A/T: I have returned! Although, now I must ask: when I say "progress", what did everyone have in mind? There are some things I can write and some things I can't. I'll leave it up to you to figure it out. And although I have run smack into a writer's blocky wall, I will continue on for the good of the country, because I know you're all counting on me!

In other news, I believe this is one of the most pointless and (dare I say it? Nooo! -sobs-) OOC chapters I've written so far. I just wasn't sure where to take it, so I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted 'til this appeared out of the chaos. Tell me what you think… just so long as it's filled with praise and awe.

Disclaimer: CSI. Sanity. I own neither.

Out With It
Act 6: Wherever We Are

My heart laughs in my bosom; where I am, there I think of you.
-Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi to Anna Schulthess, 1769

Ryan woke the next morning in the silence of he and Eric's hotel bedroom. There was very little noise; a T.V. could be heard through the walls, muffled laughter from the hallway, and a car honking its horn from the streets below. Sun was actually streaming through the blinds; a rare sight the past five days, considering the midnight shift so rarely saw the dawn. But despite this serenity, this peace that seemed to encompass the room, Ryan's body felt rigid and his head hurt from lack of proper rest. Ryan slowly sat up and moved to wipe the sleep from his eyes, despite the pain this caused his head. He paused a moment from his task.

His hand was wet from the tears in his eyes.

He knew he had been crying in his sleep, but he hadn't done that in a long time. Why now? What could he possibly have been upset over? He ignored the shame he felt, the weakness that hit his gut and made him sick. He felt hung over, although he hadn't had any alcohol in months and he was certain he hadn't drunk anything more than a soda last night. Despite the comforting fact that he was now awake, Ryan couldn't shake the dream that had been haunting him the past five nights; even before then, even before Las Vegas, the dream would sometimes plague him and he could hear voices in the midst of chaos. Glass, music, smoke, yellow police tape; all these things united together for the sole purpose of making his dreams miserable encounters.

Finally, after a minute or so of trying to shake away his uneasiness, Ryan could hear the telltale sound of a fork and pan clanking loudly together. This was certainly a perplexing reversal of reality. He, Ryan Wolfe, was still buried beneath a pile of blankets in his bed while Eric Delko, on the other hand, was showered and dressed, shuffling around in their small hotel kitchen in an attempt to make an edible breakfast that wasn't, for once, Skittles.

This was an admiral effort, of course, but it still wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Ryan's back up alarm should be ringing shrilly in his ear while Eric slumbered on, unaware that the world even existed. Ryan should be getting up; taking the first shower and dressing in clothes he had pressed perfectly the night before. He should then be waking Eric up by whatever means possible, threatening bodily harm if necessary. The one thing Ryan shouldn't have been doing was crying in his sleep, muttering indiscernible words of a man haunted by Nevada.

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to forget about the entire thing. He concentrated on the sounds and words of reality.

His eyes began roaming for the clock on the bedside table. He finally found it, although it meant turning his head and actually putting forth a physical effort to move. Obviously, he was spending far too much time with Eric and his dazed "just-five-more-minutes" habit.

"Am I late for work?" Ryan asked to no one in particular, his words still slurred with sleep, his body still sore from fitful rest. He tried to keep his eyes open but his exhaustion kept pulling them shut.

Eric, obviously having heard his muffled question from the kitchen, poked his head into the bedroom. "You should have been up an hour ago. By my calculations, if you hurry like hell, you'll only be an hour and a half behind."

Ryan's groggy brain quickly began reeling. Late? Was he really late? Or was Eric messing with him again? Did they have to day off? Did they need to get in early? Wouldn't Eric be late too? Why hadn't his alarm gone off? Why hadn't Eric woken him? Ryan took a deep breath, trying to force his mind to calm down and think logically. Being late meant making another bad impression, but for once, Ryan didn't care. Unable to stand the bed any longer, he carefully tossed the blankets off and padded into the kitchen/living room.

"Good morning," Eric cheerfully greeted before looking up and fully absorbing the state of Ryan's appearance. "Whoa. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you snuck out last night and hit every bar on the Strip."

Ryan didn't reply; merely sunk into the lumpy couch, praying the throbbing in his head would stop sometime that century.

"Hey, are you okay? You look like hell." Macho men with something to prove usually hid concern for fellow males; Eric didn't bother to hide is worry. He wasn't macho and had nothing to prove and even if he did, his friends came first. He walked over, kneeling so that he was eye level with the younger man.

Ryan shook his head, trying to lighten the apprehension that was practically radiating off the Cuban. "Thanks. Looking like hell is the trend these days."

"Are you catching something?"

"I just didn't sleep well."

"Are you hungry? I've can make eggs and bacon or something."

"Eggs and bacon?" Ryan asked, the mere thought making him want to puke on the spot. He tried to cover up his nausea, knowing it would only increase Eric's alarm. "Is that what I smell burning?"

Eric cast a quick look over his shoulder towards the stovetop before rolling his eyes and turning back to face his friend. "Funny, Wolfe. I'm trying to be a friend here, but I don't feed those who insult my cooking."

Ryan held up his hands in surrender, a small smile on his face. "All right, no more insulting your too-crispy bacon. If you insist on pampering me, how about some toast and an orange?"

"And maybe a Tylenol?"

"Since you absolutely insist."

"Trust me, I do. And FYI, those circles under your eyes look worse than mine do."

"Ouch. The ultimate insult."

"You're really asking for it, Ryan."

Ryan laughed, ignoring the pain in his neck and shoulders. "Why am I not terrified?"

Eric smiled, walking towards the fridge and rummaging for some fresh oranges. He dropped some bread into the toaster before tracking down the Tylenol, his own omelet still cooking slowly and, thankfully, not burning. After a few minutes of scavenging the medicine cabinet, Ryan's toast popped up and the meds were successfully located. Ryan watched as Eric went from one place to the next, buttering the toast and getting him a glass of Coke, a helpful beverage when one was assaulted by a headache of such a strong caliber.

