Title: The Education of David Hodges (Trials and Tribulations of a Not-Stupid Man)
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: David Hodges/Greg Sanders
Rating: PG or thereabouts
Warnings: streaming narrative; stupidity versus intelligence; boxes in the locker room; inevitability; rain
Spoilers: Only if you don't know anything about Hodges.
Summary: The inevitability of things is that David Hodges is not a stupid man. Most of the time, anyway.
Disclaimer: Even if I get the job I'm currently vying for, I will not be able to afford this show. Sorry.
Author's Notes: I have had the title longer than I have had the idea. Whatever the case, a random bolt of inspiration thanks to several weeks of a complete dry spell. Unbetaed, but proof-read.

The inevitability of things is that all beginnings have an end.

David Hodges is not a stupid man. In fact, he has always considered himself the exact opposite of a stupid man, which is probably the partial root of all his woes. If he hadn't been so convinced of his own glory, then that whole mess in Los Angeles probably would have fixed itself. Actually, the whole mess probably would have never been a mess in the first place.

These are just the way things are. David Hodges knows this. He is not, as previously stated, a stupid man.

Well, not in most cases, anyway. He considers the entire bar incident - which precipitated the rest of this, that one ridiculous trip-up on one ridiculous night, and ain't that always the way it goes? - a stupid, stupid mistake. He considered it a mistake when he woke up the next morning to the sound of a hairdryer, that one concrete detail that still stands out as The Moment He Realized What He'd Done. (He'd trademark it if there was the likelihood of royalties.) He considered it a mistake when that night was not the only night, or the last night, or the final night, or when he'd gotten used to waking up to the sound of a hairdryer. He definitely came to the conclusion that it was The Mistake of the Century when there was a hairdryer in his own bathroom, not to mention the hair products. He'd never before seen so much mousse, and he had three sisters.

That, of course, is neither here nor there, but David Hodges has always rambled just a bit.

The inevitability of things is that all beginnings have an end. Well, a middle, and then an end.

If the beginning was the whole Hairdryer Incident (he really should attempt a trademark one of these days), then the middle was Nick Stokes. And Catherine Willows. Not to mention Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle, Gil Grissom, Jacqui Franco, Bobby Dawson - well, you get the idea. The middle was standing in the break room and hearing laughter. The middle was knowing that he, David Hodges, the not-stupid man of not-stupid men, had really made a mistake. The Mistake of the Century. (Could he accrue royalties from himself?)

But David Hodges - say it with me now - is not a stupid man. So he fixed it. Mended the proverbial tear. Darned the proverbial sock. Stitched up the proverbial wound before it could proverbially scar and bring forth the need for proverbial cosmetic surgery. In short, he threw out the hairdryer, changed his locks, and filled two rather large cardboard boxes with loud shirts, pre-distressed blue jeans, a coffee maker that probably cost more than his first car, and, yes, hair products.

He did all this without uttering a word, or at least he tried to. When Nick Stokes sent him a disapproving look when he dumped the boxes in the corner of the CSI locker room and declared he was being "way harsh," David Hodges did employ a few choice words. It was only right, after all, that Nick Stokes realize exactly how much of a closeted Neanderthal he was.

Never mind the fact that Nick Stokes was probably right, because David Hodges is also a stubborn man. (Another story entirely.)

The inevitability of things is that all beginnings shift to middles, and that all middles shift to ends.

David Hodges knows this. He knew this from the first, from showing up at work with his hands in his pockets and a slightly-forged recommendation letter from Los Angeles. He's been there, done that, and has the t-shirt to prove it.

("I got fired for something outside of my control, and all I got is this lousy t-shirt.")

So he places his resignation letter very neatly on the corner of Grissom's otherwise chaotic desk and straightens his coat as though it can preserve his dignity. (What's a seven-letter word for something a wounded man has in spades?) He pretends this isn't about boxes in the locker room or being "way harsh." He pretends this isn't about dark circles under spirited eyes or limp hair. He pretends this isn't about snickering at him in the break room a month earlier, or snickering with him under the bedspread one month and one day earlier. He pretends this is about his needs, his career, his Professional Mindset, his inability to work with dumbasses.

He pretends this is about everything except the truth.

So David Hodges packs his pens and pencils in another cardboard box, along with his extra lab coat and favorite flashlight. He lets Jacqui hug him and sniffle into his shoulder, he lets Bobby also hug him and also sniffle into his shoulder (but not without a choice comment about his girlish nature), he lets Nick Stokes pat him on the back and Warrick Brown shake his hand (sort of), and when he's finally to the lobby, there's a small crowd.

There's not supposed to be a crowd when David Hodges leaves. There's supposed to be a party in the break room, and choruses of "Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead." He looks over his shoulder at them and he tries to smile, but it fails.

Because there's a face missing in the crowd.

David Hodges is not a stupid man. He's, in fact, so smart that he knows that the fates conspire against him. So, really, he's not surprised when it's pouring rain outside the doors, torrents of water splattering against the asphalt. He stares out into the parking lot, across the dull metallic sheen of the sea of cars, and finally at the sky. It's gray, distant, cold, and he can feel something dull pressing against the back of his throat. It feels like a gag, almost, and he nearly chokes.

He swallows, straightens his spine, and walks into the rain.

The inevitability of things is that all beginnings have an end. He sets the box in his trunk and closes it, and when he looks up from his hands, Greg is standing there. Standing in front of him in the uncharacteristic weather, his hands in the pockets of his pre-distressed jeans and one of his loud shirts plastered to his slender torso. His hair is soaked, too, and sticks to his head like a highlighted helmet.

David Hodges sucks in a breath and struggles for words, his fingertips ice against his trunk, but Greg beats him to it.

"If you're going," he says, uncharacteristically shaky and uncharacteristically uncertain, "then I... I don't..."

Greg shakes his head, and for all his smarts, David Hodges doesn't know what he's expecting. So he curls his fingers and waits for something to happen, for the asphalt to swallow him or lightning to strike him. Anything.

When Greg speaks again, he does it with a step forward. "I don't want you to go."

David Hodges, in case you missed it the first few times, is not a stupid man. He learned long ago that, when a second chance falls into your lap, you don't think twice.

And, when he seizes Greg in his arms and kisses him hard and deep, kisses him in a way that makes him feel that this is the Smart Move of the Century, David Hodges wonders if the inevitability of some beginnings is that they don't so much have endings, but renewals.