it for yourself?"

Greg gave him a crooked grin as he offered his hand and assisted David to his feet. David may have been sarcastic and rather rude, but he and Greg had somehow managed to become what others might refer to as "friends".

"You okay?" Greg asked, giving him a concerned frown. The back of him was soaked, but David managed to straighten his shirt to its previous respectable manner.

David shrugged at the question. "I'm sure the dull ache won't last long. It's the fact that I see two of you that worries me."

Greg grinned at that. "Worry? Two of me can only mean double the humor and charm."

"Let's not make anyone sick here, Sanders."

"Aw. Is little Hodgy-wodgy grumpy?"

"I swear they'll never find the crime scene if you call me that again."

Greg laughed for a moment, but his cheerful attitude quickly drained away. He shot an anxious look over David's shoulder before shaking his head.

"Whoa," he muttered, obviously taking in the chaos of the break room and, like most others, feeling slightly frightened by what he saw. "Grissom looks like he's about to blow a gasket. It's gonna be a rough road for whoever gets on his bad side tonight."

David actually cringed at those words. So involved he'd been with his pain-inducing situation that he'd forgotten about an even more life threatening force: an angry boss.

Greg's frown furthered and he furrowed his brows. "Hodges? He looks as if he wants to kill one of us and I've only been here half an hour. I haven't had the time to upset him."

"What's he doing?"

"Looks as if he's wrapping up a conversation with Sara."

"And now?"

"Heading towards the door." Greg grinned again. "He moves pretty quick."

David took a breath. He didn't need to turn in order to feel the wrath that would inevitably be cast down upon him. In layman's terms, he was screwed and this situation could only call for only one thing: absurd and drastic measures.

"Sanders, you never saw me."

David only saw Greg's baffled look for a moment before he grabbed his backpack and bolted down the hall as Grissom's angry bellow of "HODGES!" echoed around the lab.

The only thing that was missing was the web that was supposed to shoot out of Grissom's wrist… and maybe the cool part where Grissom bust through the glass.

David could hear the laugher of someone; he didn't recognize the voice at first, but as he hid himself within his lab many hours later, he realized it was the amused laughter of Nick Stokes and he knew the story would be the talk of the CSIs by morning.

I'm gonna get by
And just do my time
Out of step while
They all get in line.

The Anthem, Good Charlotte

TBC.

…

A/T: The basic premise of this multi-chapter story is to write about (in sequential order) snapshots in Nick and David's life and how they eventually get together. I wasn't sure whether to make this epic or quirky; either way, I loved the idea and I hope you do as well. Chapter 3 or 4 might be the time where they start noticing each other; until then, it's my lame attempt to be snarky. Any feedback would be cherished and cared for until the age of 18, when I make it get a job.