"Thank you," Ryan murmured, truly grateful when Eric brought him his grub. Without Eric, Ryan probably would have just lay miserably in bed and starved instead. "You take good care of me."

"If I didn't, who would? You'd probably live on the streets without my wise and timely guidance."

"Wise and timely advice? FYI, I hope you know I can't take a lot of crap so early in the afternoon," Ryan said, sporting a large grin. Eric laughed before rising to go check on his breakfast which, in all technicality, was actually lunch, but Ryan had stopped bothering with the labeling of mealtimes. As long as they ate, what did it matter? Their hours were ruthless and so was breakfast. Lunch. Whatever.

"So what are you doing today?" Ryan asked, quickly beginning to peal his orange. There were few things he loved more than fruit, but he would hate to see some of the stuff in Greg's fridge or, even more frightening, his freezer.

"I'm going sightseeing with Nick. He even promised me some real food. Haven't had that it a while, have we?"

Ryan heard Eric speak, but wasn't until a few moments later that his answer really began to decipher itself in his brain. When it finally sank in and his brain registered the huge mistake Eric was about to make, Ryan could only manage a meek, "Sightseeing with Nick?" in response.

"Yeah. Besides, I'll get lost in all that mess out there. I need someone to drag me around or I'll be stuck here all day."

"You're spending an entire day with Nick, out of work?"

Eric looked up from his carefully cooked breakfast, now out of the pan and garnished to his liking, and gave Ryan a quizzical glance. "Yes," he replied, slowly, as if speaking to a child who couldn't quite grasp his words. "Is that a problem? You can come with us if you'd like."

Ryan shook his head, hoping he could explain himself. "It's not that. It's just…"

"Just what?"

Ryan's mouth went dry for a few seconds. What was wrong with Eric's plan? Theoretically, it was an ideal arrangement. But that look in Eric's eyes… it was the same Ryan had when he and Greg went to breakfast together. Eric didn't want Ryan to join them, because he wanted time with Nick, just as Ryan wanted time with Greg. Which meant Eric was inevitably tackling the same problems and questions that Ryan was.

Eric liked Nick. Like liked Nick. And that wasn't good for either party involved with their fiasco.

"Nothing," Ryan replied, slightly stuttering on his words and thus giving himself away completely. "I'm not saying anything. Sounds like a lot of fun."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Eric didn't look at the younger CSI and Ryan couldn't blame him. Frankly, Ryan was being a little hypocritical about Eric's relationship. Wasn't Ryan in a similar situation? Eric wasn't stupid. He knew what Ryan was getting at, and like Ryan himself, he wasn't prepared to face it.

"That's the idea," Eric nonchalantly responded, as if trying to end the entire conversation. He looked uncomfortable and a little ashamed; Ryan felt sick knowing that his own careless questions were the reason for his friend's sudden change in personality.

And most of the time, Ryan would go along with it and allow the conversation to drop into oblivion. He didn't like to attract attention and he didn't like getting on the wrong side of people. He certainly didn't want to upset Eric. But there were some things that he couldn't stop himself from saying; Eric was one of his closest friends and Ryan didn't want him to have to know what it was like to fall in love with someone three thousand miles away.

"I just don't want you to be hurt," Ryan said softly, hoping Eric wasn't upset with him and his "I'm-allowed-to-get-into-one-sided-relationships-with-people-who-live-far-away-but-you-aren't" complex.

"Me getting hurt? Have you seen yourself this past week?" Eric asked, giving Ryan a muted look, his tone reflecting the same emotion.

"What? What's wrong with me?" Ryan asked; his voice was saturated with denial but it only masked his true anxiety. The truth was that he had seen himself the past week and he was sufficiently terrified of what might result.

"What's wrong with you?" Eric asked, completely exasperated and abandoning his previous task of eating. "You and Greg! You think I'm going to be hurt? Fine, maybe I will. But can you honestly say that when you have to say goodbye to Greg, you're not going to leave half your heart buried somewhere in this desert?"

Ryan wanted to say something in return. He wanted to act just as cool as Eric was being, but the older man's words held no untruth. He was right. It hit Ryan harder than he ever knew it could; he would get on that plane and fly back to Florida, but God, it would tear him up into an infinite number of pieces, scattered across three thousand miles of a nation.

Eric looked away. Ryan couldn't say he felt much braver.

"Sorry," Eric finally muttered, leaning tiredly against the table. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for."

"No. You're right," Ryan whispered, rubbing his eyes, hurt and fear and panic settling firmly into his gut. He too abandoned his meal. "It's going to be hard to leave. I should have never allowed myself to ever… It's my fault. I knew better."

"Ryan, it's no one's fault. You like Greg. It's natural."

"I got on that plane and told myself that it was only about Ellie Jenkins. I came here so afraid that I would mess up the case. I think I've messed up my head more than anything else."

"Guess this is our reality check, right?" said Eric, smiling rather unhappily and looking out the window towards the rush that was Las Vegas, towards true sun and artificial light. "A reminder that we can't get involved?"

"I just don't want you to feel like I will when we have to leave," said Ryan, finally looking up to face his partner. "I didn't want to make you angry. A day with Nick sounds great, but…"

"I know. I'm courting disaster."

"We both are."

They both fell silent. The sun continued to shine through the glass, lighting up the city. People walked by, cars zoomed past; the world actually seemed brighter. And yet there they were, trapped by both affection and logic; they both knew logic would inevitably win with them.

"So I guess I should cancel," Eric quietly suggested after a stretched hush. "You and me could go out and get hopelessly lost, have too many drinks at a local bar, grab a cab and have a bad hangover for work tomorrow. I hear that's what a lot of other miserable screw-ups in love do."

Ryan smiled and, unable to help himself, laughed. "Although that sounds like an excellent plan, Nick is going to be here in about five minutes. It would really be a shame to let him down now that you're both ready to go."

