A/T: Eek! It's chapter 3! Just to let you know: Nick/Greg is still #1 and nothing can change that. It's common knowledge that they're universally lovable and even the most straight-laced conservative secretly wants them together on the show. However, there's this Hodges monkey on my back and it just won't leave me alone.
Also, my eyes are dead. Any mistakes you see here are mine (and no, you can't have them.) I just can't read through this again!
Disclaimer: The only benefit I get from writing CSI fanfiction is the loving comments people leave. I'm not making any money. You lawyers can sleep easy tonight.
Dedication: For nigaishin, kahlualeia and quasilogical because they're wonderful supporters and friends. However, this chapter really goes out to catlover2x. Without her, this chapter would have floundered like a fish out of water and then died a slow and agonizing death. Thank her when you see her. -grins-
Snapshots
Act 3: Wherein Banana Cake is Involved and Nick Defends Macaroni and Cheese
"And then you know what happened?"
Imagine being stuck at a table with a Trekkie A/V tech during your one free lunch hour.
Imagine being unable to escape the absurdly in-depth description of Star Scape: the Next Galactica Enterprise.
In David Hodges's mind, this qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. Quite frankly, the small bottle of cyanide back in the lab was beginning to look more and more tempting every passing second.
"No," David muttered, rolling his eyes and taking another swallow of his Dasani. "But I'm sure you're going to tell me in fascinating detail."
"How right you are. So Spock-''
"Isn't he the one with the pointy ears?"
Archie paused at this generalization and shot David an offended look. There was a strained silence in the conversation as Archie continued to stare, debating whether or not to kill David where he stood or wait until there weren't any witnesses around.
"If you must," the other man muttered, truly unsettled at David's lack of knowledge regarding space shows. "So Spock tells Kirk-''
"The guy who talks funny?"
"He just has a unique way of acting, okay?" Archie replied, a note of irritation coloring his voice. It was common knowledge that Archie was particularly protective of Captain Kirk's dignity; in other words, you didn't insult the Captain and live to tell the tale. "He's definitely become more comfortable since the first episodes. Anyway, Spock tells Kirk that Talos Four-''
"Talos Four? Sounds like the bad sequel to an already bad video game."
"Are you going to let me finish?"
"Archie, I'm going to let you in on a little secret," David said, his voice lowering to a conspiracy-like whisper. Archie Johnson gave him an odd look before leaning across the table, attempting to hear the sarcastic comment that was inevitably going to tumble out of David's mouth.
"I've never been so bored in my life. The International Chess Society has more breathtaking matches than whatever space show you're talking about."
"You didn't just diss Star Trek, did you?"
"Diss? Of course not. I merely insulted."
"Boys, boys," Jacqui cut in, their banter finally breaking her concentration away from the latest issue of People. "Let's not let it get ugly here. We're all adults. If we can sit through your daily complaining about the state of the world, we can make it through one dismal hour of Star Trek."
"Dismal?" Archie asked incredulously as they rose from their seats, the end of their lunch hour inching miraculously closer. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're lucky to have caring individuals like ourselves who'll sit through a play-by-play review of Star Wars."
"Star Trek."
David shrugged. "Same thing. Aliens destroying the planet, spaceships blowing up, etcetera. If you've seen one episode, you've seen them all."
"You just don't understand the delicate universe of the Star Trek series," Archie groused.
"Oh, I understand," David replied. "I understand there are millions of nerds all over the world that jump at the words "star" and "trek" in any given order. I also understand said millions of nerds are spending millions of hours watching a million spin-offs of the same show. The fact that you can speak Klingon says a lot about you and here's a news flash," he continued, throwing away his trash and turning to the other man, "It's not giving you the best reputation."
"We have reputations?" Archie asked, genuine surprise in his voice. David couldn't blame him on this one. The fact that people acknowledged their existence enough to give them reputations of any sort was a shock in itself.
"Arch," David said evenly, "Leslie at the front desk spit out her Coke when you asked her out to dinner."
Archie sighed at the humiliating memory before shooting David a dark look.
"So I guess if my reputation is nerdy and Trekkish, then you're-''
"That's a line I wouldn't cross."
"-known as the sarcastic tightwad."
"That's bitter sarcastic tightwad to you," David finished.
"Y'know," Jacqui muttered, sighing at their conversation, "I can't believe you two are my best friends. God, what am I going to say at my high school reunion? That my only social contacts are a Trekkie and a severely sarcastic middle-aged DNA technician?"
