Title: CSI: The Suburbs
By: Caster
Pairing: Nick/Greg & Many others!
Rating: PG
A/T: Instead, I'd focus on the Nick/Greg love and it would become CSI: The Suburbs, where our favorite CSI team lived in a nice little neighborhood and they'd all be in charge of Neighborhood Watch. Grissom would print the candy bar wrapper that someone littered with and you better believe Cath would haul in the guy who drew graffiti on the stop sign.
Danielle Elenauial seemed to think this little author's note for Lines was funny. I couldn't help but agree.
Despite this, CSI: The Suburbs isn't exactly a literary masterpiece. It's incredibly silly and probably an enjoyable waste of time at most. It's pretty much an AU; plus, it runs rampant with fanon and inside jokes that only CSI addicts like ourselves would understand. Let me repeat: this isn't a poetic description of love or despair. It's slaphappy and you know you love it!
Disclaimer: Not yours. Not mine. Meh!
Summary: Nick knew the price was too good to be true.

***

It was a dark and stormy night.

Suddenly, a shot rang out!

An exhausted Jim Brass jumped at the sound before glancing up and casting an aggravated glare towards a sheepish looking officer a few feet away. Sometimes, this job just wasn't worth it.

"Watch what the hell you're doing with that!" the detective snapped, his irritated expression visible despite the turbulent weather and late hour. "You could kill someone with that thing!"

The officer sent a small wave of embarrassed understanding Jim's way before placing his gun back into his holster.

Where were we? Ah, yes. The night was black and tempestuous; while most citizens of Las Vegas were in the general vicinity of a bed, the same couldn't be said for the dedicated members of the Neighborhood Watch for Hidden Desert Estates. The community itself was pleasant with its groomed lawns, clean roads, and decent people. The cars were always shining and the children behaved well. Neighbors knew each other and sent Christmas cards to one another, hosting holiday parties and remembering birthdays. There were even white picket fences separating the property and homes, not that they were really needed.

However, the residents of this ideal area had made the colossal mistake of electing Gil Grissom as president of the Neighborhood Watch. In his defense, he was a true gentleman: intelligent, humorous, and aging gracefully. He had been living there with his wife, Sara, for five years and the couple had made friends quickly. And while most wouldn't hesitate to agree that he was an upstanding citizen and respected individual, he did have one flaw: a tireless dedication to what was supposed to be an idle job.

"Gris, man, it's four o'clock in the morning," came the tired words of Warrick Brown as he resignedly approached the scene, donning some green pajamas and a black robe. "I can't believe you called my cell this early."

Warrick's wife, Catherine, trudged up behind him. Although breathtakingly beautiful any hour of the day, her rumpled housecoat, plastic flip-flops and bed-head hair wasn't exactly magazine-cover material.

"The sun won't be up for another two hours, Gil. What's the emergency?" she asked, her voice still rough with sleep.

Jim sighed in response, equally as exhausted. "It's a code five eight seven," he replied as he gestured towards the crouching entomologist, the three digit number explaining it all.

"Litter," Catherine translated, her tone morphing into one of serious determination. She marched over to Grissom and knelt next to him, observing the newest crime with scrutinizing eyes. Perhaps if they were real detectives and perhaps if they were in a seedier part of town, this commotion wouldn't have appeared so out of place. However, the fact remained that they were in the middle of a charming suburb, crouched on an otherwise clean sidewalk, and hoping to find whoever was committing the odious act of littering while still wearing their sleep garments. "Another beer can?"

Grissom wasn't the only one slightly obsessed with his job of protecting the community from felons. His small group of friends had jumped on the bandwagon and since then had developed a series of codes for minor offenses and crimes, communicating with each other via walkie-talkie cell phones.

"A Snickers wrapper," Grissom calmly replied, lifting up the offending trash with a gloved hand. The wrapper was shredded and torn, having been purchased by someone who appeared to have serious anger issues. "It's by the same guy we've been chasing all week.''

"Are you serious?" Sara asked, furrowing her brow in thought and kneeling next to her husband. "First it was a Budweiser can and then it was an empty Seven Up twelve pack. Now they've left a Snickers wrapper? Is our litter guy trying to send us a message?"

Warrick looked thoughtful, mentally trying to piece the puzzle together. "Budweiser. Seven Up. Is he telling us to wise up to Snickers?"

Grissom snapped his fingers in realization. "Exactly! But look how this wrapper is tattered and destroyed. It's as if he's saying to get wise against the Snickers. Maybe it's symbolic?"

"Who likes Snickers anyway?" Sara asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "They're so gross. Give me a bag of Skittles any day."

Behind them, someone cleared their throat; the five turned to see a disgruntled David Hodges standing in black flannel pajamas with a cell phone in his right hand. He and his boyfriend were possibly the only two sane people living in the Hidden Desert Estates area; while his significant other had been smart enough not to get involved, David had seen the absurd lengths that their Neighborhood Watch group would go to. It wasn't as if he liked them, but at the same time, he didn't want to see them cause more trouble than they actually prevented.

"Hello David," Grissom greeted, his voice amiable. David didn't return the sentiment; instead, he shook his head, honestly unable to believe that he was out there in the middle of the night, having left his nice warm bed… and for what?

"Let's cut the crap, Gil. What stupid thing did you call us out for this time? If you tell me someone's yard is exceeding the standard four inch grass height again, I'll kill you."

"Everyone seems to be mowing in a timely fashion. However, we found a candy wrapper and we need the fingerprints analyzed. We were wondering if your friend Mia could find out who they belong to?"

David stared for a quiet moment. Didn't these people have jobs? Family? Lives of any kind? He heaved a sigh, submitting himself to the inevitable.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll put it in a Glad bag and have her illegally run it tomorrow. Happy?"

"It's so nice that you'll help us out on our cases," Grissom replied, Catherine nodding in agreement.

