Some David/Nick
Hello. We’re back again.
Title: Music Appreciation
Summary: David Hodges never had a reason to like country music, until now.
Authors: sarcasticsra and amazonqueenkate
Disclaimer: If it were ours, don't you think something like this would've already happened on the show?
Word Count: 4425
Rating: PG/PG-13
Author's Notes: Thanks for beta’ing, Kelly. It just kept... growing. Damn boys wouldn’t kiss. =P
David Hodges, although not having taken a Probability or Statistics class since high school, was fairly sure that the radio station should not be tuned to a country station every time he turned it on, just by chance.
Even if he didn't hate country -- and he did (oh, how he did) -- he would have minded, if simply because it was his radio and he enjoyed it being turned to his station. He wanted to hear Queen and The Who, not stupid Travis Tritt or whiny Shania Twain.
But because the maniacal group who called themselves his friends (with friends like those...) had a perverse pleasure in making his life as miserable as they could, every single freakin' time he'd turned on his radio in the past two weeks, his ears were assaulted by twangy instrumentals and ludicrous lyrics almost always about God, cheating, or dead animals.
Just like right now. And, as it happened, Nick Stokes had walked into his lab right as he had turned on the radio. “Nice song. I didn't know you liked country, Hodges?”
Hodges immediately snapped his head up and lowered his eyes to a glare, only half-noticing that it was, indeed, Nick, and not one of those traitorous miscreants he called his friends. “Apparently, no one does,” he retorted, and reached for the dial.
Nick appeared confused for approximately one-half second, before realization seemed to dawn. “Your fellow techs been changing the radio station on you?” He paused, apparently in thought. “But none of them like country, do they?”
“Actually, we all do. We go square-dancing every Wednesday. You just haven't lived until you've dosie-doed with Mary Lou.” Hodges rolled his eyes, finally settling the dial on a nice, sane, classic rock station.
“Right.” Nick didn't look impressed, though Hodges couldn't be sure if it was his commentary or his choice in music that did it. “Why'd they change it to something you hate? Just to annoy you?”
“Why do you ask questions with obvious answers? Just to annoy me?”
Nick put his hands up in defeat -- well, one of his hands, anyway. The other was holding a small item that was yet to be determined. Since Hodges was not a CSI and was therefore free to assume all he wanted, he assumed it was something Nick wanted run. “I come in peace, honest. Here, I need you to run this. It's from the Turnis case.”
See? Assumptions weren't always so bad. “Here's a novel idea -- why not give it to me?” Hodges took the item from Nick. When he didn't leave, he frowned. “It's going to take longer than three minutes, because as much as I try to convince the machine otherwise, it just refuses to go faster for random people. And as much as I'm sure you enjoy my scintillating conversational skills, you're not going to want to wait around for it. You may even have a job to do,” Hodges said. “Of course, what do I know? I'm only a lowly trace technician.”
Nick smiled -- one of those blisteringly hot smiles -- and nodded. “'Kay, man. Page me.” He paused for a moment. “And give the music a chance.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “Any sorry attempt at 'music' about tractors as sexual objects should be banished from the Earth.”
That was enough, thank God or any related deity friends of his, to convince Nick to leave, though he left smirking. Smirking. Hodges watched him go, not so much staring at his ass as admiring the view, and then sighed. Of course he'd smirk. He found it funny. He did not understand the nefarious nature of the country music game.
*
“Greg Sanders,” Hodges called out in a dangerous voice as he caught a suspicious-looking CSI sneaking out of his lab later that night. He had left only momentarily to use the restroom, and already there were hoodlums traipsing in and out of his lab, undoubtedly up to no good.
“Yes, Hodges?” Greg asked, shooting Hodges an innocent look that was neither all that innocent nor convincing.
“Was there something you needed? Even though your observational skills are shoddy at best, even you must've noticed I was not in my lab. Interestingly enough, that makes it hard to talk someone, unless you're into the whole imaginary friend thing.”
Greg grinned. “I was just borrowing a pen,” he replied so quickly and so casually that Hodges knew immediately translated to I was up to absolutely no good. “So, how's it going? Long time no see.”
“Cut the small talk. If I were to walk into my lab right now and, say, I don't know, turn on the radio, what would I hear, Sanders? Would I hear the lovely sounds of Queen's ‘You're My Best Friend’ or would it happen to be, I don't know, the obnoxious so-called artistic stylings of one Toby Keith? Answer wisely, for it may be the last thing you ever say.”
“Depends. Would you turn it on with the volume up?”
“Of course not. Having the volume all the way down is perfectly conducive to hearing music on the radio.”
It looked as if Greg was making a decision. Hodges mused that it was the Keep my life vs. ratting out a fellow conspirator game many of his “friends” (“enemies” was coming in at a close second in the “how to describe his coworkers” category) played. Always a tough choice, especially for Greg, who needed twice the normal time allotted to think things over. Okay, so he wasn't being exactly honest. Greg needed three times the amount. “Jacqui put me up to it. She said if I didn't do it she'd do something horrible to my coffee.”
“And you didn't think I might do something horrible to your life? For shame.”
Greg smiled sweetly. “Awww, you love me. You wouldn't.”
“I love you as much as a root canal, but if you go away now, I won't be tempted to drown you in your coffee. And tell Jacqui that, if she touches my radio again, I will buy every candy bar in the machine just to spite her.”
Greg looked scandalized. “You want me to tell her that? I don't have a death wish, you know.”
“And yet you risked your life by sneaking into my lab to change the station on my radio. Your actions don't match your words. Highly puzzling.”
“Because you'd never actually kill me. Jacqui would not hesitate to destroy the sanctity of the beans.”