"It's not like we're proud of it," David replied. "And you had better turn that middle-aged finger around. What are you, thirty-five?"
"Have I taught you nothing? Never ask a woman her age."
"Excellent advice. I doubt I could count that high anyway."
"David!" David jumped, barely avoiding her fist and it's path to his head.
Archie laughed as he followed the small scuffle down the hall. It was scary that they were best friends; the truly frightening part was that they genuinely (even if they dared not admit it) enjoyed each other's company.
And Archie was absolutely certain that Jacqui's second attempted assault on David's well-being was one of love and endearment.
"Just don't hurt him too badly, Jacq!"
"Thanks for that, Arch!" David said as he narrowly escaped yet another smack.
The trio scuttled through the hallways towards their respective rooms of expertise, an easy banter flowing between them. David grabbed the doorknob to his lab, his arm ready to rip the door open and thus avoid the assassination efforts of an angered woman when he stopped dead in his tracks, peering through the glass windows, watching as Nick Stokes talked to the sink.
In his experience, conversations with sinks only went so far. To be honest, sinks weren't that talkative and anyone who attempted to engage in a conversation with a household appliance often spent most of his or her time trying to keep the conversation going. Despite his strong dislike for people in general, human beings were usually easier to talk to. Sinks just happened to be more intelligent.
There was a sink in the corner of almost every lab; it was used to wash chemicals away from the skin and clean tools. And Nick was practically growling at it, peering down the drain, searching for something he'd obviously lost.
Archie and Jacqui finally caught up. Jacqui was about to give David a pounding he wasn't soon to forget when she followed his gaze and paused mid-attack. The three of them made an odd picture: staring through the windows, watching a clueless Texan as he fiddled with the sink drain and then began trying to unscrew the pipes with what appeared to be a monkey wrench.
"What's he doing?" Jacqui whispered. The three continued to look in, each unconsciously tilting their head to the right in a simultaneous motion.
"Ah," Archie began, his voice taking on a faux English accent, parodying one of the numerous animal shows commonly played on television. "Unbeknownst to the CSI specimen, the technicians continue to observe in wonder, taking in how the CSI is absorbed in the strange object known as the sink. His hand has now dipped into the drain, searching for his prey. Upon realizing that his plan for obtaining this mysterious object won't be successful, he begins to search for another means of capturing his intended target."
Nick was, in fact, looking for something. He searched the drawers and tables until he found a pen; he then returned to the sink, trying to drag something up through the pipe and not succeeding. Archie continued with the narration; Jacqui began giggling uncontrollably and David had to admit that Archie could be pretty humorous at times.
Nick turned again and rubbed his left eye offhandedly, looking for some other tool. He began another hunt, this time noticing his three observers from the corner of his eye and glanced up, giving each one an odd look as an embarrassed blush began tinting the tips of his ears. Jacqui let out a light laugh and Archie merely chuckled, waving at him through the glass.
"He thinks we're idiots," Archie muttered through his smile.
"He's not totally wrong," David replied, opening the door to his beloved lab.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Archie asked indignantly. "At least I'm not trying to meddle with sink drains via pen!"
"No, but you speak Klingon."
Jacqui (obviously having been humiliated enough by her two male counterparts for one night) grabbed Archie's elbow and continued down the hall. "No wonder our reputations suck," she muttered as Archie followed, still protesting. David watched for a moment before turning to the door, swinging it open and walking in.
"How long were you guys out there?" Nick asked, trying not to look too humiliated once the door fully closed and the duo had clambered down the hall, leaving Nick and David in peace.
"I'd say long enough to know that we're the only sane ones around here anymore." David motioned towards the sink with a nod of his head. "So what'd you lose anyway?"
"Nothing."
"Oh Stokes, let's not be shy. Was it illegally copied keys to Grissom's office? A ransom note? A picture of a naked female co-worker?" David asked, leaning against the counter opposite of the sink and crossing his arms, giving Nick an amused look.
Nick rolled his eyes. "None of the above, final answer."
"Unless your new hobby is exploring the insides of sinks, you dropped something in there."
"I'll take care of it."
David resisted the sigh that built in his chest. Typical alpha male: they'd rather fail miserably than ask for help.
"Sure you will."
"Fine. It was my contact lens."
"You lost your contact lens down the sink?"
"Did I stutter?"
"I'm not sure. I think you just said you lost a contact lens."
"Shut up, Hodges."
