Title: The Little Things
Author: amazonqueenkate
Words: 722
Pairing: Greg/Nick
Rating: PG (and barely that)
Summary: He's learned to analyze the little things, and trust him, he does it ALL THE TIME.
Notes: Totally fluffy, but fun that way.

As a CSI, he knows how to analyze the little things.

A hair, a fiber, even a tiny speck of grass out of place, and he’s on it like a cheap suit, photographing and analyzing and bagging and labeling and analyzing again, only to bring it back to the lab, press it onto a slide, shine lights on it, and analyze it again. And then, he takes it to Grissom and they discuss it, further analyze it, leading to the eventual composition of lengthy reports on how, exactly, that blade of grass – the Kentucky Blue variety from a very high-class lawn, treated with Scott’s brand fertilizer and probably pulled up not three hours before the victim was stabbed to death, give or take an hour thanks to margin of error – is probative to the investigation. And, dammit, if that blade of death isn’t probative, there are still sixteen other blades of grass in sixteen other little Ziplocs, waiting to be analyzed, discussed, and pondered.

Oh, he knows all about analysis of the little things.

He does it half-asleep, now, analyzes those small, out-of-place moments. The sound of bare feet on the linoleum at 1 a.m., the bathroom light left on after an early-morning call of nature, the drapes rustling even after he swears he closed that window… They’re all little, out of place things, tiny details that no one else would notice or think about.

But he, as a CSI, knows them intimately.

The other CSIs probably notice, too, but they’re tactful individuals who either have a full spectrum of well-tuned people skills or an undiagnosed case of antisocial personality disorder, and thusly, they never mention it. They don’t mention when he comes in late with his hair messier than normal, when he smells like someone else’s cologne, when a long weekend off leaves him walking like a cowboy for three days (though at least he has the cowboy excuse to fall back on), that he requested a change of address form in the last few days and just happens to be moving. A raised eyebrow is not a direct accusation, and he reminds himself of this.

A raised eyebrow is a little thing.

He’s sitting on the couch, now – a ratty, old, college-dorm looking pseudo-futon that he’s made clear several times is going out with the trash the first chance he gets – and watches the familiar form putter around on the opposite side of the apartment’s modest “great room,” stirring coffee and chattering. His companion’s always chattering about something – the weather, some songs he downloaded off the internet, a great new book he’s read, the newest addition to his coin collection – and, truth be told, he’s no longer listening to the words. He’s observing the little things, right now: the curve of firm buttocks, the way those gold highlights glint in the sunlight through the kitchen window, the clinking of the spoons against ceramic.

Somehow, in this setting, the little things are not minutia to agonize over and analyze; instead, they’re comforting, and he smiles as he accepts the coffee mug.

“We’re going to have to have a housewarming party, Nick,” his companion informs him as he dumps himself unceremoniously onto the couch, kicking sock-covered feet into his lap. He smiles and allows his elbow to rest on the familiarly bony ankles. “We’re in desperate need of a working toaster and a new stereo.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “And you really think you’re going to get that from our coworkers?” he questions, allowing himself a sip of his beverage. The younger man’s coffee is the nectar of the Gods, another little detail he’s learned in the last several months, and he appreciates every drop.

Laughing, his companion shakes his head of spiky, purposefully messy hair. “Okay, maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to show off our new place,” he admits coyly. “Nothing wrong with that, right? It’d be fun!”

Nick smiles and meets the bright brown eyes, and he can’t help but nod himself. The smile beaming in his direction brightens even further, and he runs the fingertips of one hand across the sock-covered toes in his lap. “Actually, Greggo, I absolutely agree,” he replies, taking another swallow of coffee.

Greg squirms at the sensation, but he’s still smiling, and Nick’s quite sure that it’s no small thing.