“If by destroy, you mean 'drink in one fell swoop.'”
“That too.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes, then. “But I mean it -- lay off the radio, bud.”
:We wouldn't have so much fun annoying you about it if you didn't have a crush on--”
“Gregory Sanders, shut up this instant or I will personally see to it that Jacqui finds out who hid her cigarettes on the roof last week,” Hodges hissed. Greg was momentarily stunned by the venom, but three seconds later when a familiar voice called out, it appeared that he understood.
“Hey G, hey Hodges,” came a very Texan drawl, as the owner of said drawl, Nick Stokes, approached them. “What are you two talking about that's so interesting?”
Greg grinned in that evil way that always made Hodges wonder if he wasn't as sweet-and-well-meaning as he pretended. “Actually, we were just talking about--”
“Drowning Greg in his coffee,” Hodges cut in, and Greg feigned hurt as soon as the words exited his mouth. “Only takes three inches of liquid to drown someone. Leaves plenty to drink.”
Nick frowned. “Harsh, Hodges.”
“I do have a reputation to maintain. Oh look -- it's been three whole seconds. Sanders has work to do, right Sanders?”
“Actually, I--”
“You need to get right back to work lest Jacqui discover who hid her cigarettes?”
Greg paled. “Right. I, uh, need to get back to work. Bye, guys.”
They both watched him leave, and Hodges felt some amount of satisfaction in knowing that he'd deflected a large amount of personal, embarrassing, and nosy questions.
“What is it with you two?” Nick questioned. “You'd think he kicked your dog or somethin'.”
Or not. “There are some things, Stokes, that defy definition.”
Nick looked skeptical. “You know, sometimes I wonder about you two. It's as if you've got all this pent up sexual--”
Hodges shuddered and interrupted him. “Please, for the sake of my stomach, do not complete that thought.” Nick was grinning at him, now, which was just great. Nick needed to realize that his grins were too damn attractive for their own good and could be used as weapons. He ought to be careful where he pointed one of those things!
“Did you need something?” he finally questioned when Nick proved he had no intention of doing anything other than flashing that grin around. “Or are you just seeing what creative threats I can come up with for you?”
Nick's grin slipped, and he shot Hodges a confused look. “You paged me.”
“Oh.” He had, hadn't he? Yup. Paged Nick, went to the bathroom and -- dammit. “Right. Trace.” He sighed, melodramatically. “I've been spending too much time around Sanders. I hadn't been aware stupidity was contagious. Clearly this was an oversight on my part.”
Nick rolled his eyes and followed the muttering trace technician into his lab.
“What have you got?” Nick questioned to his back, and Hodges bit back a snide comment; why did CSIs always think he could just summon up reports and results out of mid-air? He ignored the obvious question and grabbed his file folder -- and then froze as the teeth-grating twang of one Tim McGraw started floating through his lab. When had he learned all their names, anyway?
Nick was smirking as he pulled his fingers away from the radio. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you liked it.”
"Good thing you know better. Otherwise, your results would be getting up-close and personal with the shredder.”
“Aw, c'mon, Hodges, you've got to admit, it's pretty good music.”
“Stokes, that is like saying Sanders has 'pretty good' taste in shirts.”
Again with the grinning. Nick Stokes would certainly be his death, one day. “I betcha I could find something you'd like.”
Hodges sighed and held out the file. “Rubber. Specifically, rubber from a high-tech line of mountain bike tires marketed to hardcore mountain bikers. And the day you find me country music I can even tolerate is the day Jacqui Franco quits smoking and chocolate.”
“Rubber? From a bike?” Nick frowned, and Hodges was thankful the man was such a diligent CSI and that this piece of information was enough to distract him. “That makes no sense. This kid was paralyzed from the waist down. Why would he be leaving traces of rubber where he went?”
“I don't know, but then, I'm not the CSI. I just run trace. You solve the cases. Funny how that works out. I wonder why. Maybe that's what was in those neat little job descriptions?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Nick was saying, and walking towards the door. Before he left the lab entirely, though, he shot back, “But don't think I've forgotten about this country business. You've given me a challenge, and Nick Stokes doesn't back away from a challenge.” He sent him one last grin before he departed.
Oh yeah. On his death certificate, under ‘cause of death,’ the words ‘Nick Stokes’ would be printed in clear, black ink.
Even so, that still didn't stop him from changing the station back to classic rock.
*
Maybe Nick Stokes didn't back down from a challenge, but David Hodges certainly forgot about them. With CSIs demanding results over and over again (really, how many paint chips could one man process over the course of three days?) and someone still sneaking in to futz with his stereo (too bad he was trace and not fingerprints), he completely forgot about Nick's silly little not-backing-down business.
So when it was brought up again, Hodges was momentarily surprised. “Hey, Hodges, I have something for you,” Nick said, walking into the lab. Hodges didn't even look up from what he was doing.
“Set it down, I'll get to it after this,” he replied.
“No, I've got something for you,” Nick emphasized the last word enough to make Hodges look up at him and raise an eyebrow. “A gift. To answer your challenge.”
Challenge? What cha-- oh, right. “Please. I told you, it was impossible. I know you fancy yourself some kind of super CSI, but not even you could find country music I'd like.”
“Just listen to it. His name's Phil Vassar.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “I hate him by name alone,” he commented.
Nick narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly, a mockery of actual annoyance. “You won't when you listen,” he insisted, and held out the CD.
“Really?”
“I bet you.”
“Warrick's the gambler, in case you'd forgotten.”
“What will it take to get you to listen?”