"Stunning comeback."
"You're really starting to piss me off."
"It's all in a days work. And no offense, but a blind CSI doesn't exactly inspire the greatest confidence in the citizens of Las Vegas."
"I can't hear you."
"More like you can't see me."
"Is there a point to this?"
"The point is that you might need some help."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Guilty as charged." There was a pause before David spoke again. "I know a little about plumbing. I could help for a minimum fee."
"Help? I wasn't aware you knew the meaning of the word."
"It's comments like those that get you off my Christmas list."
Nick would have responded, but David calmly left the room without waiting for the other man's reply. Nick sighed and found a barstool. He had been fighting with the sink for almost fifteen minutes and had gotten nowhere. The fact that Hodges had caught him didn't make the predicament any brighter; he knew now that he would never, ever live this down. Ever. Damn it.
A few minutes later, David returned with a bucket containing two pipe wrenches, scissors, some rags and (if Nick's good eye wasn't deceiving him) a pair of panty hose.
"Hodges," he slowly began, trying to grasp the reality of the situation, "those are pantyhose."
"Your observational skills never cease to amaze me, Stokes."
"I'll assume they're not yours."
"I thought CSIs never assumed anything."
Nick paused for a moment, as if seriously considering the remark. David rolled his eyes.
"They're Jacqui's," he supplied.
"And what, she just took them off in the middle of the lab?"
David shrugged as he made his way over to the sink and set the bucket under the pipes. "She keeps an extra pair in her locker just in case."
"Hodges, did you break into her locker?"
"I'm sure she would have gladly sacrificed them had she realized that one of our best CSIs was unable to see the broad side of a barn."
"She's going to kill you."
"I should be so lucky. She's going to make me wear that God forsaken turban monstrosity instead."
Within a matter of minutes, David removed the trap and placed it on a rag. He proceeded to cut the foot off one leg of the pantyhose and slipped it onto one end of the trap. He secured it in place with a rubber band he took off his wrist. David took the pantyhose-clad trap to a different sink, and negligently turned the faucet to a trickle, running water through the trap for several minutes. After shutting off the water, he removed the pantyhose and looked at the toe where small debris had collected. Nonchalantly, he extracted the tiny contact lens from the hair and held out his hand.
"I suggest you clean this unless you want to go blind in your other eye, but that's just me talking."
Nick was silent as David dropped the small item onto his palm. With anyone else, Nick would have given them a genuine "thank-you" and even offered to buy them breakfast. However, Hodges wasn't just anyone. Situations like these had to be handled delicately.
Nick shifted uncomfortably at David's expecting silence, unwilling to say that insignificant little phrase: thank you.
"You seem to know your way around plumbing," Nick muttered, wincing at his own words. They were, after all, pathetically weak.
David paused a moment before asking, "That's the thanks I get?"
"Please don't make me say it."
"Oh, but I think I will. Unless you decide on the other option."
"There's a second choice?"
"Either I get a whole hearted thanks or you can suffer the wrath of Jacqui and the turban."
"You wouldn't make a CSI wear that thing."
"You underestimate me. One day you're going to have a lunch break or a day off and I'll be there, turban in hand. The question is how much pride and dignity you're willing to risk when all I want is a little…" (David took the moment to insert a dramatic pause. Nick shot him a cool glare.) "Tiny…" (Another pause. Another glare. Nick was getting the hint.) "Thank you."
Nick was silent. He was secretly impressed with Hodges's quick save and his ability to be somewhat civil, a trait he must have picked up from Jacqui, Mia, and Archie.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Thank you for rescuing my contact and risking your life by breaking into Jacqui's locker."
"You make it sound so illegal."
Nick couldn't help but laugh.
…
An hour and a half later, David felt the usual routine settle in. The CSIs were at scenes, particularly the restaurant from the night before. Archie's eyes were glued to a monitor of some sort and Jacqui was flipping through a recent issue of Lifetime while her fingerprints ran.
That's when David's cell phone rang.
"Hodges," he answered automatically.
"David, dear?"
David froze, a cold horror beginning to creep from his ears to his toes. The voice on the other end was that of Ms. Rainey. A nice old lady was actually calling him in a place where a co-worker could walk in any second and ask for results.
Should such a crisis occur, he would be forced to resort to drastic measures. And if listening to Archie speak Klingon to a sink whilst avoiding Jacqui's assassination attempts was what it took, he'd do it. Anything –anything- to make the employees of the Las Vegas Crime Lab forget the fact that an old lady had been involved at all.