"Let him down?" asked Eric, incredulously. "Trust me, he can find plenty of other people to hang out with. I won't be letting him down by any means."

Ryan popped a slice of orange into his mouth, looking thoughtfully towards his friend. "You think so?"

"I know so," Eric replied.

"He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to spend some extra time outside the lab with you. Besides, what was that story Calleigh was telling me about?" Ryan asked, a sneaky grin beginning to grow. "As I recall, you guys were on a case. You were at some sort of bar dusting for prints and all these women thought you were a bartender. They were offering you money and calling you a whole slew of things that I don't want to think about."

Eric tried in vain to fight off a grin and a blush at the memory. "That's Cal's version. She's the hopeless romantic."

"Be that as it may, Nick definitely sees something in you. My case in point is that he would be let down if you decided to bail. So you're going to go out and have a great time. You're going to see Las Vegas and then you're going to come back and tell me all about it in excruciating detail."

"I thought going out was the recipe for disaster?" Eric asked, curious but unable to hide his smile. Ryan could tell that no matter how reckless and stupid and illogical their plan was, Eric wanted to go with Nick nonetheless. Far be it of Ryan to stop any happiness his best friend may be granted.

"Won't know 'til you go. Besides, all I plan on doing is lying around, doing nothing. You don't want to hang out with me. Your plan is much better."

"They usually are, compared to yours."

"That really hurts."

"I can tell you're all broken up about it."

Ryan laughed again, shaking his head as he did so. He picked at his toast and then set it back down, not really hungry. Was it his fault that Eric was now doubting himself? Should he have even of brought it up? Was it really better to have secretly loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Ryan doubted it was. It was easier to not have met the person than to be torn apart from them, to always have those memories. You can't miss what you never had and you can't have what you never knew.

Ryan pulled at another orange slice, not meeting Eric's eyes. When he spoke, his voice was the only sound in the room.

"I'm just saying be careful."

"I will be."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

There was nothing to be thanked for, but Ryan knew what Eric was saying. Thanks for looking out for me. Thanks for being a real friend. It would have felt good to have that appreciation if it wasn't darkened by inevitable anguish.

So when the knock came, when the chance that Eric shouldn't really take was waiting on the other side of the hotel door, Ryan gave Eric an expectant look and Eric tried to return this look with one of his own. This was a failed attempt; he ended up sporting a nervous smile instead. With a knowing grin, Ryan padded towards the door, peering through the peephole just to make sure before unlocking the deadbolt and chain, opening it to reveal one charming, breathtaking Nick Stokes.

Ryan gave the Texan a small, friendly wave. "Hi Nick."

"Hey Ryan," Nick replied, giving him a polite smile before a more concerned frown formed. "No offense, but you look worse for wear. You feeling okay?"

"Just need some more sleep."

"Huh. Greg can really wear a guy out, can't he?" Nick asked, quirking a dark eyebrow. Ryan couldn't fight the small blush that rose to his cheeks. What was that supposed to mean? And where did Nick ever get that idea?

"He certainly does. Drags me to every restaurant in the city."

Ryan could feel a presence behind him and instinctively knew it was Eric. He felt relieved; Nick was one of the nicest guys he's ever met, but talking about Greg with anyone other than his own internal monologue was something he couldn't manage that easily.

"Hey," Eric greeted Nick, smiling. Ryan observed Nick as their exchange began: Nick's hands were wiped anxiously against his thighs, his eyes were definitely focused, and his smile was nervous but real. Maybe Eric didn't catch it, but Ryan certainly did. Was that cologne Nick was wearing? His clothes were casual but not t-shirt and jeans; Ryan wouldn't have allowed Eric to leave with him if it had been. It was more like an "I tried everything in my closet on before I finally found this" fashion. Nick probably looked good in anything he wore; he was trying to impress but wanting to appear as if he wasn't. It was actually kind of sweet. It was unfortunate that Eric was oblivious.

"All right. I'll see you guys later," Ryan said as Eric joined Nick in the hallway, a nervous energy radiating off of his skin.

"Okay. And get some sleep. Otherwise you'll be all grouchy tomorrow, and no one wants that," Eric advised, grinning. Ryan shook his head, hoping to one day have a decent comeback.

Ryan said his goodbyes before shutting the door, locking it and turning to face his empty hotel room. He closed his eyes and leaned on the door, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, the headache and sickness fully surfacing once more in the vacancy and silence of the room.

This was going to be much more painful than he could have ever anticipated.

He idly wondered what Greg was doing before quickly abandoning that thought. He would no longer entertain thoughts of Greg. He was going to get some sleep, hopefully dreamless, and enjoy the quiet for once.

He went to bed feeling ill.

…

Knock.

Knock.

Pound.

It was an oddly similar situation compared to that morning, merely at a different time of day.

Ryan was roused by the sound of someone knocking persistently on his hotel door. The energy it was going to take to actually get up and answer it seemed too great and he was tempted to just let whomever it was find some other door to knock on instead. But it could be Calleigh or Horatio and the last thing Ryan wanted to do was ignore them; after all, he hadn't seen very much of them the past few days and it could be important. So with a small groan he threw off his blankets again and padded towards the door. Weren't they exhausted like he was? What were they thinking? It was an opportune time to catch some shut-eye; only caffeine induced druggies or crazed weirdos were up in times like these.

Ryan finally stumbled towards the door in one dignified piece (Eric usually stubbed his toe or ran into a wall when he was groggy enough), fighting back a yawn as he did so. After wiping the sleep from his thankfully dry eyes, he peered through the peephole, his CSI curiosity beginning to overtake his drowsiness.

Impossible hair, brown eyes, and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. That's how Greg looked on the other side of Ryan's door.

Ryan froze on the spot.

His immediate and default response was to go hide under his blankets again and ignore that ever-present feeling of attraction and guilt. But that wasn't really an option, so throwing the door wide open and letting Greg in was Ryan's second choice. The fact remained that his dark hair was messy and his sleepwear was rumpled and Ryan wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to let Greg see him at his most unprepared and, frankly, humanistic state.