"Cases? Grissom, it's litter. Someone dropped a candy wrapper. It's not exactly a deep sea oil spill."

"It goes against the Hidden Desert Estates policy. Besides, a new couple happens to be moving in tomorrow. We should make a good impression."

"Good impression? Right. I'm sure a creepily clean ditch is going to thrill their pants off," David muttered as he snatched the wrapper out of Grissom's gloved hand. However, no matter how much he protested, he couldn't fight the truth: he'd gotten so accustomed to the frequent and absurd allegations of littering and untimely yard work that he honestly couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Calls at four in the morning? Sure. Staking out a neighbor's house? Been there, done that. Having Mia run prints whenever Grissom happened to find additional "evidence" pertaining to "crimes?" It was all in a day's work.

He began walking away from the insane group and back towards his inviting home a few blocks away when he jumped at a loud sound, spinning to see the other five glaring down the street, equally as startled by the foreign noise.

"Damn that Zuiker!" Catherine cursed as The Who's Who Are You began blasting from the house at the end of the road. "Why does he constantly play that song?"

"And it's always when we've uncovered a crime," Jim groused. "I don't get it, but it's so damn catchy that it sticks in my head all day."

"Don't worry, man," Warrick said, beginning down the street. "I'll tell him to turn it down again. It's the third time this week. And Hodges, get those prints for us. We might even be able to catch the guy who threw out the Budweiser can and Seven Up box."

Jim, Grissom, and Sara watched as Catherine's husband began towards the offending residence while David rolled his eyes, wondering why the hell they had called out the police to control the scene when there wasn't even a scene in the first place.

…

"I can't believe we bought a house together," Greg murmured from the Tahoe's passenger seat. He was gazing out of his window, taking in the perfect scenery of the suburb. It wasn't so much the house that blew him away, but the fact that he was going to live in it with Nick. Nick, who was from Texas. Nick, who was the quietest "administrative assistant" he'd ever met. Nick, who he thought he could never have.

"Me either," the Texan agreed, shooting the blonde a smile. "I can't believe we could afford it. It's almost too good to be true."

Greg had to agree with him there; a high school Chemistry professor and a secretary didn't make the largest salary on the books, but it was enough to make a decent livelihood. In the beginning, they had tried living at Nick's and then at Greg's, but two months of experimental living conditions told them that their respective bachelor apartments were simply too small for the both of them. In other words, they had no choice but to go out in search of the perfect residence.

They found it at the Hidden Desert Estates. The house itself was just right, but considering they could actually pay for it was even better. Nick, of course, had been suspicious as to why the price was so terrific. Would they have a murderer living next door? Were the neighbors bad? That didn't seem to be the case; the only complaint had been by several individuals who claimed the man in charge of Neighborhood Watch was pretty serious. If anything, Greg had been pleased that the security was taken earnestly.

So they bought the house.

To understand their history, one must know that Greg had been teaching Chemistry 101 at the local high school for a measly year before their somewhat unpopular secretary Sofia quit. Principal Ecklie was in such a rush to find an office replacement –temporary, if need be- that he stuck his hand into the water and happened to find Nick. Nick and Conrad had been neighbors and Ecklie went so far as to politely ask if the paraglide instructor could please –for an hour, day, anything- take over. File things. Organize forms. Copy documents. Answer the phone. It was monotonous yet hectic job that he was sure this considerate man would do if asked nicely and bribed with the latest Garth Keith McGraw CD… or whoever that country singer was.

Nick had fatefully agreed to fill in.

Greg, unaware of this sudden change of events, had come flying in late on a regular Tuesday morning with red-inked tests and lesson plans tucked under his left arm while his right hand clutched a cup of his life force: coffee.

He sped his Jetta into a parking space specially reserved for the school's staff; he was truly grateful for this, because he wasn't sure what he would have done if he'd actually of had to look for a place to park. He jumped out, grabbed what he hoped was the right stack of papers from his trunk, locked his car door, and flew through the parking lot. He would have glanced at his watch, but the act would have merely reinforced the fact that Ecklie was on the brink of firing him, especially with the obnoxious music he'd play after the day ended and the students had gone home. Conrad knew how great of a teacher Greg was… he only wished that the man would grow up a bit and become more professional. Greg glanced down at his Converse All-Stars, hoping Conrad wouldn't see them. They didn't exactly scream proficiency.

He wrenched open the front doors, bolted down the hall, and skidded in front of his classroom. His students, although patient, were still students: through the small door window, Greg could see couples cuddling, a few bored kids meddling with their cell phones, and a boom box screaming with music Greg had never heard before. Great. Was he getting old? Had he missed a new band?

He sighed, realizing that a long day stood before him. He plastered on a big smile before marching in, strolling to the front of the room, and heaving his heaping pile of books and papers onto his desk. His lateness was more expected than not, but could he help that grading four hundred finals often kept him up late into the night? The students quieted down and put away their phones and CDs; girls and boys broke apart and some of them even bothered to get out a pencil and notebook. Everyone liked Mr. Sanders; he could relate to the student's problems and was interesting, funny, and levelheaded. He cared about their well-being and did everything he could to make sure they passed his class with a decent score. He always greeted them with a joke or a cheerful hello and even managed to keep up with the trends, which was a feat in itself. He was, however, definitely getting into the Converse All-Star thing. He had three pairs… not that Ecklie needed to know.

He allowed his students to find their materials while he began shuffling through his own folders, attempting to locate the class roll call. It wasn't in his schedule book or his lesson plan… it wasn't in his pocket either, which is where he sometimes placed it without really thinking. With a groan, he began to check his textbook and, within moments, knew he had probably left it somewhere in his car, buried under numerous burger wrappers and boxes of paperwork and quizzes.

This, of course, could only mean one thing: another wonderful visit to the ever-so-pleasant Sofia. He could have just ran back out to his car, but that would have taken more time than he could afford and he knew Sofia was always ready with another copy of his roll cal anyway; after all, he never failed to lose his own. With a warning to his class not to break school property or mix any unlabeled chemicals, he made a break for the office. He zoomed past Archie Johnson's Computer Basics classroom and Jacqui Franco's Feminism Throughout History lecture.