Hodges considered this. “I'll make you a deal, Stokes. I'll take your little CD and listen to it. When I decide I hate it with an extreme passion you will never broach this subject again and you will somehow convince your fellow compatriot Sanders to refrain from messing with my radio ever again.”
“And what if you like it?” Nick challenged.
“In the extremely unlikely case -- such as, if I fall into a parallel universe where up is down and bad is good -- that I do like it, I'll keep my radio tuned to a country station for the next two weeks. But it's all moot, because I'm not going to like it. Deal?”
“If you like it, you also have to buy your own country CD.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. But I accept.”
Nick smiled -- Why the smiling? Why? -- and Hodges snatched the CD from his grasp. “I'm not going to like it,” he reminded Nick coolly, just in case he might have forgotten in the last few minutes.
“Right.” He didn't seem to believe him. Figured. “Listen to it.”
Hodges set the CD down on the counter. “I'd rather not break my eardrums while doing delicate calculations and experiments, thanks.”
Nick's smile grew -- Jesus Christ, what had he done to deserve this? -- and he replied, “Whatever you say, Hodges. Just as long as you listen to it at least once. And I'll find out if you're lying. I have my ways.”
Hmm, that was either really dedicated or slightly creepy. Hodges couldn't decide.
“Yes. Those masterful investigative skills.” He rolled his eyes. “Now shoo. Some of us have work to do.”
“Did you just shoo me, Hodges?” Nick was full-out grinning, now. Hodges should just give up. He could never win against the man's various facial expressions.
“No. I was talking to the other pesky CSI who won't leave. You're welcome to stay.”
“I knew you liked me, Hodges.” Nick grinned at him again before leaving. Hodges just wondered why the universe hated him.
*
He didn't listen to the CD that night, or the next. Nick eyed him curiously from behind the glass walls all through the next shift but never asked, thankfully. If he'd asked, Hodges would probably have had to ingest the truth serum that was his infectious smile and admit that, no, he hadn't gotten around to listening and then... Well, he wasn't sure what Nick would have done, but it probably would have been unpleasant in an intoxicatingly nice way.
Finally, after shift on that second day, he popped it in his car stereo on the way home.
When the song entitled ‘This Is God’ finished playing, Hodges decided that he absolutely, completely hated his life.
There was only one thing to do in this situation -- lie. Lie like he had never lied before. Impersonate a rug, if necessary. It was the only sane response.
The next day, Nick sauntered into his lab, grinning like the Chesire cat. “You paged?”
“Oh, good,” Hodges intoned immediately, and pulled the CD out of his lab coat pocket (not, of course, that'd he been planning out this ruse for the last several hours) and set it on the counter.
“You can get this monstrosity away from me.”
Nick's grin faltered and he eyed Hodges for a moment, as if he was trying to read his mind. “You didn't like it? Not at all?”
“I told you I wouldn't. This whole exercise was a waste of time. Now, please take this garbage and get Sanders to leave my radio in peace. You're an honorable man, so I know you wouldn't back out of a promise.”
Nick nodded slowly, taking the CD. He headed toward the door, but tossed back, “Too bad you didn't like it. I thought for sure you'd like the tenth song, This Is God.”
“This Is God was song fourteen,” Hodges corrected him automatically, realizing half a second too late his mistake.
“You know, Hodges,” Nick said, walking back into the lab, and the grin was back full force. “It's interesting, that, if you hated it, you remembered the track numbers and titles.” He grinned knowingly. “Now, you're an honorable man, you wouldn't lie to get out of a promise, would you?”
Hodges frowned and thought about rugs as hard as he could. “Remembering the track list isn't rocket science, Stokes.”
“Name one Toby Keith song.”
...dammit. “Remembering song names is different from remembering a list.”
“Or, maybe you don't bother caring enough to remember things you actually hate?”
“Or, maybe I have a photographic memory and can just recall track lists.” And for the first time in years, David Hodges wished he was a religious man, if only so he could pray that Nick would buy his lie.
“Name one song off the track list of that Black Flag CD Greg forced you to listen to two weeks ago.”
Hodges mentally cursed. Praying would not help this situation. He'd need a miracle.
“I didn't look at the track listing.”
Nick smirked. “You, David, are a liar,” he informed him smugly -- and damn, smug looked good on him, too -- as he walked over to the radio.
“What are you doing?”
“We made a deal. Two weeks. And should I come with you, to buy your first country CD? We'll make a hardcore country fan of you, yet.”
Hodges resisted the urge to throttle him and his damnable smugness. And his swagger. And his - wait. Had he just offered to...? He couldn't have.
“What? Don't think I can pick out my own CD?”
“No, not really,” Nick replied, grinning that I-make-people-melt grin of his. “After shift, we'll stop by a local music store.” And with that, he was gone.
Hodges was left wondering what he had gotten himself into.
*
He figured Nick would forget. Nick Stokes was, after all, friendly and popular, and he'd undoubtedly end up with a better offer before the end of shift -- or, at the very least, remember that this was Hodges he'd been talking to and get hit with a last-minute bolt of sanity.
Instead, Nick was waiting in front of the building when Hodges exited a couple hours later, and his teeth glinted under his dark I-am-mysteriously-sexy sunglasses. “Ready?”
Hodges glared. “Let's get this over with.”
Nick's grin was not deterred, and that was just mean. “I bet you'll enjoy this.”
“You should really quit betting before it becomes a habit.”
“I'm ahead, though. I think I'll be right again.”
“You say that now. When you're calling all your buddies so you can rustle up 10K at the Tangiers, I will have no sympathy.”
“You're such a good friend,” Nick replied, rolling his eyes as they entered his Tahoe. Nick had insisted on driving; he’d said something about not letting Hodges have the opportunity to flee. Ridiculous, if you asked Hodges. He would've fled ages ago if he'd have known what was coming.
