Title: On the Foundation He Lays
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #8: our own world
Warnings: lots of imagery; thoughtful!Nick; dream worlds that will never be real
Disclaimer: Do I look like Jerry Bruckheimer? No.
Author's Notes: I jokingly refer to this fic as "Brokeback Nicky," because I realized as I finished it that it has a very "Brokeback Mountain" feeling to it. Despite that, I like how it turned out. So, forgive me for the Brokebackiness of this. And the schmoop. There's some schmoop, but I promised the next one wouldn't be angsty.

Sometimes, Nick talked about it, his voice far-away as he looked up at the sky or across the desert sands, wherever they were at the time. It was a Nick that Bobby both loved and feared; loved for his vision, his dreams, the wistful peace he had, but feared for his loneliness, his deep sadness, and the quiet despair in the back of his throat.

It'd be a rambling ranch in Montana, he'd say, describing the setting and slowly building the picture as one would build a ranch, one log atop another. Miles of green, far as the eye could see, the rolling hills capped with lush pine forests that stayed a dark, rich color even in the snows of winter. Every acre of it would be his, a plot of land that ended somewhere in the nebulous distance behind the hills. He'd build a little house – nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just a quaint one-story – in the center of his land, erecting it on a foundation he laid. He'd pour his blood, sweat, and tears into that little house, floorboards to chimney, and then, when he was done, hang a swing from the porch and relax there, watching the days go by on his land.

There'd be horses, of course, and a big barn out back – red, because all proper barns were red. It'd be a little beaten up, but he'd rumble to it in his tractor and rake the hay like it was his own Eden, even in the pouring rain. He'd train all the horses himself, and give riding lessons to the kids from town, leading them on well-worn trails through the back forty and telling them tales of his first horse, a strong-willed creature who bucked him off more than once. And when the lessons were done for the day, he'd come home and kick off his boots, warming his feet in front of a roaring fire and listening to the autumn winds howl outside his windows.

Bobby always listened quietly to Nick's fantasy, the dream world of open skies and endless land, watching as the sun set over the desert or dawn sparkled on Lake Mead, and imagined the ranch in his mind, too, a meandering expanse of land that was big enough for a thousand and yet still too small for anyone but Nick. In his mind's eye, he could see Nick clearly, standing on his porch in beaten-up boots and a flannel shirt, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops as he stared out at his homestead, the wind in his hair. It was a lonely image, just Nick and the wild blue yonder.

It was one of those times, quietly sitting out in the back of Nick's truck after shift, watching the sun come up in the distance, that Nick said it. His voice was quiet, far away, the sound soothing as it caught on rays of sunlight and traveled across the silence of the sand. "It wouldn't be much, but it'd be something."

Bobby blinked, the direct address surprising him, and turned look into Nick's face. His eyes were earnest, trained constantly on the distance. "What?"

"A life like that." Nick pulled his gaze from the horizon, his eyes immediately locking onto Bobby's. They caught in the beginning rays of sun, sparking dark, and even though Bobby knew it was trite to think, he felt as though he could fall into those eyes and drown. "I mean, I know it's the middle of nowhere," he pressed, and Bobby could see him twisting his hands slightly in his lap, just one nervous jerk of motion, "but it'd be somethin', right?"

For a moment, Bobby just listened to it, the silence of the desert surrounding them as Nick's words – however quiet, however suggestive, however indirectly hopeful – echoed in his mind. Then, a wave of something that could have been emotion or something else entirely seized him, and he could see Nick's world differently, now, see the roaring fire and the imperfect red barn, and with it, himself. Riding on horseback through Nick's endless forest of pine, the world expanded just enough that, instead of one, there could be two.

Nick continued staring. "I know you've lived in cities your whole life," he clarified, shrugging his shoulders just inches, "but if I ever had the money, maybe you'd like to, you know. Try it out."

Bobby smiled at the question and reached down, finding Nick's hands just as they twisted together again. The heaviness of the idea broke, then, as skin touched skin, and they leaned together. Their lips met halfway, the beginnings of a slow, passionate kiss that built quickly, and – as Nick's grip on his hand tightened, promising a thousand things with a single squeeze – Bobby swore he could see big mountain skies and smell pine trees on the wind.