He, Archie, and Jacqui were the best of friends, often taking lunches together and grousing about their lives. Archie was an upbeat young man and whiz with computers; he and Greg often had video game competitions, boring Jacqui in the process. Jacqui was a fabulous, independent woman who stuck to her guns and didn't let anyone walk over her. Plus, she was organized, which meant she always had her class listing. This thought propelled him even further, remembering that he had left a bunch of kids with potentially hazardous materials.

He rounded the corner and caught sight of the blessed administrative office. He hurriedly stumbled in, bypassing the numerous waiting room chairs before turning towards the desk, speaking without actually seeing whom he was speaking to. "Hey, Sofia. You know you're my favorite person in whole world, right? So I need a copy of the-''

But lo, it wasn't Sofia's blonde head hunched over her desk, cursing the idiotic Chemistry professor who couldn't find his teaching materials to save his life.

It was a man.

More specifically, a dark haired man with crooked glasses and brown eyes.

Greg felt his mouth go dry.

"Hi," he croaked, hoping that within the next two seconds, he'd be hit by a rare bout of intelligence. "I need a student roll for the eleventh grade Chem class. Crash chem, that is. I lost my other one again. It doesn't say much for my organizational skills, of course, but I do try. By the way, I'm Greg Sanders, Chem teacher, but I'm sure you guessed that already. I'm sorry, who are you?"

The man had stared at him throughout Greg's nervous rambling, wearing an expression of both curiosity and amusement. A silent moment passed between them before he wordlessly held up a student list; Greg recognized it as a copy of his own, and he'd wondered how the stranger had been so prepared with it. Nick grinned before standing up from his seat and walking over to Greg, sticking out his hand.

"Nicholas Stokes, filling in for Sofia until Conrad can hire a replacement." Wow, what a killer smile. This guy was the ultimate fantasy for every straight woman in the office, classroom, or janitorial staff.

"Really?" the younger man asked, shaking the Texan's hand with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. "Awesome. How did you know that I would need this?" He was, of course, referring to the student list that Nick had given him.

Nick smiled again before reaching into his jean pocket and pulling out a small, yellow square. As he unfolded it, Greg realized it was a Post-It. Man, he loved those things.

"Sofia left me a note," the obviously-Texan man had replied before he handed the small paper over to Greg.

"'Dear Nick,'" Greg began, reading the message out loud. "'Good luck with your position here. Don't forget to buy toner every Friday afternoon and make sure to make several copies of Greg Sanders's roll call. The man's a complete nut job and can never find his own. Also, avoid the break room refrigerator. There are things in there that no mortal should eat.'"

Nick laughed at Greg's expression before he had said, "Sorry if it offended you, but she didn't seem too far off the mark."

"Yeah, but now you have a pre-conceived notion of what I'm like," Greg complained, taking the note and shredding it into tiny pieces. "Now you think I'm an airhead who couldn't keep track of my own life if someone held a gun to my head."

"You did need the roll call," Nick reminded. "But I don't mind airheads. Besides, I'll probably be in here for a few more weeks, so I'll have plenty of time to get used to you."

"So we'll be seeing more of each other?"

Greg wanted to take a glass beaker and crush it in his eye. How stupid was he? Moreover, how blatantly obvious was he? So we'll be seeing more of each other? He might as well have rented out a billboard on the Strip that read Hi Nick! It's Greg. Yeah, that guy you just met today. Ask me out the next time you see me or I'll just keep saying stupid things around you.

'A few weeks' had turned into months and, eventually, a full year. Conrad couldn't seem to find anyone as talented as Nick, who had alphabetized the previously messy student's files and always made sure to have enough toner on hand. Greg had developed a full-fledged crush by then, Jacqui and Archie teasing the poor man relentlessly. He skirted the issue of asking Nick on a date for months and months, settling on merely flirting and catching lunch with him whenever he could; hanging out, seeing movies, and grabbing a beer became some of the brighter spots in both men's lives. However, when the school's laboratory blew up, things took a sharp turn and Nick sat in the hospital room with an unconscious Greg for two days. And when Greg finally woke, looking at Nick as if he couldn't believe he was there, the first thing the Texan had blurted out was, "Would you like to have dinner sometime?" (Then, after a tense moment of silence, a more appropriate, "How are you feeling?")

Afterwards, they had decided to forgo the awkwardness, the rumors, and just see where their connection decided to go. The relationship happened to be the best thing to ever happen to either one of them. They were opposites, but in tune with each other and able to understand what their partner wanted. Greg was a bit messy and exuberant while Nick was organized and rather quiet. Greg liked loud music, Nick liked football. Greg lived for sweets and Nick didn't want to die of a sugar-overdose before he reached the age of thirty-five. Despite their many differences, however, they were perfect for each other. Not only that, but today was equally as perfect because they were moving into their first house. What wasn't wonderful about that?

However, the perfection was slightly deterred as Nick stopped the truck just in front of their new driveway, looking curiously out the passenger window. Greg, ever excited, made a motion of opening his door and bounding out, but Nick quickly shook his head in warning.

"The concrete's still wet," he cautioned, and Greg couldn't help but feel a bit stupid. He never would have noticed and, consequently, he would have ruined his new pair of shoes by stepping onto wet cement. Once again, Nick's handy-man eye proved itself useful.

"It is? I thought this stuff was supposed to be ready for when we moved in," Greg replied, following his husband's gaze. Greg's eyes flickered from the driveway to their beautiful mailbox, where a white envelope was duct-taped to the side. Greg's curiosity now peaked, he rolled down his window and reached for it, quickly removing the packet from its previous location.