But Nick's comment nearly stopped Hodges in his tracks. Friends? Were he and Nick Stokes considered friends? Was annoying someone with country music and being damnably smug about it enough to merit a friendship? Hodges was not up-to-date on his etiquette, but he didn't think so.
Still, he couldn't let on that the comment threw him. Might ruin the rhythm of their oh-so-scintillating conversation. “Don't worry. I'm sure someone will take pity on you once you're begging on the street.”
Nick snorted. “Should I expect a quarter from you?”
“Two, if you play your cards right.”
“Better be careful, I might spread it around the lab that you're generous.”
David adopted a mock-outraged expression. “You'd dare tell such lies? I'd have to sue for slander.”
“Then I'd just tell everyone you liked country music. Can't sue me if it's true.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes. “Damn you CSIs and your working knowledge of the law. And I don't like country music. I liked a couple songs, kind of. A little. Barely even at all. It was almost a negligible amount of toleration, actually.”
Nick arched an eyebrow. “So then why does Greg change your radio all the time?”
“Because his name is Greg Sanders and he lives to annoy the hell out of me, perhaps?”
“I don't know. Greg's a good guy. Usually stops if you ask.”
“Since when?” David raised an eyebrow.
Nick smirked. “He always does for me.” He shrugged.
“He likes tormenting me more. Tormenting you is like tormenting a puppy. It's just mean. Tormenting me, on the other hand, is like tormenting some mean dog who once bit you. It's revenge.”
He shook his head, but was still smirking. Even smirking was a good look on him. Was there anything that wasn't? “You're such a big, mean man.”
“At least I don't ever sound like a third grader.” They had finally pulled into the parking lot of a music store. Hodges was unsure why he was not dreading this as though he had been singled out to inform Jacqui that Milky Way was going out of business.
“And I don't sound like my grandfather.”
“Ouch. Scathing retort. I think I need to stay in the car and lick my wounds.”
Nick flashed him a grin as he opened his door. “You wish,” he chided, and Hodges wasn't sure if he did or not. He did, however, climb out of the car as instructed.
It was absolutely the most ridiculous thing he'd ever experienced. He had just wanted to pick some random CD and leave, but Nick would have none of it. They went through nearly all the country titles, and Hodges was forced to wander away to the sanctity of the classic rock for a moment, to clear his mind of all homicidal thoughts. He'd even goaded Nick into purchasing The Who, which, since David was stuck buying Keith Urban's latest, seemed fair. What David would never admit to anyone even under oath or on his death bed, would be that he'd enjoyed himself most thoroughly.
God, if he existed, was laughing at him.
*
Nick was drumming his fingers to ‘Who Are You?’ -- another satisfied customer! -- when they pulled back into the lab's parking lot. “Two weeks,” he reminded Hodges, as he pulled the Tahoe to a stop, but his smile was very genuine. A little too genuine. “By the end of it, you'll want to borrow all my CDs.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “Don't get too smug there, Nick. I'd hate to see all that enthusiastic optimism crushed by the cruel weight of reality.” Nick's smile brightened, then, and David was confused. Was this man not capable of being insulted, or something? Wait, now he was looking at him weird. “What?”
“You've finally decided to call me Nick, I see?”
He paused. Well, shit. “Slip of the tongue. Won't happen again.”
“It is okay, as, you know, it's my name.”
“Yes, but think of the mistakes. People might think we're fond of each other. I can't have that.”
“We're not fond of each other? Aw, and here I thought you were fond of me, too.”
Too. It was a very small word, only three letters in length, and was often confused with the other words that resembled it in pronunciation. However, to David Hodges, it was a very, very important word, especially since Nick Stokes had used it in that particular sentence.
“You don't have to pretend to like me. My feelings won't be hurt. Gossip around the lab is that I don't even have feelings.”
“I'm pretending?” Nick looked surprised. “News to me.”
Why was there not a guide book for these things? A big stinkin' guide book that spelled out, explicitly, what to do when your ridiculous crushes started making sounds like they might be interested.
“Underneath that kind facade,” he managed to force out, though he was suddenly not sure he believed it, “you feel only ire. No reason to hide it.”
“Are you sure I'm the one hiding things?” Nick asked, patiently, and dammit all, why did Nick Stokes have to be so kind and patient like that? Why couldn't he be like a normal person and get exasperated with David, leaving him alone to stew in peace? That was at least simple. He could deal with that. Handsome men named Nick Stokes, however? He was not equipped to deal with them properly.
“I think the country has gone to your head. You're getting delusional.”
Nick flipped up his sunglasses and sent him a very earnest look. “Why'd they change the station to country, David?”
And used his real name. An unfair double whammy. “Does it matter?”
“I think so.” And Nick Stokes was still looking at him earnestly, with those eyes that were so big and brown. That was just playing dirty.
“Because....” And Hodges wasn't sure what overcame him -- maybe it was ‘Won't Get Fooled Again,’ or those sweet eyes, or the fact that he'd just finally lost his mind -- but he leaned across the center console and, before he could even think better, kissed him.
And Nick Stokes, for all his damnable smugness and grins and smiles and too-sexy sunglasses, kissed him right back.
Well, then. Apparently, a guide book wasn't really necessary after all -- just country music and The Who, and maybe a little bit of sneaky help from friends -- and when they broke to breathe (who'd invented oxygen, anyway?) he couldn't help but smile.
And, well, if his radio stayed tuned onto the country station of its own volition for longer than two weeks, that was just the way it was going to be.
Because maybe David had found a way to tolerate country music, after all.