So Ryan did what he knew he wanted to do anyway, despite the many reasons why he should just let Greg leave under the assumption that the room was empty. He took a deep breath before unlocking the door and opening it slightly, revealing only a portion of his bedraggled condition.

Greg looked up, surprised that the door was finally opening.

"Hey," said Greg, flashing Ryan a bright grin.

"Hi," replied Ryan, returning the smile and sinking into the comfortable feeling that always came with Greg.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" he queried, both a worried and sheepish look beginning to form. Even if he had, it was to late for that now.

"No, of course not. Would you like to come in?" Ryan asked, opening the door so that Greg could enter, feeling self-consciously naked in his white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. But this was Greg, so there was little reason to ever be embarrassed. Greg could always top someone else's horror story with one of his own, able to constantly tip the scale in terms of both the humiliation and absurdity levels.

"Sorry about the room," Ryan began, giving Greg an embarrassed look as the other man took a casual look around. "If I could, I'd make Eric clean up his messes. He's a hopeless case."

"Like me?"

"Actually, no. You're much worse, if such a thing is possible."

"I see kindness isn't one of your strong points," Greg said, laughing a little before making himself at home in one of the table's hard wooden chairs.

"It's a work in progress. Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm cool. Sorry to drop in unannounced."

"Please don't worry about that. I need some human contact anyway."

"Speaking of which," Greg said, flashing another smile, "I heard Nick was hanging out with Eric today."

"He is. He said something about real food and that's all Eric needed to hear."

"That's a man for you. Food and sex is always on their mind."

Ryan laughed again. His headache was pretty much gone and the sickness in his stomach had disappeared completely. The Floridian wouldn't be surprised to discover that Greg had secret healing powers just waiting to be discovered. Just being with him made him feel lighter, better than he had all day.

"So," Greg began, slowly, "You stuck here all afternoon?"

"Pretty much. Maybe I can catch some of those enticing Reno 911 reruns."

Greg shook his head quickly. "That's where I draw the line. I'll cut the cable cord first before I even let you near that remote control."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"That's –uh- actually what I came down here to ask. You want to go somewhere? Food? Club? I hear it's your first day off in a while."

Ryan didn't reply first. Wasn't that what Eric was going? Having fun? Enjoying himself? Not hiding from what could happen? He was actually living a life; Ryan had stopped living a long time ago.

Be brave for once, Wolfe.

"Sounds like fun. Any particular place you like to go?"

Basically, that was a "yes" from Ryan Wolfe. Greg fought down the urge to jump up and down in a celebratory dance like the idiot he could sometimes be.

"Oh, I don't know. Vegas is a big city." Ryan allowed Greg to turn it over in his mind, the pros and cons of clubs and food and all the things the bright city had to offer.

And suddenly, Greg smiled. Big, bright, beautiful; Ryan felt the same regret hit him again.

"You like swing dancing?"

…

The club was actually a respectable one, which knocked Ryan for a loop. Whenever Ryan went to clubs (very, very rarely would he agree to go with Eric) there were always half-naked girls, lots of booze, and music so loud that he couldn't even understand the words, much less those who tried to speak to him. Needless to say, Ryan wasn't a big fan of any sort of dance club and when Greg suggested it, he was hesitant to say the least. When Greg suggested The Swingers, he was ready to lock himself in the bathroom in protest. And when Greg gave him that excited, lopsided smile, Ryan surrendered himself to the inevitable.

Ryan was more or less a fashion outcast, so Greg helped him pick something out of his suitcase; dark slacks with a white shirt and gray jacket that Greg claimed didn't make him look too much of a complete loser.

"I hope you know I've never swing danced before," Ryan warned as he made sure the door was firmly locked behind them and silently hoping that Greg might change his mind. They could go to a safe movie instead, which offered a monumentally smaller chance of humiliation in front of gobs of people.

But Greg wasn't easily deferred. He smiled again, obviously very enthused about their plan and hit the down button of the elevator impatiently.

"I'll show you how. Besides, Swingers is so much better than some of the other clubs in Vegas anyway."

"I don't really go to clubs. I don't like loud music and I hate drinking."

"I know," Greg answered, giving Ryan a cheeky grin. "About the loud music, at least."

"But you're going to drag me to this one anyway?"

The elevator let out a "ding" before the doors slid open. Greg considered the question as they got inside and the doors slid back shut.

"If I'm going to irreparably scar you for life, I figured some traumatic dancing would be the first logical step," Greg replied, gazing at their reflection in the elevator's metal doors. They were standing together, shoulders barely touching. They fit together perfectly; one taller, one shorter, one crazy and one not. One was tactful, the other not so much. Greg couldn't remember feeling this way about anyone before. It made him feel feverish and sick all at once, as if he were catching the romantic version of the flu.

The elevator ride was a short one, but long enough for Greg to tell Ryan wasn't entirely comfortable with the entire dancing idea. The insecurities that Ryan faced with his job was one thing; the insecurities about boogieing down in front of other human beings was on an entirely different plane altogether.

"If you hate it," Greg started, "We won't stay. Anything you want to do is fine."

Ryan gave the other man a sideways glance as they left the hotel, venturing out into the bright city of Las Vegas. Someone, somewhere, might be winning the jackpot or losing everything they had. That was both the magnificence and cruelty of the city; it was all a game of chance and it was never predictable.

"You like dancing, don't you?" the Floridian asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

"It's almost better than being a rock star."

"When's the last time you went?"

Greg chewed his lip in thought as he stuck his hand out at the corner, hailing a taxi. "I think Sara and I went a couple of months ago. She forgot my birthday and I told her that if she went with me, I'd forgive her. Y'know, until next year. She forgets every time."

Ryan tried to ignore a small bout of jealousy that hit him from out of nowhere. Greg went dancing with Sara? Okay, he could deal with that. It wasn't as if it mattered. It was ridiculous to even consider being envious of her.