Although prone to shows, Greg ripped it open without prelude, intent to get to the bottom of this mystery. He could hear Nick laughing next to him; was he being too eager about this whole thing? It was his first house and he couldn't help but glow at the thought.

"To Whom This May Concern," Greg began as Nick attentively listened. "We're sorry to inform you that our first layering was unsuccessful. We have resurfaced your driveway, but please note that it will take twenty-four hours for foot traffic and one week (seven days) for the driveway to be ready for vehicular use. If you have any questions, feel free to call 1-800-HID-DEST. Signed, The Hidden Desert Estates Building Commission."

"Unsuccessful?" Greg asked, wrinkling his nose at the uninformative letter. "What, was the concrete lumpy?"

Nick gave him a shrug, obviously perplexed. "I have no idea. Maybe a stray dog walked through it or something."

Greg folded up the letter and tossed into the glove compartment, refusing to let such a small detail get him down. "It's not a big deal. We can just park right here for a little while."

"Just so long as you don't go flying out the door Monday morning and forget that half of our yard is wet and sticky."

Greg stuck his tongue out in a childish manner before he bolted out, careful to avoid their gluey driveway and ignoring Nick's amused laughter at his obviously enthusiastic trek to the front door. Nick calmly followed him; he was an emotional man, but not nearly as open about it as his husband was. He tossed the keys to an impatient Greg who jammed it into the lock, twisted the knob, and threw the door open.

It smelled of paint and fresh wood. It was empty, completely bare, and the walls were painted a sterile white.

In other words, it was perfect.

"I feel like I've been sent back to the fifties," Nick murmured behind him. "We're living in a big white box."

Despite his words, Nick's arms wound themselves around Greg's waist and he kissed his neck. "Nicky, it's not a white box," Greg explained, smiling at the contact. "It's a blank canvas. We can color it however we want and make it into our new life."

"A new life with you. That sounds mushy and optimistic."

"Are you complaining?"

"No way, Greggo. Never." Nick spun him around and planted a quick kiss on his lips; it wasn't hot and sexual, but loving and sweet instead. "Tell you what. I'll make us lunch and you start thinking what neon color you feel like painting this place with."

"Tempting," Greg replied, grinning. "But I think I have some papers in dire need of grading."

"Then I'll make us lunch and you can grade 'til your heart's content. Sound like a plan?"

"Definitely. I'll get the papers."

Nick held up a plastic bag, pre-packed with the ingredients and condiments for an afternoon meal. The refrigerator had already been delivered, but they needed to make a trip to the grocery store if they intended to use it to its full capacity.

"And I'll get busy being a housewife."

The mental image made Greg laugh; Nick sent him a playful glare over his shoulder, aware of what was in Greg's mind. Greg grinned cheekily in return and grabbed the keys, heading back outside and towards the Tahoe, popping the trunk with a press of a button. He was, of course, careful to avoid their questionable driveway as he all but bounced towards the automobile. He still couldn't get the fact that he and Nick were there together and he would probably annoy his husband with his fervor for the first few weeks. Well, it wasn't like Nick hadn't seen that side of Greg before. He knew he could handle it.

His hair swayed as a wind blew through the suburb, making tree leaves wave while Greg hefted up a box from the trunk. Unfortunately, that's how his job was: he'd mark papers while listening to music or waiting for dinner, having no choice but to bring his work home. Nick understood Greg's predicament, so he often took care of meals and housework. This was a good thing; Greg's cooking skills were debatable at best and his housecleaning lacked in all areas.

With a shake of his head, Greg cleared his thoughts and closed the trunk once more, one of the full boxes now in his possession. He often asked himself where he'd be without Nick, but the thought wasn't a pleasant one and he often pushed it away. He shoved the keys in his pocket, turned back towards the house, and-

And another gusty desert wind sent the top tests flying past the mailbox and truck, all the way to the other side of the street. Greg quickly set the box down to chase after them. He peered both ways, making sure there was no oncoming traffic, before hurrying across the street to find each and everyone one. If he lost a single essay, his students would slaughter him and he felt relieved that only three had gone missing from the top of the stack. He swiftly grabbed Andy's paper (which had been caught by a tree trunk) and then Cassie's (blessedly trapped by a branch), but… wait, where was-?

"Yo!"

Greg jumped at the commanding voice, clutching the papers to his chest in surprise, looking up to see who was speaking. A tall black man was good build was racing towards him, a look of pure concentration on his face.

Greg frantically glanced around. Was there a fire? A robbery? He only saw that kind of seriousness on an Olympic sportsman running the one hundred meter dash or an officer after a criminal; he scrambled out of the way, not wanting to halt progress in case there was an emergency he wasn't aware of.

"Don't move!" the man bellowed again, rapidly approaching. Greg's heart was in his throat. What was going on?

The young man's eyes widened as the pursuer continued, heading right towards him. His body was arched, as if maybe he was planning to tackle something. But what? And why were his eyes so intently trained on Greg? Wait a minute… he was going to jump something! Was this guy out of his mind?

Greg began to scramble backwards once more, desperately using the heels of his feet to push himself, his eyes the size of planets and his heart leaving Road Runner in the dust.

"Wait," he croaked, unable to look away. "What- what are you doing?"

But it was too late. The man's feet had left the ground and he was airborne, practically flying the next two yards or so until he was right over Greg's frozen form. Wasn't this guy thinking of logistics, the consequences of his actions? There was nothing but concrete sidewalk beneath them! What, was Greg's body supposed to be this guy's buffer? He wasn't a living pillow!

However, it was too late. Greg could only watch, struck, as the man defied gravity before landing square on top of him. The chemistry teacher had braced himself as best he could for the impact, but his breath was still slammed out of him while he was sure the sound of his cracking ribs could be heard throughout the state of Nevada.

Well, okay, his ribs were fine, but his oxygen supply was catastrophically depleted.

"What are you-'' he wheezed, gasping for breath, "What are you doing?"