He checked his watch. "Ms. Rainey, it's one in the morning. What are you doing awake?"
"Well, Daphne mentioned just a few days ago that she thought your birthday was around this time of year. I called your boss –the nicest man, by the way- and he seems to think your birthday's on Thursday. Is this true?"
He could lie, but then her telepathic powers would detect his fib and he would be in knee deep. He sighed and closed his eyes, submitting to the inevitable.
"Yes."
"Oh, how wonderful! How old will you be, dear?"
He hated that question. "Thirty-nine, ma'am."
"That's not old at all, now is it? Well, I'll be sure to bake you a cake."
"Ms. Rainey, there's really no need-''
"Now don't be silly. What kind do you like?"
David sucked in a deep breath. This would require more tact than he had ever been able to manage.
He took a quick look around. He needed a private place to converse; considering the walls were made of glass and CSIs could read lips, he needed it fast.
Two minutes later, he found himself huddled in the corner of the men's restrooms. There was a line of five stalls and then the sinks were hidden in the corner; he didn't check, but he was pretty sure that the restrooms were empty. After all, he, Archie, Bobby, and Ronnie were the only males that remained in the lab this time of night anyway. For once, he firmly believed that he could have a private conversation.
"Ms. Rainey, please don't do anything special. I really-''
"Oh, but I want to. You've been such a nice neighbor to have. I just want to show my appreciation."
"You can show your appreciation by not-''
"Do you like bananas? I make a lovely banana cake."
"Bananas?" he asked, weakly. What the hell did it matter? The woman would pester and pester until he caved in. It was all a matter of timing and willpower; no man on Earth had it in him to deter the old woman when she wanted to bake a cake.
"Or are you allergic?"
Grissom would die for this. Somewhere, somehow, David would get his revenge. He didn't care if it happened three decades from now; Grissom holed up in a nursing home and David would come hobbling in. Grissom, in his senile last days, wouldn't remember David's face, but David would remember his need for vengeance.
"Who are you?" Grissom would ask, his dentures falling out halfway as he spoke.
"I'm David Hodges. I'm here to get my revenge."
"You're who?"
"You sold out my birthday to my telepathic neighbor! Die, scum!" (It would go downhill from there, but that was the basic idea.)
"David?"
David jumped at the voice on the other end of the line. He had been spacing out again. "Banana sounds great."
"Lovely! Thursday then?"
When else would it be? He sighed, wishing for a normal life. "Thursday," he confirmed.
"How exciting! I'll be sure to tell Daphne."
"Tell Daphne? Ms. Rainey, I really don't think-''
David's protest was met with a dead phone line. He paused a moment, giving the cell a good glare before snapping it shut. It wasn't the phone's fault, but if Thomas Bell were alive today, David would give him a piece of his mind.
He was about to make an exit when he heard nothing. That's right, folks: nothing. He stopped. There was no noise, but the atmosphere had somehow changed, signaling the presence of another person he'd been unaware of. Before he knew it, he was walking over to the line of hidden sinks. Why hadn't he checked again? He swore that if Sanders were there, laughing about the conversation, he'd chop him up into tiny pieces and flush him down the toilet.
But it wasn't Greg he found giggling over a faucet. It wasn't Warrick amused about the banana cake. It wasn't even Grissom trying to psychoanalyze the odd relationships he had with women.
It was Nick. Crying.
"Nick?"
He hadn't meant to sound concerned, but it came out that way. Either way, it was clear that Nick didn't want to be seen. The Texan turned his face from David's line of sight.
"What is it, Hodges?"
"Dropped another contact down the sink? You know, if you want to spend time with me, I like candlelight dinners and walks on the beach as well."
Nick let out an irritated "Shut up," and it was then that David realized he wasn't upset… he was in pain.
He couldn't believe he was going to ask this, but what other option did he have? Unlike his kindly neighbor, he wasn't given the gift of the telepathic. He took a breath. The words sounded foreign on his tongue. Hell, he was surprised he didn't start melting into a puddle after he spoke.
"Are you feeling well?"
"Yeah. It's just my eye."
Just my eye. Grown Texan men didn't cry because their eye hurt; they cried when their best bull died or when someone questioned their masculinity. Seeing as Nick didn't own cattle and his masculinity was rarely debated, David's deductive reasoning told him there had to be some other explanation.
He began running all possibilities through his head, quickly observing Nick's body language. He was rubbing his left eye, grunting and trying to wash it with water.