"A couple of months? Then I guess I'm going whether I like it or not. But if I make a fool out of myself, you're going down with me."

"It's a deal."

"Club" was a pretty loose term and not exactly the best word used to describe something. When Ryan envisioned Swingers, he could see a broken down structure with numerous building violations, a couple of druggies in the corner, and a heavy cloud of smoke coming from those who lived a cigarette inclined life. But when the cab pulled up, it wasn't exactly a building. Quite the opposite; it was a large wooden veranda complete with potted trees strung with white lights. There were very few druggies to speak of, the women were actually wearing clothes, and there was a live band.

Ryan hadn't seen a live band in what seemed like an eternity. Not rock and roll or death metal; in other words, not Greg's kind of music, but a real jazz band with the works. Sure, Ryan still had 999 more reasons why he shouldn't be here, but the music certainly wasn't one of them.

"It's a real band," said Ryan, a hint of admiration in his voice. Greg grinned and led them up towards some umbrella-covered tables, complete with some half-decent 1940-ish ornamentation.

"It surely is. Rumor 'round the lab is you're a jazz guy at heart. I figured swing is the next best thing."

"That's amazing."

"Yes, well, everyone says that about me." Greg gave Ryan another quirky grin as the darker haired man rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Can I get you a drink? Or do you thoroughly hate alcohol with every fiber of your being?"

"I pretty much stick with water," Ryan replied, ready to buy it himself, not wanting Greg to feel as if he had to do things for him. Ryan was capable, just a little terrified. "But I can get it myself. You don't have to-''

"One water it is," said Greg, obviously not allowing Ryan to get a word in edgewise. "I'll be right back."

Ryan knew protest would get him no where; instead, he let Greg make his way towards the bar and watched him buy a bottle of water for a self certified health freak and something red and probably slightly alcoholic for himself. Across the veranda, the band was tuning, getting ready to jam. Ryan watched in fascination, bits and pieces of his old saxophone days flitting through his mind. They were testing tempos, leafing through some sheet music and fake books, talking amongst themselves as they adjusted their fedoras. Wetting reeds, fiddling with mouthpieces- it was all part of the thrill of performing in front of others. And for once, since the plane touched down in Nevada, Ryan wasn't thinking about Ellie Jenkins. He felt guilty.

"You look pretty fascinated," said a voice; Ryan didn't even need to hear it to somehow know it was Greg. "You play in a band once?"

Ryan took the bottled water Greg offered before giving him an embarrassed smile. "I used to in high school, then I joined one for some extra money in college."

Greg looked genuinely interested as he leaned forward from across the table, couples streaming in as the band continued to prepare themselves. "What did you play?"

"Alto sax," Ryan answered, laughing a little. "Marching band and then jazz. It was fun, but I didn't have time to keep it up when I started the patrol, so I think it's sitting and rusting in my attic somewhere."

"Do you play anymore?"

"Not really. I never have the time."

"We'll have to remedy that," said Greg, looking thoughtfully at Ryan. The darker haired man fought down a blush and took a sip of water, diverting his gaze and instead observing the crowd around them. The veranda was open, so they could see both the sky and the casinos Las Vegas was infamous for. It really wasn't as bad as Ryan first imagined it would be.

"So. Are you ready to learn from the master?" Greg asked, rising from his seat, every part of him outlined by the light of the casinos, his own excited glow making him the most beautiful man there.

Ryan bit his tongue. No, he wasn't ready. But this was Greg, after all, and "no" wasn't in his vocabulary.

"I don't guess I have a choice, do I?" Ryan asked, taking a deep breath before capping his water and rising from his seat as well.

"Not this time," replied Greg, smiling. "Now c'mere."

Ryan took a quick look around; other couples were practicing, at least, and there were those who looked as if they weren't sure what they were doing there either. This was a little comforting to know.

Greg walked him to the corner of the floor, feeling intoxicated at his closeness to Ryan. When he first thought of asking Ryan here, he wasn't really sure what the other man would say. Victory was nearly his when Ryan agreed, but he was beginning to retrace his steps backwards through his mind. This hadn't been a good idea from the beginning, because he hadn't planned on this insanely fast heartbeat he had going on. He was obvious and that was the one thing he didn't want to be. He wanted to be suave and smooth, someone Ryan could really fall for.

"Alright then. Welcome to Greg Sanders School of Dance. My name's Greg and I'll be your instructor."

Ryan let out a short, genuine laugh, bowing his head in an attempt to hide his embarrassed blush. Greg grinned. At least he was relaxing at the idea of dancing.

"Before you freak out, remember that swing dancing is like riding a bike. The first rule of Greg's School of Dance is that there's no such thing as messing up. Even if you fall flat on your face, that's not actually a mistake. It's just a move that no one's thought of yet."

"That's not exactly filling me with a lot of confidence, Greg."

"Second rule: you don't need confidence, you need me, your instructor." Greg, with exaggerated flourish, stuck his hands out.

"To begin, swing dancing was meant for a man and woman. But those who invented this intricate dance hadn't planned on the gay liberation front, so now there are a lot of variations. The woman puts her hand on the man's left shoulder and clasps her right hand with his like this."

Greg found Ryan's right hand and held it, demonstrating the simple way it was done. Their hands fit perfectly together, like two pieces of a puzzle just waiting to be matched.

"Now your other hand goes on my hip."

Ryan hesitantly placed his hand on Greg's hip.

"Perfect," congratulated Greg. Ryan let out another nervous laugh, his eyes not quite meeting Greg's. It felt a little awkward to touch Greg at first, but he knew he would eventually get used to it.

"Thanks."

"See? This isn't so difficult. Now, I'll be the woman and I'll teach you the steps."

"You're not going to throw me over your shoulder or anything, are you?"

"Nah. That's a highly advanced move, so we'll naturally learn that tomorrow."

Greg grinned teasingly and Ryan found himself relaxing in intervals. He was still alive and breathing. This was a higher success than he previously anticipated.