Instead of answer the question, the man pushed Greg down, making sure he was lying flat and unable to move. He used his left hand to press against Greg's chest, making certain he was immobile, while he used his right hand to grope for something in his pocket. Finally, he pulled out a cell phone… the walkie-talkie kind.

Beepbeep.

"Hey Cath," he said, his voice void of any humor. "We've got a problem."

There was a silent moment while he waited for a response, Greg not daring to speak. He never did mind when he was in this position with Nick, hips straddled with his hands on his chest, but this was just weird. He wanted to ask Mr. Tall-Strong-At-Least-200-Pounds what the hell was going on, but he didn't want his face in the same condition as his pancreas; that is, utter annihilation.

Beepbeep.

"Hey sweetie. What's going on?"

The man currently depleting Greg's air supply rolled his eyes at the pet name.

Beepbeep.

"Cath, we've got a code five nine five. Round up everyone, would you?"

Unlike the first time, the response was immediate, the woman's voice going from affectionate to business-like within seconds.

Beepbeep.

"Five nine five? We'll be right there."

It was obviously the end of the 31-word conversation.

The man stuffed the phone back in his pocket and gave Greg a stern look while Greg tried to get his bearings and restore his shattered dignity.

"Can you- can you get off me now? Not that you're heavy or anything, but…" He trailed off, his lungs beginning to fail him. "Never mind, you're heavy."

"Tough," he gruffly replied. "You armed?"

"See, that's where we've gotten confused," Greg gasped. "I'm not a criminal. I've never even gotten a traffic ticket."

The man didn't look as if he believed Greg's story. And- wait, was he frisking him? Greg grimaced as the guy patted down Greg's jeans pockets before frowning at what he found.

"Is this a pocket knife?"

It obviously was, but Greg didn't see the point in denying it was anything else. "Yeah, I got if for-''

"This is considered a weapon. In your initial statement, you claimed you weren't armed."

"My initial-? Look, it's for unpacking! Our moving boxes are taped up!"

"A likely story."

Greg blinked. When had this become a bad detective movie?

In the small space of time it took for Greg to get tackled, Greg hadn't thought of Nick or when he'd take note of his husband's absence, but he felt a huge bout of relief when a pair of hands clamped onto his inquirer's shoulders and shoved him off.

The stranger now had a taste of his own medicine; sprawled out and dazed, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"Christ, what do you think you're doing?"

Greg blinked. Wait a minute, had this guy's attack shaken up his brain? It sounded as though two people had asked the question in unison. He had definitely heard Nick's Texan twang, but…

"Are you insane?"

There the voice was again! Greg turned his head to the right in time to see a man in his mid thirties come rushing towards them. He had brown hair, was tall and thin, and looked as if he were about to kill someone, namely Greg's assailant.

Nick quickly helped his husband to his feet, looking at him with concerned eyes while making sure nothing was broken or otherwise damaged.

The Texan turned to speak to whomever it was that had tackled his significant other –he was certainly angry, that much was obvious- but the seemingly sensible man who had questioned the sanity of his fellow neighbor spoke first.

"What the hell were you thinking, Warrick? You can't just run someone down!"

"It was a code five nine five, David," Warrick replied. "What, did you want me to just let him escape?"

"Escape? Escape?" It seemed as if the man named David had seen his share of this before. "The guy was jaywalking!"

"Exactly! I couldn't let him get away with it! It's a misdemeanor!"

"But there's no traffic!"

It was at this point that several individuals were sprinting from their households and towards the escalating sight.

"Honey, are you okay?" a strawberry blonde asked, bleeding with concern as she approached the man named Warrick. Greg winced, his gut hurting; today's little escapade would definitely leave bruises.

Warrick nodded and rose to his feet. "Yeah, but check it out," he said, indicating Greg with a nod of his head. Greg, in the manliest way possible, was hiding behind Nick. "This guy was a textbook fine nine five. I saw him from the kitchen window and I didn't want him to flee the scene."

"Scene?" Nick asked, aghast. "Like the scene of a crime?"

A tall brunette woman nodded, her expression grave. "Sir, the man was jaywalking and under federal regulation, that's considered a misdemeanor. May I ask where you were when this violation of law occurred?"

"Ma'am, are you telling me this guy tackled my husband because he crossed the street?" Greg's only means of protection stood his full height and crossed his arms, looking none too amused at the situation.

"Without using the crosswalk," the brunette countered.

"Listen, why don't we just forget this whole thing ever happened," David suggested, clearly irritated at the escalating spectacle. Sara and Catherine looked scandalized at the mere suggestion while Grissom remained silent.

"You want us to just forget this whole thing?" Catherine questioned, looking at the man as if he had just proposed they walk down the freeway naked.

"Preferably. In case you hadn't noticed, your husband just mowed down a newbie in the middle of the road. It's only fair to cut them some slack."

The four Watchmen glanced at Nick and Greg; Nick was in no mood to be messed with and Greg simply wanted some food and sleep, his papers forgotten. There was silence, the seven making an odd picture on the sidewalk, but Grissom, obviously the ringleader of the group, finally shook his head in agreement.

"Just this once," he cautioned, giving Greg a stern look. "We'll have no choice but to charge you next time."

Greg let out a relieved breath he didn't even realize he was holding while the four nodded their farewell and headed back to their respective homes, Warrick sending a suspicious look over his shoulder. Greg fleetingly met his eyes. Was this place a cover-up for an asylum? As the quartet retreated, Nick and Greg glanced at the wiser man.

"I guess we should thank you," Greg said, weakly holding out his hand. "I'm Greg and this is Nick. I'm sorry I caused such… I mean, I had no idea."

"Just be careful next time," David muttered, sending Greg a pointed look and not taking the offered hand. "You better get used to this neighborhood or pack up."

"So this is our welcome to the area?"

David sighed, unwittingly allowing his sympathy to show through his sardonic demeanor. "They're nice people and they mean well, but they happen to channel their intentions badly. Warrick turning you into a human pancake is just an example."