-End
Enjoy. ^^
Title: Music Appreciation
Summary: David Hodges never had a reason to like country music, until now.
Authors: sarcasticsra and amazonqueenkate
Disclaimer: If it were ours, don't you think something like this would've already happened on the show?
Word Count: 4425
Rating: PG/PG-13
Author's Notes: Thanks for beta’ing, Kelly. It just kept... growing. Damn boys wouldn’t kiss. =P
David Hodges, although not having taken a Probability or Statistics class since high school, was fairly sure that the radio station should not be tuned to a country station every time he turned it on, just by chance.
Even if he didn't hate country -- and he did (oh, how he did) -- he would have minded, if simply because it was his radio and he enjoyed it being turned to his station. He wanted to hear Queen and The Who, not stupid Travis Tritt or whiny Shania Twain.
But because the maniacal group who called themselves his friends (with friends like those...) had a perverse pleasure in making his life as miserable as they could, every single freakin' time he'd turned on his radio in the past two weeks, his ears were assaulted by twangy instrumentals and ludicrous lyrics almost always about God, cheating, or dead animals.
Just like right now. And, as it happened, Nick Stokes had walked into his lab right as he had turned on the radio. “Nice song. I didn't know you liked country, Hodges?”
Hodges immediately snapped his head up and lowered his eyes to a glare, only half-noticing that it was, indeed, Nick, and not one of those traitorous miscreants he called his friends. “Apparently, no one does,” he retorted, and reached for the dial.
Nick appeared confused for approximately one-half second, before realization seemed to dawn. “Your fellow techs been changing the radio station on you?” He paused, apparently in thought. “But none of them like country, do they?”
“Actually, we all do. We go square-dancing every Wednesday. You just haven't lived until you've dosie-doed with Mary Lou.” Hodges rolled his eyes, finally settling the dial on a nice, sane, classic rock station.
“Right.” Nick didn't look impressed, though Hodges couldn't be sure if it was his commentary or his choice in music that did it. “Why'd they change it to something you hate? Just to annoy you?”
“Why do you ask questions with obvious answers? Just to annoy me?”
Nick put his hands up in defeat -- well, one of his hands, anyway. The other was holding a small item that was yet to be determined. Since Hodges was not a CSI and was therefore free to assume all he wanted, he assumed it was something Nick wanted run. “I come in peace, honest. Here, I need you to run this. It's from the Turnis case.”
See? Assumptions weren't always so bad. “Here's a novel idea -- why not give it to me?” Hodges took the item from Nick. When he didn't leave, he frowned. “It's going to take longer than three minutes, because as much as I try to convince the machine otherwise, it just refuses to go faster for random people. And as much as I'm sure you enjoy my scintillating conversational skills, you're not going to want to wait around for it. You may even have a job to do,” Hodges said. “Of course, what do I know? I'm only a lowly trace technician.”
Nick smiled -- one of those blisteringly hot smiles -- and nodded. “'Kay, man. Page me.” He paused for a moment. “And give the music a chance.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “Any sorry attempt at 'music' about tractors as sexual objects should be banished from the Earth.”
That was enough, thank God or any related deity friends of his, to convince Nick to leave, though he left smirking. Smirking. Hodges watched him go, not so much staring at his ass as admiring the view, and then sighed. Of course he'd smirk. He found it funny. He did not understand the nefarious nature of the country music game.
*
“Greg Sanders,” Hodges called out in a dangerous voice as he caught a suspicious-looking CSI sneaking out of his lab later that night. He had left only momentarily to use the restroom, and already there were hoodlums traipsing in and out of his lab, undoubtedly up to no good.
“Yes, Hodges?” Greg asked, shooting Hodges an innocent look that was neither all that innocent nor convincing.
“Was there something you needed? Even though your observational skills are shoddy at best, even you must've noticed I was not in my lab. Interestingly enough, that makes it hard to talk someone, unless you're into the whole imaginary friend thing.”
Greg grinned. “I was just borrowing a pen,” he replied so quickly and so casually that Hodges knew immediately translated to I was up to absolutely no good. “So, how's it going? Long time no see.”
“Cut the small talk. If I were to walk into my lab right now and, say, I don't know, turn on the radio, what would I hear, Sanders? Would I hear the lovely sounds of Queen's ‘You're My Best Friend’ or would it happen to be, I don't know, the obnoxious so-called artistic stylings of one Toby Keith? Answer wisely, for it may be the last thing you ever say.”
“Depends. Would you turn it on with the volume up?”
“Of course not. Having the volume all the way down is perfectly conducive to hearing music on the radio.”
It looked as if Greg was making a decision. Hodges mused that it was the Keep my life vs. ratting out a fellow conspirator game many of his “friends” (“enemies” was coming in at a close second in the “how to describe his coworkers” category) played. Always a tough choice, especially for Greg, who needed twice the normal time allotted to think things over. Okay, so he wasn't being exactly honest. Greg needed three times the amount. “Jacqui put me up to it. She said if I didn't do it she'd do something horrible to my coffee.”
“And you didn't think I might do something horrible to your life? For shame.”
Greg smiled sweetly. “Awww, you love me. You wouldn't.”
“I love you as much as a root canal, but if you go away now, I won't be tempted to drown you in your coffee. And tell Jacqui that, if she touches my radio again, I will buy every candy bar in the machine just to spite her.”
Greg looked scandalized. “You want me to tell her that? I don't have a death wish, you know.”
“And yet you risked your life by sneaking into my lab to change the station on my radio. Your actions don't match your words. Highly puzzling.”
“Because you'd never actually kill me. Jacqui would not hesitate to destroy the sanctity of the beans.”
“If by destroy, you mean 'drink in one fell swoop.'”