"Now, you take the first step to the left, like this. Then you go back on your right." Ryan mirrored his foot's movements with that of Greg's own. Left step, right step, back to the beginning.

"Next, we step back from each other. You do it on your left foot, like this and then sort of rock back. Then we come back to each other."

Amazingly enough, Greg managed to get Ryan to abandon his figurative other left foot and reclaim his right; before Ryan knew it, they were doing the basic steps with no problem.

"All right, we're smokin'. Next thing you have to do is twirl the lovely lady –that would be me- with your left hand like this."

Time passed. Ryan eventually began forgetting those around him; he and Greg… they were together and happy and dancing and who cared what anyone else thought? More couples filtered in; laughter, conversation, the tinkling of ice in plastic cups of soda.

By then, the lead member of the band had flipped on the microphone on and gave the large crowd a charming smile, his fedora tilted fashionably and an electric guitar around his neck.

"Whoa, great crowd out there. Welcome to Swingers!" The crowd let out an appreciative roar of excitement. "Who's read to dance?" Another loud who-hah, bigger this time, filled to the brim with energy.

This was a part of Las Vegas that Ryan hadn't expected. No casinos, no life and death roll of the dice. It was people getting together, a huge group that had never seen each other, wanting to dance and let go of everything for just a few hours. It was almost a relief that such feelings existed- among death and hate and greed, it was nice to see a public would still gather together, regardless of the past or future. Music was in the moment and a moment meant everything.

Greg dragged them from the corner and more towards the center.

"You realize that I'll mess up a couple hundred times before I get this, right?" Ryan asked, unconsciously tightening his grip on Greg's hand.

"Have you forgotten rule number two of the Greg Sander's School of Dance?"

"Right. There are no screw ups."

The trombonist and saxophonist put their instruments to their mouth; a bassist plucked a few strings, the drummer clicked his sticks together, indicating a tempo. Ryan remembered all those things he used to know before the music started. Immediately, those around them began twirling and laughing, getting into rhythm of the song. At first, Ryan didn't really move- it was one thing to embarrass himself but quite another to embarrass Greg.

Greg gave him a smile despite those shuffling around them.

"Rule number two, remember?"

So Ryan counted in his head like he used to in band, waiting for the right time to being. 2, 3, 4 and he went step, step, rock step, step, step…

They were dancing. And only then did Ryan realize it might seem a little weird to a bystander that he was dancing with another male, but Greg wasn't a label. He wasn't gay or bi or masculine- he was a genius who could dance and make great pancakes and loved music like he loved life. Who cared who danced with or dated whom? For once, Ryan couldn't bring himself to worry about it. Greg was amazing and Ryan counted himself lucky to be with him like this, having fun and laughing; messing up completely and totally not caring. Who else could have that with someone?

Time passed and they continued on, Greg teaching him more steps and variations as the evening progressed. But both eventually succumbed to thirst; Ryan was surprised by the workout someone got dancing like that. They found their table again, laughing and leaning into each other as they made their way past the floor and to their previous seats.

"So," said Greg, grinning widely, "I see you haven't died out there yet. I might even have to beat off a few vicious looking women who were eyeing you."

"I'm sure they were. Probably giggling at the dozens of times I stepped on your feet."

"You weren't that bad. It's only my big toe that's bruised."

Ryan laughed, taking a large gulp of water before asking, "What time is it?"

Greg took a quick look at his watch. "Nine o'clock."

"I'm exhausted," the darker man admitted, flopping into his seat and leaning back, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars. "I'm sure you're used to all that madness."

"Actually, I'm kind of tired too. Guess I'm getting old."

"You'll never be old."

"Well, I will be the spunkiest guy in the nursing home, but I'll still have to wobble around on a cane. Wonder if the cute nurses'll still think I'm hot?"

"Correction," Ryan said, shaking his head at Greg's comment, "You'll grow old but you'll never grow up."

There was a stretch of silence before Greg smiled softly and Ryan ignored the familiar pang of regret that always assaulted him in times like these. "Want to get out of here?" Greg asked, rising from his seat. He didn't give Ryan much of a chance to argue about it, considering he knew Ryan was tired anyway. They muscles hurt from the constant movement; they certainly weren't old, but they were slightly haunted and tired.

The air was cool enough to walk in, which was so unlike Las Vegas. But neither man questioned this luck; instead, they walked past large groups and bright lights, side by side, arms barely touching.

"So. Was all the effort it took for me to drag you down here worth it?" Greg asked, elbowing Ryan lightly.

Ryan smiled. "It wasn't that bad," he admitted. "I had fun. But Calleigh'll never believe I went dancing."

"Why not, huh? I'm your witness. You danced in front of real people and didn't melt into a big puddle screaming 'What a world, what a world.' This is huge success on your part."

"I can't believe I didn't want to come here."

Greg gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?"

"Cal called the night before we left about the case. It was a big spring and I couldn't stop thinking that I was never going to get through this. But I also knew I had to prove to everyone that I could do this job, so I was the first one at the airport."

"I think that's a mission accomplished when it comes to proving yourself."

"We haven't solved the case yet."

"But we will."

Ryan was silent. Would they really? Greg was the optimist; Ryan was the realist. But he didn't want to think about death and forensics right now- he wanted to blend and be like everyone else, not be drug down by ghosts clawing for their adequate revenge.

"Probably. But I'm glad that I've had the chance to come here despite the case."

"And why's that? Don't tell me it's the hospitable atmosphere."

Ryan smiled. "I don't know. It's… it's hard to explain."

"Well, for one thing, you never would have met me. Your life would have remained a gray, meaningless expanse of time without my presence."

"Maybe in not so many words."

"But it's still true?"

"Possibly."

"You're such a tease."

Ryan bit his lip, staring ahead. Cars, streets, voices, stars; all part of the night they were having. But he realized a day ago as he cried in his sleep, a strange meaningless occurrence, that rejecting Greg's advances had been a huge mistake. Sure, if Greg made another move, he'd be open for it. But he had laid down the law and Greg had respect for him, so no more unwanted advances would be made on Greg's part.