"Right. A pancake. Now that you mention it, it's starting to hurt."

"Then let's get you inside, okay?" Nick asked, collecting Greg's previously lost papers and leading the younger man back towards there home, shooting a grateful smile in David's direction.

When night fell, Nick double-checked to make sure the doors and windows were securely locked. He had even found Greg's last missing essay, but the younger man was in no mood to do anything involving high brain function. He was aching, tired, and just wanted to curl up next to a warm Nick and go to sleep. He sighed as he snuggled next to his husband, feeling safe and content despite the fact that part of his stomach was purple and that he was still too shaken up to help unpack. However, tomorrow was a brand new day. Obviously, security was taken seriously and if the Watch could catch someone jaywalking, imagine how many burglars they could get their hands on! It was almost uplifting, really. You just had to put it in the right context.

That evening, Nick and Greg were the last home to shut off their bedroom light. When their home finally went dark, the suburb was transformed into a dim and peaceful place. The only illumination of any sort was the porch lights that cautious citizens switched on when night came. The fact remained that everyone was now asleep, drifting off into dreamland. In the wake of this darkness, a mysterious man emerged from the shadows. He was donning a black cloak, hat, and other dark clothing, hoping to blend in with his surroundings. Of course, he wore reflective tape on his tennis shoes; there was no telling what maniac was going to come speeding down the roads and he certainly didn't want to be squashed.

Where were we? Ah. As the mysterious man gazed towards the Sanders-Stokes residence, he knew he needed to perfect crime. But what? AHA! The wet cement!

With what he hoped was an evil laugh, he tip-toed towards the still-drying driveway before gleefully withdrawing the yardstick he had purchased specifically for this purpose. With deliberate movements, he began writing on the gray cement.

Get out while you still can!

Did that sound threatening enough? He furrowed his brow, unsure. Well, it would just have to do. It wasn't like there was an eraser for this type of thing, and he was just trying to get the point across.

He let out another evil laugh, coughed due to choking on his own spittle, before cackling once more.

The next afternoon was picturesque; there were birds chirping, the sun was shining, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. Nick had left to go pick up some groceries while Greg had begun storing away their dishes, enjoying the time he had to blast out some seriously loud tunes. He loved Nick with all of his heart, but the Texan wasn't keen on deafness-inducing volumes, so Greg liked to indulge himself whenever Nick went out.

His music was so loud, however, that he almost missed the sound of the doorbell.

He paused in a small moment of panic, the chiming bell echoing throughout the rooms. Was it Nick? Doubtful; he had a key. Was it Archie or Jacqui? Not likely; finals were coming up and they had to spend every waking minute to prepare their tests. This left only one other option: someone from the suburb. Had he and Nick done something wrong? Broken some sort of absurd rule?

Greg grabbed the pair of scissors he had been using to cut through masking tape before he hesitantly began approaching his front door, clutching the pointy object to his chest. With a shaky breath, he took a look through the peephole, praying that it wasn't Warrick from yesterday, intent on flattening Greg once again. However, it wasn't Warrick standing on the other side of his door. It was a man about Greg's age with dark, shaggy hair, brown eyes, and a seemingly pleasant demeanor. Greg took another moment to consider whether he really wanted to open his door and, after taking into account the pros and cons of the entire situation, twisted the deadbolt into the 'unlock' position. He kept his scissors close to him; if the stranger decided to kick the door in, Greg would at least have some sort of protection.

He switched off the alarm before hesitantly opening up, voting on keeping the chain lock fastened. There were only about eight or nine inches in which to communicate with, but that was a minor detail at best. What was important was what his unannounced visitor had to say. Greg cast a wary glance towards the man, prepared to defend himself.

"Can I help you?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Hi," said the man, giving him a friendly smile and a small wave. "I'm Ryan Wolfe. I live down the street."

"Are you with the Neighborhood Watch?" he asked, accusation coloring his words. "I have a pair of scissors right next to me, so don't even think about kicking the door in or anything. And I know kung-fu!"

He really didn't, but Ryan didn't need to know that.

Ryan blinked from his position on the porch before heaving a suffering sigh, as if completely understanding Greg's seemingly random blather. "I see you've met that group. What did you do wrong?"

"I… crossed the street."

"Without using the crosswalk?"

"Exactly!" Greg replied, eyes widening as he shut the door, unchained it, and then opened it so that he was face to face with the other man. "You to?"

"Not only that," Ryan replied, shaking his head, "But I made the mistake of exceeding the lawn ornament allowance. It was an ugly scene when Catherine caught sight of it. Just so you know, you can only have five lawn decorations, including a flag. Anything more is against the regulations."

Greg felt relief roll off of him in waves as he quickly ushered the stranger inside. "Then please come in and make yourself at home. What've you got there? It smells delicious."

Ryan grinned, a slight shade of pink tingeing his cheeks as he held a silver dish with an awkward air. "I feel like such a housewife when I make these things," he admitted, evidently embarrassed by his offering. "It's a pie."

Greg, now fuelled with scent of sugar and a buttery crust, quickly steered Ryan towards their sparse dining room. "It smells like apple," he observed, clearing off his dining room table as he did so. It was covered with packing paper and boxes, but those were tossed into the corner to be dealt with later.

"It is," Ryan confirmed. "I hope you aren't diabetic or anything."

"Me? Diabetic? I live on sweets and I've completely forgotten to eat with all this unpacking. Thanks for bringing it by."

Ryan grinned as he handed the pie over to an eager Greg before finding a seat next to the dining room table. "Well, I figured you wouldn't mind some normalcy from your neighbors. I heard that Warrick nearly flattened you."

"Then you heard right," Greg replied, grabbing two saucers and some eating utensils from the box he had been unloading. He then proceeded to plug in one of his most treasured, beloved appliances: the coffee maker. He usually didn't share his special Blue Hawaiian blend with anyone except Nick, but he somehow knew that he and Ryan were going to be great friends and it was only fair that he add their fellow neighbor to his elite A-list. "He's a big guy."