Oh.
Even David (in his most uncaring state) had to cringe. If Nick occasionally wore glasses, he had to wear contacts the rest of the time. David remembered how his sister sometimes hurt her eye wearing contacts, convinced that the absence of bulky glasses made her more attractive. David never told her that maybe washing her hair and scraping off the many layers of dirt from her skin would have done the trick; then again, he hadn't had a death wish either.
"Let me see," David said, walking over. Nick shook his head.
"Hodges, it's-''
"Shut up, Stokes," David interrupted, turning Nick to face him and taking a quick look into Nick's eyes. His left eye was slightly red and tearing up.
"Hodges, what the hell are you doing?"
"Scratched cornea."
"What?"
"What kind of contacts do you wear?"
A confused and pained pause: "Gas permeable," Nick replied, reaching up to scratch his irritated eye. David shook his head at the action and when Nick paid no heed, grabbed his wrist to cease his movement.
"Don't touch it," he ordered. "You'll make it worse. You need to get to a hospital."
"Hodges, I'm in the middle of sh-''
"Trust me, you aren't going to get anything done tonight."
"Hodges…"
"You're going to be miserable, Stokes. Go to the hospital."
When Nick didn't respond, David rolled his eyes. Had he started speaking Greek and not realized it? Were the words "go", "to", "the", and "hospital" so hard to grasp?
He shook his head and led Nick out of the restroom before grabbing his car keys.
…
"Mister Stokes, it was a good thing your friend recognized the problem," Doctor Price said, giving them a cheesy smile from above his clipboard. David gagged internally; it was as if a bad car salesman woke up one morning and decided to become a medical professional. "You've indeed scratched your cornea. Has this happened before?"
Nick look tired, rumpled, and in pain. Quite frankly, one glance made David realize he had seen drowned rats with more spirit.
"I don't think so."
"Then this'll be quite the experience. First of all, I have a prescription for the pain. Second, you'll need an eye patch for at least two days, and I want you wearing glasses for at least a week. Do you and your friend work together?"
Nick cleared his throat. David could tell that Nick wasn't too keen on the doctor's excessive use of the word "friend."
"Yeah, we do."
"Good. I suggest he drive you for the next two days as well, although taking a few days leave would be more preferable."
"I'll keep that in mind."
David knew that Nick wouldn't keep it in mind; he'd be bursting to get back in the field by tomorrow night. Doctor Price gave them another toothy grin. David's ability to keep his lunch down was quickly beginning to fail him.
"Other than that, you're good to go. Make sure your friend drives you, you hear? Oh, and take one of my cards."
David wondered what it would take to kill the man if he used the "f" word one more time.
…
Two words for you: bachelor pad.
That's what Nick lived in; then again, what had David been expecting? It's not like Nick kept a cleaning lady stashed away somewhere and if he did, she wasn't doing much of a job with the housework.
As Nick held the door open for him, David tried to keep his mouth shut. One glance at the bookshelf told him that Nick was too involved with his job; it was shelves of criminalistic guides and case reviews. One glance at the movies told him Nick watched too much Discovery Channel; it was rows of animal documentaries and home videos. One glance in the kitchen told him he had a steady diet of artificial colors and flavorings; if it wasn't in a box or can, he didn't seem to eat it.
"Go ahead and say whatever's on your mind," Nick said, locking the door behind him. "I know there's something insulting you're trying to keep quiet."
David cleared his throat. "It's a nice place. The pile of laundry in the corner gives it that warm, homey feel."
"Now that you've got it out of your system, you aren't allowed to talk 'til you're back outside."
Nick kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch, sighing as he stretched out. As he shifted, the pills in his jacket pocket clinked against each other, reminding David of their existence.
"Aren't you going to take those?"
"The pills?"
David didn't honor the smart-ass question with a reply; instead, he made his way towards the kitchen. There were a few moments of silence as Nick heard the other man rummaging through the cabinets, no doubt looking for a drinking glass and probably internally snickering at the unusually messy state of the dishes and refrigerator. Most the time, Nick kept a tidy house with minimum clutter, but the past few weeks hadn't given him enough hours in the day to work, sleep, and clean, so he was forced to choose two out of three.
It was bizarre enough having David Hodges take him to the hospital. It was even stranger to have him in his home, but the Weird Scale hit a perfect ten when the technician's horrified voice asked, "You eat Easy Mac?"