“That too.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes, then. “But I mean it -- lay off the radio, bud.”
:We wouldn't have so much fun annoying you about it if you didn't have a crush on--”
“Gregory Sanders, shut up this instant or I will personally see to it that Jacqui finds out who hid her cigarettes on the roof last week,” Hodges hissed. Greg was momentarily stunned by the venom, but three seconds later when a familiar voice called out, it appeared that he understood.
“Hey G, hey Hodges,” came a very Texan drawl, as the owner of said drawl, Nick Stokes, approached them. “What are you two talking about that's so interesting?”
Greg grinned in that evil way that always made Hodges wonder if he wasn't as sweet-and-well-meaning as he pretended. “Actually, we were just talking about--”
“Drowning Greg in his coffee,” Hodges cut in, and Greg feigned hurt as soon as the words exited his mouth. “Only takes three inches of liquid to drown someone. Leaves plenty to drink.”
Nick frowned. “Harsh, Hodges.”
“I do have a reputation to maintain. Oh look -- it's been three whole seconds. Sanders has work to do, right Sanders?”
“Actually, I--”
“You need to get right back to work lest Jacqui discover who hid her cigarettes?”
Greg paled. “Right. I, uh, need to get back to work. Bye, guys.”
They both watched him leave, and Hodges felt some amount of satisfaction in knowing that he'd deflected a large amount of personal, embarrassing, and nosy questions.
“What is it with you two?” Nick questioned. “You'd think he kicked your dog or somethin'.”
Or not. “There are some things, Stokes, that defy definition.”
Nick looked skeptical. “You know, sometimes I wonder about you two. It's as if you've got all this pent up sexual--”
Hodges shuddered and interrupted him. “Please, for the sake of my stomach, do not complete that thought.” Nick was grinning at him, now, which was just great. Nick needed to realize that his grins were too damn attractive for their own good and could be used as weapons. He ought to be careful where he pointed one of those things!
“Did you need something?” he finally questioned when Nick proved he had no intention of doing anything other than flashing that grin around. “Or are you just seeing what creative threats I can come up with for you?”
Nick's grin slipped, and he shot Hodges a confused look. “You paged me.”
“Oh.” He had, hadn't he? Yup. Paged Nick, went to the bathroom and -- dammit. “Right. Trace.” He sighed, melodramatically. “I've been spending too much time around Sanders. I hadn't been aware stupidity was contagious. Clearly this was an oversight on my part.”
Nick rolled his eyes and followed the muttering trace technician into his lab.
“What have you got?” Nick questioned to his back, and Hodges bit back a snide comment; why did CSIs always think he could just summon up reports and results out of mid-air? He ignored the obvious question and grabbed his file folder -- and then froze as the teeth-grating twang of one Tim McGraw started floating through his lab. When had he learned all their names, anyway?
Nick was smirking as he pulled his fingers away from the radio. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you liked it.”
"Good thing you know better. Otherwise, your results would be getting up-close and personal with the shredder.”
“Aw, c'mon, Hodges, you've got to admit, it's pretty good music.”
“Stokes, that is like saying Sanders has 'pretty good' taste in shirts.”
Again with the grinning. Nick Stokes would certainly be his death, one day. “I betcha I could find something you'd like.”
Hodges sighed and held out the file. “Rubber. Specifically, rubber from a high-tech line of mountain bike tires marketed to hardcore mountain bikers. And the day you find me country music I can even tolerate is the day Jacqui Franco quits smoking and chocolate.”
“Rubber? From a bike?” Nick frowned, and Hodges was thankful the man was such a diligent CSI and that this piece of information was enough to distract him. “That makes no sense. This kid was paralyzed from the waist down. Why would he be leaving traces of rubber where he went?”
“I don't know, but then, I'm not the CSI. I just run trace. You solve the cases. Funny how that works out. I wonder why. Maybe that's what was in those neat little job descriptions?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Nick was saying, and walking towards the door. Before he left the lab entirely, though, he shot back, “But don't think I've forgotten about this country business. You've given me a challenge, and Nick Stokes doesn't back away from a challenge.” He sent him one last grin before he departed.
Oh yeah. On his death certificate, under ‘cause of death,’ the words ‘Nick Stokes’ would be printed in clear, black ink.
Even so, that still didn't stop him from changing the station back to classic rock.
*
Maybe Nick Stokes didn't back down from a challenge, but David Hodges certainly forgot about them. With CSIs demanding results over and over again (really, how many paint chips could one man process over the course of three days?) and someone still sneaking in to futz with his stereo (too bad he was trace and not fingerprints), he completely forgot about Nick's silly little not-backing-down business.
So when it was brought up again, Hodges was momentarily surprised. “Hey, Hodges, I have something for you,” Nick said, walking into the lab. Hodges didn't even look up from what he was doing.
“Set it down, I'll get to it after this,” he replied.
“No, I've got something for you,” Nick emphasized the last word enough to make Hodges look up at him and raise an eyebrow. “A gift. To answer your challenge.”
Challenge? What cha-- oh, right. “Please. I told you, it was impossible. I know you fancy yourself some kind of super CSI, but not even you could find country music I'd like.”
“Just listen to it. His name's Phil Vassar.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “I hate him by name alone,” he commented.
Nick narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly, a mockery of actual annoyance. “You won't when you listen,” he insisted, and held out the CD.
“Really?”
“I bet you.”
“Warrick's the gambler, in case you'd forgotten.”
“What will it take to get you to listen?”
Hodges considered this. “I'll make you a deal, Stokes. I'll take your little CD and listen to it. When I decide I hate it with an extreme passion you will never broach this subject again and you will somehow convince your fellow compatriot Sanders to refrain from messing with my radio ever again.”