"After the lawn decoration catastrophe, I can vouch for that. Was it a jump tackle?"

"With a running start."

"Ouch."

"My bruises appreciate your sympathy," Greg quipped, grinning at Ryan's amused laughter. Greg was no psychic, but he knew they'd be quite the team with Nick giving them a bit of common sense every once in a while. "So tell me about yourself, Ryan Wolfe. What are your jobs and hobbies and stuff? You seem like an interesting kind of guy."

Ryan snorted derisively and shook his head. "Hardly. I work part time at a clinic a few miles from here, helping people manage their OCD. What about you?"

"I teach chemistry at the high school."

"Really? That sounds fascinating."

"It's always fascinating until you have to grade four hundred different papers," Greg replied, grinning and beginning to cut the pie as his precious coffee began brewing on the counter. "Nick works as secretary there, so everything's working out pretty well for us."

"Nick?"

"Husband. He's off being domestic and buying groceries," Greg easily replied, quickly locating two of his favorite mugs from another box in the corner of the kitchen. "He lost at Paper, Rock, Scissors. Then again, what else is new?"

"He loses every time?"

"Guaranteed," Greg replied, laughing. "He has the worst luck sometimes, but we always see it through. What about you? You hitched or free flying?"

"Kind of in the middle, I guess," Ryan admitted. "I'm living with someone."

"Ah, the happy medium."

At Ryan's silence, Greg looked up. Ryan looked as if he were trying to reply, to say something to confirm Greg's generalization, but the blonde spoke first. "Or am I completely off mark?"

Ryan smiled and shrugged, as if trying to not offend Greg while simultaneously trying to avoid the topic altogether. "Not really. But it's a long story, so I'm-''

"Sure that I wouldn't want to know about it?"

Ryan nodded. It was only logical, wasn't it? After all, his life was pretty basic and no one had showed much interest in it before.

"Not at all," Greg replied, his attention genuine. "Spill the beans if you'd like. Who's this mystery person?"

Ryan grinned, the object of his affection bringing a smile to his face. Greg was glad for that; Ryan seemed rather shy and needed something to break him of his shell. "David Hodges. He owns a plumbing business."

"Wait, you're the one who lives with that guy?"

"The one and only."

"But he's so normal! Where did you find him?"

Ryan couldn't help but laugh at both Greg's shock and candid expression. "I just got lucky, I guess. I went to go see Dukes of Hazzard with my friend Maxine, but she never showed up, so I was at the theater alone."

"Oh," Greg chimed in, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Sounds like a love story written in the stars."

"Depends on who you ask. We met when I accidentally dropped my bag of popcorn on his lap."

"Were you guys friends first, or did you just decide to go for it?"

"We were friends first," the other man replied. "I was visiting him here and he ended up having to save me from Grissom when I walked on the yard instead of the sidewalk."

"Everyone's romantic dream."

Ryan blushed deeper. "I liked him, so I finally got the gall to ask him out to dinner. We've been living together for three years now and we have each other's names on our medical papers and everything, so I'm really happy with or without a ring."

Greg let out a disbelieving 'hm' before arching a playful eyebrow, making his way towards the table and offering a piece of freshly sliced pie to his visitor. "Uh-huh. Sounds like he won't commit."

"I think he would," Ryan replied, accepting the saucer and fork with a smile of thanks. "I just don't think it's ever really occurred to him. Marriage is a contract with the state, I guess, and we act as if we're married anyway."

"You're wounding my romantic heart here."

"I'm sorry," Ryan replied, looking truly upset at the thought of saying anything insensitive. "I didn't mean to imp-''

"I'm only joking with you, Ryan. You've got to learn to lighten up and relax. In this house, there are no rules. Except never touch my coffee or hair gel."

Ryan glanced up at Greg's hair and coughed. "I didn't want to say anything, but I think you're defying gravity."

"This," Greg said, indicating his hair was a dramatic flourish, "Is a work of art. It takes twenty minutes and a combination of mouse, gel, wax, and hairspray."

"I just use a brush. No offense, but do you even know what one of those are?"

Greg laughed, rising from his seat to pour them each a mug of his treasured coffee once it had finished brewing. "Nick asks me that on a daily basis. I tell him I'm hair brush illiterate."

"He seems like a normal guy."

"You, Nick and I might be the only ones in this vicinity who can say that without lying," the blonde joked. He had meant it as a humorous line, but his next question was one he seriously wanted answered. After all, the thought of living in a mad community wasn't comforting in the least. "There are other people like us, right?"

At Ryan's silence, Greg groaned and flopped against the counter, the coffee momentarily forgotten. "Please tell me there are more people like you here. I've already gotten tackled once and I don't think I could take it again."

Ryan's look was purely sympathetic. "Three years has given me the chance to map things out. I kind of know what's safe and what to avoid. Want some tips?"

"I beg thee," he replied, finishing their caffeine brew before walking towards their table and settling down. "I don't want to take any chances after yesterday."

"Wise choice," Ryan replied. He took the napkin that had been offered to him earlier and a black ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket before drawing out a crude but clear enough sketch of the suburb. He used small squares for houses and parallel lines for the roads, but Greg was able to decipher the makeshift map effortlessly. "At the end of the road here," Ryan began, pointing at the dead end with the tip of his pen. "Is Horatio and Yelina Caine."

"Are they normal?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Ryan replied. "Horatio's almost as intense as Grissom, but Yelina keeps him in check. He's in charge of Neighborhood Watch during the day."

"You're joking," Greg said, eyes wide. "There's a day and night shift?"

"You won't be able to get away with anything no matter what hour of the day it is," Ryan warned, answering Greg's incredulous question. "Next to them are Eric and Calleigh Delko. Don't worry, they're really nice and completely ordinary, but they work for Horatio as well. Right here is Tim Speedle and Tyler Pythe and next to them is where Dave and I live."