…

After a while, they eventually caught a cab. Both knew it was far too long a walk back to Ryan's hotel or Greg's apartment; in the end, they choose to spend a few more hours at Greg's, simply because he had real food that they wouldn't have to pay for.

"You hungry?" Greg asked as he unlocked his front door. Ryan noticed the slight tremble of Greg's hand when he heard the keys jangle together, making for a small noise. It certainly wasn't nervousness; it wasn't until a few moments later that Ryan realized it had to be the after effects of the infamous lab explosion he had heard so much about from Las Vegas techs. It had been big and loud, destroying everything within its fiery reach, shattering windows and walls and tables. And then it almost killed Greg. Ryan hated to think about it.

"A little. Do you have any pretzels or something?"

"Ah, the health freak speaks. I suppose deep fried and highly salted potato chips are too good for the likes of you?" Greg asked as he began to rummage through various packages on the top of his fridge.

"Is it so wrong to be a fit human being?"

"Well, I have pretzels, but they've long since turned stale. Ah ha! Trail mix sound good? It's a fresh bag."

"Trail mix actually has a lot of sugar, especially if dried fruit are added."

Greg turned and gave Ryan a pointed look. "Tonight, Ryan Wolfe, you're going to be rebellious. You went out. You mingled. You danced. And you're going to consume sugary foods."

"Now that I think about, trail mix sounds really good."

"You bet it does. And I can't wait until Calleigh hears about this. You, eating sugar? Has Hell frozen over?"

"You get funnier every time I see you."

"Which has been with alarming frequency, hasn't it?"

"I guess that's your way of saying that you're tired of me already."

Greg shook his head, grinning. "Not possible, my friend."

They found their comfortable space on the couch, Ryan on one end with a bag of trail mix and Greg on the other with some Mint Milano cookies. Greg threw his shoes haphazardly across the floor and Ryan put his side by side, neatly under the table where no one would trip on them later. They didn't turn on the T.V. or radio; simply sat, munching on foods that weren't all that healthy for the either of them. But they were being wild and crazy that night and it was their celebratory meal, declaring that they could party hearty with the best of 'em.

"So," said Greg around of mouthful of cookie, "Tell me about Miami."

Ryan paused a moment. Its humid air was his oxygen and Florida was all he'd ever really know.

"It's always hot. The air is constantly humid but the oceans are blue. And you think you're among all these beautiful rich people until you start digging through the poor communities and uncovering the rest of the population. There are so many others that everyone ignores. It's hard to watch sometimes."

"Surfers get good waves down there?"

"I hear they do, but I wouldn't know first hand."

"Imagining you out there is sort of funny. Ryan Wolfe, surfer. I just can't see it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

Greg gave a small laugh before sobering up, placing his cookies on the coffee table and obviously having lost his appetite. "You'll have to go back there soon."

"I will," the Floridian agreed, the reminder causing the knot in his stomach to grow. It was regret and the pain of separation; not having Greg around wasn't really fathomable. Working alone in the Miami lab? It was a hard image to conjure up, made worse by the fact that it was bitterly realistic.

A silence hung between them. And before Ryan could really begin to argue with himself, begin to weigh and pros and cons of every move he made, he set down his bag of trail mix and moved from his seat at the end of the couch toward the other side. He crawled up until he was facing Greg, who tilted his head.

"You really are being rebellious, aren't you?" Greg softly asked.

Ryan swallowed down his irrational fear and doubt. He was being rebelling against the common sense he was known to drown himself in, the logic and realism that he lived his entire life by. He wanted to take an opportunity for once, and even if he failed miserably, there are chances worth failing for. This was one of them.

"Sometimes," Ryan quietly began, "I let these amazing possibilities pass me by because I'm too scared to take the risk. And then sometimes I do take the risk, but I let this crazy fear of success keep me from going any further. I'm a whole box of contradictions and my OCD does a good job hiding the chaos in my head. I'm a mess and I hate that."

"You're not a mess."

"I'm a coward."

"You're none of those things."

"Aren't I? You kissed me yesterday. I wanted you to kiss me. And what did I do? I let my logic speak for me. I hate taking big chances and I hate not knowing what's going to come next, so I ran away. I just don't want…"

"Don't want what, Ryan?" Greg whispered. Ryan looked up and met his eyes- he knew he couldn't lie to Greg. Not right now. Not ever again. He saw in Greg what he saw in so few others; honesty, fear, affection. Even if Greg were scared, he would still jump despite any danger of failure. He, like Las Vegas, would take the gamble and run with it.

"I don't want to pass this up," Ryan gently finished. "I don't know what to call this thing we have between us. It's a huge chance for us to take, but I would rather risk it than be safe. Not that you have to reciprocate any of my feelings," he continued, the beginnings of a ramble starting to form. His awkwardness was returning full force; the stuttering, the blushing, the words that ran together. "I'm a really serious guy and I've never liked one night stands. To me, you're much more than that and…"

He forced himself to stop speaking.

He had no words. There was no reason to further this shame.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. If only he could start again, re-edit his dialogue; really think things through before opening his big mouth. But he couldn't; the words had already been said. He couldn't take them back and try again. God had by now witnessed his foolishness, storing his declarations in a box somewhere, ready to pull them out when the occasion arose.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, moving away from Greg and losing the warmth that had fueled his entire brave decision. "I'm so sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Greg asked, now shifting from his frozen position and sliding next to Ryan who was sitting at the end of the couch, looking regretful and confused.

"For throwing this all on you. I should have known better. I just didn't want you to think that I didn't feel the same way."

"So you… like me?" Greg asked, uncertainty laced in his words. Hope, doubt, desire; all those things crammed together in four words, in one question. All he wanted was an answer.

Ryan gave a short laugh. "Much more than I should."

"So if I kiss you, you're not going to file a sexual harassment charge against me?"