It wasn't what Nick had been expecting Hodges to say. He was mentally preparing himself to dodge the many sarcastic barbs that were sure to come flying his way, but the question was filled with such absolute alarm that Nick had to take a moment to remember what he was protecting himself from anyway.
David came from the kitchen, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small box of Easy Mac in the other.
He handed a somewhat confused Nick the glass, motioning for him to take some pills before holding up the yellow box.
"I get that you're a bachelor. I get that you don't cook. But this-'' he said, taking a moment to make absolutely certain that Nick could see the box, "Is nauseating. Cheese isn't supposed to be powder, Stokes. Flour is powder. Baking soda is powder. But cheese is a solid block of dairy goodness, Nick. My seven year old niece lives on this stuff."
"So what are you, a gourmet cook or something?"
"Call it what you like, but this is dog crap marketed as edible food. I can't believe you eat it."
"It's almost as if you care."
"'Almost' being the operative word."
"I like mac and cheese," Nick said, defending his food choices.
"Okay, sure. I won't blame you for that, but this isn't mac and cheese. It's a mockery of mac and cheese. It tastes disgusting."
"I think it tastes fine."
David merely stared before shaking his head and taking back the water glass, Nick having taken his pills. He held up the box again. "When your craving for this stuff becomes insatiable, you can dig it out of the trash can."
"What, you're throwing away my food?"
"Throwing away? Of course not. I'm liberating you from the revolting sustenance choices you obviously aren't capable of making for yourself."
"I can't believe you're throwing away my food."
"Are you deaf as well as blind? Not throwing away," he reiterated. "Merely discriminating your palate."
"I paid for that and you're throwing it away?"
David let out an exasperated sigh before turning to head back towards the kitchen.
"Hey, Hodges?"
David turned expectantly, waiting for Nick to fight him about the food and pills and possibly even the hospital visit. Instead, Nick gave him a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "Thanks. You know, for everything. The drive and all."
"Wow. Is this what a college frat thanks is like? I think all we're missing is the awkward hug and communicative grunts that roughly translate to 'I'm too insecure in my masculinity to properly express gratitude.'"
There was a pause as Nick, even in his pain, gazed up from his seat on the couch to give David a long stare. Finally, he shook his head and laughed a little. "You're honestly unbelievable. Where do you get this stuff?"
"Thirty-eight years of observing the stereotypical American labels gives you time to reflect."
"You make everything a lot harder than it has to be, Hodges."
"Would it be any fun if I didn't?"
"I see you're one of those guys who have to create excitement in their lives."
"Hm. Driving you to the hospital is the highlight of my month."
"You're really weird."
"Your appreciation is noted."
David took the water glass and headed towards the kitchen, leaving Nick on the couch. He was about to leave it in the sink when he noticed the sink was too crowded to hold much of anything. And if his sight wasn't failing him, he could have sworn he saw something move under the taco-covered plate. David made a face. The rumor of men being pigs wasn't something women had to make up; they were basing it on pure fact.
He figured it would take five minutes at most, so of course twenty minutes later, he finally finished tackling the dishes he was sure had been there for at least several weeks. He made a mental note to inform Nick that when milk solidified, it was usually a sign to throw it out.
"So are you taking a couple of days off or what?" he asked as he folded the kitchen towel and placed it back in the drawer. "You can always call Sanders and…"
David walked through the doorway but stopped speaking the moment he caught sight of Nick sleeping on the couch. He paused at the sight, hating himself for unconsciously trying to soak the image in.
Nick was almost beautiful lying there, even with that patch on his eye. David would have never admitted to a living soul, but one would have to have been blind not to notice how attractive the other man was: dark hair, dark eyes, charming smile. David pursed his lips. The words "Nick" and "attractive" were to never be used in the same sentence, just like "Ecklie" and "sexy" or "Sanders" and "intelligent."
Because there were more to people that what appeared on the outside. If everything were based purely on physical appearance, David's ex-wife would have died with laughter when he proposed. Looking back, he sort of wished she had.
With a small sigh, he grabbed the blanket from Nick's bed before draping it over the Texan, well aware that doing so destroyed the snarky, bitter image he worked so hard to maintain. But what did he expect himself to do? Let Nick lie there, looking pathetically small and blind and cold?
Without looking back, he grabbed his keys, locked the door behind him, and drove home.
Careful where you stand,
Careful where you lay your head,
It's true we're always looking out for one another.
Careful Where You Stand, Coldplay
TBC.