"Tim and Tyler are okay, right?"

"Completely," Ryan answered, smiling. "I think they're great. Tyler's a techno genius and Tim loves motorcycles."

"Sounds like my kind of guys."

"Then you should probably know that I can barely use my CD player and I'm scared to death of vehicles that turn people into hamburger."

"Don't you worry," Greg cheekily replied. "We'll have you punked out in no time. You'll be blasting out some Marilyn Manson and doing wheelies on the interstate."

"Marilyn who?"

Greg merely gave Ryan an innocent smile before point to the next house on the napkin. "Who are these people?"

Ryan was slightly suspicious; he had heard of someone named Marilyn Manson and he distinctly recalled disliking his music, but left that thought for another time. "If you cross the street, you have Mac and Stella Taylor, who kind of keep to themselves. Here's Don Flack and Danny Messer, a really nice couple from New York. Heavy accent."

"So far, so good."

"I like your optimism," Ryan said, laughing. "But here's where we run into problems."

"The weirdos?"

"You can say that again. This is the part of the suburb you want to watch out for. Gil and Sara Grissom are here, while Warrick and Catherine Brown are here. They're really, really serious about their job as Neighborhood Watch members. Oh, and here's Jim Brass and his daughter Ellie."

"Normal?"

"Ellie's cool and Jim's a cop, so he's kind of their legal expert."

"Great," Greg sighed. "That's the last thing they need on their side. Who lives here?"

He was pointing to the other dead end on the diagram, two little squares sitting across from each other and one at the end of the end.

"Alexx Woods and her husband and kids. This is David Phillips, last house on left. He's kind of quiet, but I like him. Oh, and Anthony Zuicker lives right here. He's President of the Hidden Desert Estates housing commission."

"It's a lot to remember."

"Don't worry, you'll learn your way around," Ryan replied. "Either that, or go crazy. I went with the former and I'm still in one piece, relatively speaking."

It was at that moment that Greg heard the door open and his panic from earlier returned. Had he not locked his door? Was someone from the Watch group here to smack him around some more? He spun around in his chair, poised to either wield his scissors or burn his intruder with a cup of scalding coffee, when he watched as his husband came in, juggling several grocery bags at once while trying not to drop his keys.

Nick, completely oblivious to their guest and unable to see above the bags, heaved the groceries onto the counter with a small grunt of effort. "Hey, there's still some stuff in the car. Would you mind getting it? I would, but if I don't get this in the freezer then this heat's gonna melt the-''

He cut off once he laid eyes on Ryan, who was smiling in amusement. "You must be Nick," he said, rising up and shaking Nick's now-free right hand.

Nick blinked, trying to adjust himself to his audience. "And you are?"

"Ryan Wolfe. I came to introduce myself."

"He baked us a pie," Greg replied over a mouthful of buttery crust and sweet apples. "And it's really good, so you aren't getting any."

"You'll have to excuse him," Nick said, rolling his eyes and smiling. "He hides his manners well. And I apologize for the mess."

"Not a problem," Ryan replied. "We've all moved before. Anyway, I hope you like it here. I was told your hubby was caught jaywalking."

"Don't even get me started," Nick sighed, shaking his head. "I couldn't believe it. Someone's going to sue them for assault if they aren't careful."

"You'll get used to it eventually," Ryan reassured. "Anyway, I'd better get home. It's just about time for dinner. I think I was supposed to make spaghetti, but we might just end up eating peanut butter again."

"I see you've already picked up some of Greg's cooking habits."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with Ramen every once in a while. The extra sodium content does the body good," Greg defended.

"My prime heart attack years thank you," Nick replied. "And thanks for stopping by, Ryan. We really appreciate it."

"Anytime," Ryan replied, smiling. "Greg's great. Good luck with unpacking and your driveway."

"Driveway?" Nick asked. "Is it still wet?"

"Wet? I suppose, but…" Ryan trailed off, appearing surprised that they didn't already know. "You know that someone wrote on it, right?"

"What?" Greg cried, abandoning his adored pie coffee in favor of crashing through the hallway and living room to reach the front door, leaving the other two in his dust. He swiftly threw it open and walked onto the soft grass, absorbing the image of their newly ruined driveway with horror. Nick was quick behind him, Ryan following, the three taking in their cement disaster.

"I can't believe this!" Greg said, running his hands through his spiked hair. "Nicky, look at what it says! 'Get out while you still can?' What the hell does that mean?''

Ryan frowned. "This is really weird. Is this the second time this has happened?"

"Yeah," Greg replied. "How did you know?"

"The concrete guys were out here twice. I can't imagine anyone here who would write that."

"But why would someone do this?" Nick asked, equally as baffled. "That's just…"

"Stupid?" Greg supplied.

Nick looked as if he were about to reply when a noise interrupted them. After a moment, they realized it was a song blaring out from a house down the street. Ryan sighed and rolled his eyes.

"It's Zuiker," he muttered. "He plays that song constantly."

"Who's Zuiker?"

"He's a nice guy, but he really likes The Who."

"Who?"

"The band."

"Zuiker's in a band?"

"No, he's a fan of the band The Who."

"There's a band called The Who? Who are they?"

"The Who."

"So what's the song?"

"Who Are You?"

"Who am I?"

"No, that's the title of the song."

"The Who sings a song called Who Are You?"

"Exactly. It seems to start every time Gil's team uncovers something."

"So why does he play it?"

"Who knows?"

"The Who, obviously," Greg replied, grinning at Ryan's amused expression before nodding his head to the beat. After all, the song was pretty darn catchy. And the driveway? Well, he supposed they could get it fixed. He took a deep breath and told himself it wasn't that big of a deal.

After all, he was sure it was just some kids with too much time on their hands trying to pull a few pranks. And although their first few days here had been rocky, the only place left to go was up.

Right?