Ryan shook his head, turning to meet Greg's eyes and, for once, not looking away.

"No. No charges."

"And you're really sure?"

"I'm positive."

Greg gave him one more look, searching for any ounce of hesitation that Ryan could still of had. He saw none.

He cautiously leaned in closer, barely brushing his lips against those of the other man's. It was sweet, timid, as if he were almost afraid of what Ryan might say, despite the reassurances from earlier.

Ryan pressed back.

It was a huge relief on Greg's part; as each second passed, they began to peel away the uncertainties and fears of rejection. For once, time and place didn't exist. It didn't matter that Ryan lived in Florida and Greg resided in Nevada; they didn't care that time was against them. It wasn't about logic or deduction or science or even crime- it was about emotion, something true and raw, waiting to be released. This was how they felt and it would seem like that would be the only important thing.

They paused a moment. Their eyes fluttered open and Ryan gave him a shy smile, a blush tinting his pale skin.

"Am I that bad of a kisser?" A question laden with fear of taunting or comment; how humiliating was it to be told that you were a bad kisser? Especially by someone who you held in such high regard? "I haven't done it in a long time." An unneeded excuse on his part, because Ryan was perfect to Greg and there was certainly nothing wrong with the way he kissed.

Greg shook his head. He was aware of the stupid, dazed smile he was sporting before he leaned in and kissed him again. Ryan met his lips; pushed him back so that Greg was lying on the couch and he was on top, exploring each other with their mouths and hands, their skin suddenly ultra sensitive when it came to the brush of each other's fingertips.

Ryan moved from Greg's lips to his neck and collarbone, sensitive skin that drove Greg crazy when treated like that. His breathing became faster, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest at any moment. He heard someone's moan echo off the walls before he realized it was his own.

"Ry- Ryan," he gasped out, shifting to give the other man better access. He couldn't manage to say anything else before his lips found themselves another task; his trembling hands itched to take off all the layers that Ryan was wearing. Ryan's knee had found its way between Greg's thighs, pressing against parts of him that shouldn't be teased unless Ryan was ready to take this to the bedroom.

Greg knew he had to speak before he did something he might regret. Not only did he care for Ryan, he respected him as well and he didn't want to push the other man to do something he didn't want to do. Maybe if he were less of a gentleman then he'd try to con Ryan into Doing It; he'd be no better than the sickos he in prison, of course, but conning was such a tempting offer. It just wasn't the classiest. And even though Greg never claimed to be classy, he certainly wasn't scummy. He'd never treat Ryan that way, no matter what the rest of his body wanted.

"Ryan, wait," he panted, his body rebelling against his mind. His body was rip roarin' to go, screaming for them to move past the making out session and to dirtier deeds, but his mind knew better. This was more than just a careless fling and it would be wrong to treat it as anything else.

"What is it?" Ryan asked, a worried look on his face. "Did I do someth-''

"It's not that at all," Greg said between shallow breaths. "God, it's… I might do something out of bounds. Making out- I just, I don't want to pressure you. But I might go crazy if we… if this is all we –uh- do. God, this is embarrassing," he said, covering is face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I think I'm losing my mind."

Ryan smiled. Genuine, bright, and possibly the most beautiful Greg had ever seen.

"Don't be embarrassed. I think it's good. You're a gentleman."

"I hope you don't mind."

"It just so happens that I don't."

"Oh. Good. That's good."

"So how far do you want to go with this?"

"I should think that's pretty obvious. But I'm not the one deciding. If it had been up to me, I would have thrown you down and had my wicked way with you days ago."

Ryan took one of Greg's trembling hands; he knew it was part of the package when it came to the explosion, but he also knew it was nerves. Ryan couldn't blame the other man for his confession. In truth, Ryan had barely managed to keep himself in check before he did something regrettable.

Their fingers intertwined; Ryan kissed the shaking hand lightly.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asked, his voice a hush whisper.

"Down the hall, to the left," Greg replied. When had his voice gone in octave up? Why did he feel like he was in high school again? How was Ryan able to make him feel this way?

Their eyes met and Ryan smiled before rising from his position above Greg, disentangling himself from their knot, ascending from the couch. Greg's eyes followed him uncertainly. Would he get his coat and say goodnight? Or would he, miracle upon miracle, head to the hall and make a left?

Ryan gave him a teasing, terrified grin. "Are you just going to sit there?"

"You're sure?" Greg asked, mentally kicking himself even as he asked the question. Why tempt fate, dumb ass? He's saying yes to you! Don't push for anything less! But Greg still wanted to be certain, because sleeping with someone, like most everything else, was irreversible. You give yourself to someone completely. That meant something.

Ryan quirked his eyebrow as he turned towards the hall and made a blessed left; his voice echoing from Greg's bedroom, their hearts thundering in their chests.

"Are you just trying to let me down nicely? Because I can tell when I'm not wanted."

Before Greg knew it, he was shedding his coat and following Ryan's amused voice. Bouts of laughter could be heard before they both fell into the sheets.

TBC.

…

A/T: Sometimes it's nice and refrained writing. But sometimes, folks, it's "take-no-prisoners" writing. For those not accustomed to my madness, that's what I write because I can't really think of a more intelligent plot line. Dancing? Sure, why not. It might be clichéd, but I gave it the most original twist I could and left it at that. I tried to keep it flowing, poetic, worthy of hundreds of inspired reviews. I might have failed. Alas, I'm past the point where that's important. I'm on chapter 6, and that's the most amazing thing thus far.

Chapter 7: Are you curious how Nick and Eric's day went? (Or will I have to bribe you with cookies?) Or (if anyone cares) how the case is going? (I'm sure some of you are going, "Who is this Ellie Jenkins character anyway?") Honestly, CSI teams don't cross jurisdictions because someone littered, people! -laughs-And for those who've swing danced, I was trying to imagine the man's moves from a woman's standpoint. It might be backwards, but that was just another artistic license I was willing to take.