“And what if you like it?” Nick challenged.
“In the extremely unlikely case -- such as, if I fall into a parallel universe where up is down and bad is good -- that I do like it, I'll keep my radio tuned to a country station for the next two weeks. But it's all moot, because I'm not going to like it. Deal?”
“If you like it, you also have to buy your own country CD.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. But I accept.”
Nick smiled -- Why the smiling? Why? -- and Hodges snatched the CD from his grasp. “I'm not going to like it,” he reminded Nick coolly, just in case he might have forgotten in the last few minutes.
“Right.” He didn't seem to believe him. Figured. “Listen to it.”
Hodges set the CD down on the counter. “I'd rather not break my eardrums while doing delicate calculations and experiments, thanks.”
Nick's smile grew -- Jesus Christ, what had he done to deserve this? -- and he replied, “Whatever you say, Hodges. Just as long as you listen to it at least once. And I'll find out if you're lying. I have my ways.”
Hmm, that was either really dedicated or slightly creepy. Hodges couldn't decide.
“Yes. Those masterful investigative skills.” He rolled his eyes. “Now shoo. Some of us have work to do.”
“Did you just shoo me, Hodges?” Nick was full-out grinning, now. Hodges should just give up. He could never win against the man's various facial expressions.
“No. I was talking to the other pesky CSI who won't leave. You're welcome to stay.”
“I knew you liked me, Hodges.” Nick grinned at him again before leaving. Hodges just wondered why the universe hated him.
*
He didn't listen to the CD that night, or the next. Nick eyed him curiously from behind the glass walls all through the next shift but never asked, thankfully. If he'd asked, Hodges would probably have had to ingest the truth serum that was his infectious smile and admit that, no, he hadn't gotten around to listening and then... Well, he wasn't sure what Nick would have done, but it probably would have been unpleasant in an intoxicatingly nice way.
Finally, after shift on that second day, he popped it in his car stereo on the way home.
When the song entitled ‘This Is God’ finished playing, Hodges decided that he absolutely, completely hated his life.
There was only one thing to do in this situation -- lie. Lie like he had never lied before. Impersonate a rug, if necessary. It was the only sane response.
The next day, Nick sauntered into his lab, grinning like the Chesire cat. “You paged?”
“Oh, good,” Hodges intoned immediately, and pulled the CD out of his lab coat pocket (not, of course, that'd he been planning out this ruse for the last several hours) and set it on the counter.
“You can get this monstrosity away from me.”
Nick's grin faltered and he eyed Hodges for a moment, as if he was trying to read his mind. “You didn't like it? Not at all?”
“I told you I wouldn't. This whole exercise was a waste of time. Now, please take this garbage and get Sanders to leave my radio in peace. You're an honorable man, so I know you wouldn't back out of a promise.”
Nick nodded slowly, taking the CD. He headed toward the door, but tossed back, “Too bad you didn't like it. I thought for sure you'd like the tenth song, This Is God.”
“This Is God was song fourteen,” Hodges corrected him automatically, realizing half a second too late his mistake.
“You know, Hodges,” Nick said, walking back into the lab, and the grin was back full force. “It's interesting, that, if you hated it, you remembered the track numbers and titles.” He grinned knowingly. “Now, you're an honorable man, you wouldn't lie to get out of a promise, would you?”
Hodges frowned and thought about rugs as hard as he could. “Remembering the track list isn't rocket science, Stokes.”
“Name one Toby Keith song.”
...dammit. “Remembering song names is different from remembering a list.”
“Or, maybe you don't bother caring enough to remember things you actually hate?”
“Or, maybe I have a photographic memory and can just recall track lists.” And for the first time in years, David Hodges wished he was a religious man, if only so he could pray that Nick would buy his lie.
“Name one song off the track list of that Black Flag CD Greg forced you to listen to two weeks ago.”
Hodges mentally cursed. Praying would not help this situation. He'd need a miracle.
“I didn't look at the track listing.”
Nick smirked. “You, David, are a liar,” he informed him smugly -- and damn, smug looked good on him, too -- as he walked over to the radio.
“What are you doing?”
“We made a deal. Two weeks. And should I come with you, to buy your first country CD? We'll make a hardcore country fan of you, yet.”
Hodges resisted the urge to throttle him and his damnable smugness. And his swagger. And his - wait. Had he just offered to...? He couldn't have.
“What? Don't think I can pick out my own CD?”
“No, not really,” Nick replied, grinning that I-make-people-melt grin of his. “After shift, we'll stop by a local music store.” And with that, he was gone.
Hodges was left wondering what he had gotten himself into.
*
He figured Nick would forget. Nick Stokes was, after all, friendly and popular, and he'd undoubtedly end up with a better offer before the end of shift -- or, at the very least, remember that this was Hodges he'd been talking to and get hit with a last-minute bolt of sanity.
Instead, Nick was waiting in front of the building when Hodges exited a couple hours later, and his teeth glinted under his dark I-am-mysteriously-sexy sunglasses. “Ready?”
Hodges glared. “Let's get this over with.”
Nick's grin was not deterred, and that was just mean. “I bet you'll enjoy this.”
“You should really quit betting before it becomes a habit.”
“I'm ahead, though. I think I'll be right again.”
“You say that now. When you're calling all your buddies so you can rustle up 10K at the Tangiers, I will have no sympathy.”
“You're such a good friend,” Nick replied, rolling his eyes as they entered his Tahoe. Nick had insisted on driving; he’d said something about not letting Hodges have the opportunity to flee. Ridiculous, if you asked Hodges. He would've fled ages ago if he'd have known what was coming.
But Nick's comment nearly stopped Hodges in his tracks. Friends? Were he and Nick Stokes considered friends? Was annoying someone with country music and being damnably smug about it enough to merit a friendship? Hodges was not up-to-date on his etiquette, but he didn't think so.
Still, he couldn't let on that the comment threw him. Might ruin the rhythm of their oh-so-scintillating conversation. “Don't worry. I'm sure someone will take pity on you once you're begging on the street.”
Nick snorted. “Should I expect a quarter from you?”
“Two, if you play your cards right.”
“Better be careful, I might spread it around the lab that you're generous.”
David adopted a mock-outraged expression. “You'd dare tell such lies? I'd have to sue for slander.”
“Then I'd just tell everyone you liked country music. Can't sue me if it's true.”
Hodges narrowed his eyes. “Damn you CSIs and your working knowledge of the law. And I don't like country music. I liked a couple songs, kind of. A little. Barely even at all. It was almost a negligible amount of toleration, actually.”
Nick arched an eyebrow. “So then why does Greg change your radio all the time?”
“Because his name is Greg Sanders and he lives to annoy the hell out of me, perhaps?”
“I don't know. Greg's a good guy. Usually stops if you ask.”
“Since when?” David raised an eyebrow.
Nick smirked. “He always does for me.” He shrugged.
“He likes tormenting me more. Tormenting you is like tormenting a puppy. It's just mean. Tormenting me, on the other hand, is like tormenting some mean dog who once bit you. It's revenge.”
He shook his head, but was still smirking. Even smirking was a good look on him. Was there anything that wasn't? “You're such a big, mean man.”
“At least I don't ever sound like a third grader.” They had finally pulled into the parking lot of a music store. Hodges was unsure why he was not dreading this as though he had been singled out to inform Jacqui that Milky Way was going out of business.
“And I don't sound like my grandfather.”
“Ouch. Scathing retort. I think I need to stay in the car and lick my wounds.”
Nick flashed him a grin as he opened his door. “You wish,” he chided, and Hodges wasn't sure if he did or not. He did, however, climb out of the car as instructed.
It was absolutely the most ridiculous thing he'd ever experienced. He had just wanted to pick some random CD and leave, but Nick would have none of it. They went through nearly all the country titles, and Hodges was forced to wander away to the sanctity of the classic rock for a moment, to clear his mind of all homicidal thoughts. He'd even goaded Nick into purchasing The Who, which, since David was stuck buying Keith Urban's latest, seemed fair. What David would never admit to anyone even under oath or on his death bed, would be that he'd enjoyed himself most thoroughly.
God, if he existed, was laughing at him.
*
Nick was drumming his fingers to ‘Who Are You?’ -- another satisfied customer! -- when they pulled back into the lab's parking lot. “Two weeks,” he reminded Hodges, as he pulled the Tahoe to a stop, but his smile was very genuine. A little too genuine. “By the end of it, you'll want to borrow all my CDs.”
Hodges rolled his eyes. “Don't get too smug there, Nick. I'd hate to see all that enthusiastic optimism crushed by the cruel weight of reality.” Nick's smile brightened, then, and David was confused. Was this man not capable of being insulted, or something? Wait, now he was looking at him weird. “What?”
“You've finally decided to call me Nick, I see?”
He paused. Well, shit. “Slip of the tongue. Won't happen again.”
“It is okay, as, you know, it's my name.”
“Yes, but think of the mistakes. People might think we're fond of each other. I can't have that.”
“We're not fond of each other? Aw, and here I thought you were fond of me, too.”
Too. It was a very small word, only three letters in length, and was often confused with the other words that resembled it in pronunciation. However, to David Hodges, it was a very, very important word, especially since Nick Stokes had used it in that particular sentence.
“You don't have to pretend to like me. My feelings won't be hurt. Gossip around the lab is that I don't even have feelings.”
“I'm pretending?” Nick looked surprised. “News to me.”
Why was there not a guide book for these things? A big stinkin' guide book that spelled out, explicitly, what to do when your ridiculous crushes started making sounds like they might be interested.
“Underneath that kind facade,” he managed to force out, though he was suddenly not sure he believed it, “you feel only ire. No reason to hide it.”
“Are you sure I'm the one hiding things?” Nick asked, patiently, and dammit all, why did Nick Stokes have to be so kind and patient like that? Why couldn't he be like a normal person and get exasperated with David, leaving him alone to stew in peace? That was at least simple. He could deal with that. Handsome men named Nick Stokes, however? He was not equipped to deal with them properly.
“I think the country has gone to your head. You're getting delusional.”
Nick flipped up his sunglasses and sent him a very earnest look. “Why'd they change the station to country, David?”
And used his real name. An unfair double whammy. “Does it matter?”
“I think so.” And Nick Stokes was still looking at him earnestly, with those eyes that were so big and brown. That was just playing dirty.
“Because....” And Hodges wasn't sure what overcame him -- maybe it was ‘Won't Get Fooled Again,’ or those sweet eyes, or the fact that he'd just finally lost his mind -- but he leaned across the center console and, before he could even think better, kissed him.
And Nick Stokes, for all his damnable smugness and grins and smiles and too-sexy sunglasses, kissed him right back.
Well, then. Apparently, a guide book wasn't really necessary after all -- just country music and The Who, and maybe a little bit of sneaky help from friends -- and when they broke to breathe (who'd invented oxygen, anyway?) he couldn't help but smile.
And, well, if his radio stayed tuned onto the country station of its own volition for longer than two weeks, that was just the way it was going to be.
Because maybe David had found a way to tolerate country music, after all.
-End
Enjoy. ^^