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In a past life, Greg's sure he was a drummer. A hugely famous (and hugely endowed) rock star drummer who did things like light his set on fire and drum through the flames. The sort of drummer who could bite the top off a beer bottle, chug it, and win a bar brawl all in under thirty seconds; the sort who bought a Ferrari because it was Monday, a Porsche because it was Tuesday, and a Lamborghini for no reason at all; and he sort who never had a shortage of scantily-glad girls clamoring for a few minutes with him in private -- or not so private, if he preferred. And if he was a drummer in his past life, he wonders why the hell he's not a drummer in this one because it's surely got to have being a lab tech beat by a mile.
It's all Jacqui's fault, really. His job satisfaction at the end of last week was pretty high, because he's pretty sure (well, mostly sure…well, kind of sure, really) that Grissom's going to crack and take him out of the lab permanently. But when Jacqui came in at the beginning of the week, she commandeered Greg's stereo claiming spoils of war (even though she won that last bet on a complete technicality) and tuned in to the 80s station. So now he's got glitz, glamour, and eyeliner on the brain and he's starting to think he missed his calling because even being an actual out in the field, card carrying, badge waving, body recovering CSI pales in comparison to being the next Tommy Lee.
And at 6:30, the only thing he loves more than the end of shift in sight is the morning DJ, who plays "Dr. Feelgood" every morning as his wake up call. And with Jacqui in the storage room looking for fluorescent powder, Greg's free to headbang and air drum away like Tommy Lee ain't got nothing on him. He can practically feel the spandex.
He's halfway through the second chorus when he finally notices Bobby leaning in the doorway, chewing on his gum with an amused grin he's not even bothering to hide. Greg knows there's no way he can salvage his dignity so he doesn't even try. He just turns the radio down and gives Bobby a chagrined smile.
"Thought you only listened to that death metal stuff," Bobby says, making his way into the lab.
"There aren't many Pam Andersons in death metal," he replies with a flip of his imaginary drumstick. Bobby laughs and mutters something about cats and dogs, but Greg doesn't get it, so he just shrugs and asks, "So what can I do for you, Bobby D.?"
"Actually, it's what I can do for you. You've got next Tuesday off, yeah?" Greg nods. "Good. Then come out to the shootin' range with me after work."
"Shooting range" really brings his twang home and Greg remembers the day Jacqui told him about Bobby and Nick and Dueling Banjos and she was right: Nick's accent seems to have faded a little, but no amount of Las Vegas can take the Texas out of Bobby. Then it hits him, what Bobby just said, and he's a little confused. "Me?"
"Unless you know someone else from the DNA lab who's gonna be going into the field."
"Hold up. Do you know something I don't?"
Bobby's grinning at him again. "Nah. But you're already doin' some fieldwork and it won't be long until you have to take your gun safety class and get your certification. And I'd hazard a guess that you don't have all that much experience with firearms."
"None, actually," Greg admits.
Bobby nods. "Figured. So it'll do you some good to get some experience under your belt. In fact, it doesn't look like you have anything doin' at the moment, right?" Greg shakes his head. "Then come on back with me and we can get a head start."
They pass the storage room as they leave and Jacqui waits until Bobby's turned his back on her and then plays air banjo in Greg's direction. He nearly trips over himself trying not to laugh and without even turning around, Bobby makes a rather ungentlemanly gesture over his shoulder and the sound of Jacqui's hearty laughter fills the hall.
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Bobby's a great teacher. More than just his patience, which he's got in spades, he understands that teaching is more than just telling someone everything you know. Greg hates people who try to teach like that -- his supervisor for his internship employed that method and it almost had Greg rethinking his career choice. Hodges teaches that way, too. Greg's seen him with the new girl from swing shift and God alone knows why Hodges was asked to train her. Greg wouldn't want Hodges being the first impression of anything except maybe hell, and even then just that special hell reserved for people who listen to Pat Boone and John Denver.
Bobby's not like that, though. He takes Greg to the lock-up and walks him through specs, disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling a standard nine mil until Greg can do it on his own. When Greg asks, Bobby shows him the different databases they have. They intrigue Greg more than they should given that they run on the same basic premise as AFIS and CODIS. But familiarity is half the job in ballistics, Bobby says, and he's happy to let Greg skim through the databases to his heart's content.
Greg opens the desk drawer and rifles through it, looking for a pen to take some notes, when he catches sights of Bobby's well-worn family photo, Bobby, his partner, and their little girl, tucked away in the corner. He's wanted to ask about that, always has, but he's not even sure what he wants to know so when Bobby catches him looking all he says is, "Your daughter's really pretty." Bobby looks him over carefully like maybe he knows Greg isn't ready for this line of conversation, then thanks him and lets it drop.
Greg still wonders, though. Anyone in the crime lab who wants to know can easily find out that Bobby's gay. He doesn't hide the fact that he has a partner instead of a wife, that he has a daughter who looks nothing like either him or Sam, or that the only truck in the parking lot with both an understated rainbow sticker and a carseat is his.
He works in an environment swarming with cops and investigators, in a culture rife with machismo, and yet somehow Bobby manages to stay out of it without even trying. Greg's not sure if people are more tolerant than he thinks they are, if Bobby's not a big enough fish for it to matter, or if he knows some secret for flying under the radar, but whatever he does works. "Bobby's gay" is just as mundane and accepted a fact as "Bobby has curly hair" or "Bobby's from Texas."
Greg sometimes wonders if it would be that easy for anyone else -- for him, maybe. But he never thinks about it for long because personally, he's just not into labels. He likes what he likes when he likes it for as long as he likes it, and that's that. If pressed, he'd say that he doesn't like men and he doesn't like women; he just likes people. But he only talks about the women he dates and not the men, so no one's pressed.
Granted, he flirts with Nick just the same as he does with Sara, but no one, not even Nick, has ever picked up on it. So either people know but don't care or care but don't know. It's all moot, anyway, since the only opinion that matters is Nick's and Nick, as far as Greg can tell, doesn't have one on the matter.
When Bobby calls his name he shakes off his thoughts and tries to focus on bullet striation.
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After the day he spends in Bobby's lab, he stops at the bookstore on the way home and picks up some reading material. If Bobby's going to take the time to teach him, Greg's definitely going to take the time to learn all he can. So for the past week, he's been waking up a couple hours early and he and his Blue Hawaiian sprawl out on the couch and read Gun Digest, which is, according to the title, The World's Greatest Gun Book.
Unfortunately, they haven't been getting very far before Greg's thinking more about Nick than guns, and that's really Nick's fault. He'd been acting strange for the past week, personally dropping off and picking up most of the samples for his cases, quizzing Greg on the cases he working, and checking in on him nearly every time he passed by the lab. It made Greg nervous until he figured out it must be some sort of pre-test for field readiness, and then it makes him really nervous. In turn, Nick became more awkward around him and all in all, it's just been a weird week between them.
He has to set all that aside, though, because he going to the shooting range (shootin' range, his mind twangs in echo) with Bobby after shift and he's got to stay focused.
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It's been another long night, punctuated by more of Nick's random pop quizzes. Jacqui gets this weird little smile on her face whenever Nick comes around and between her, Nick, and Bobby, Greg feels like everyone's in on some sort of secret except him. He's so preoccupied that he misses most of what Bobby says when he comes to collect him after shift and they're on the Summerlin Parkway before Greg realizes they're not going to the station range.
"Desert Sportsman's," Bobby says when Greg asks about it.
"Isn't that a private club?" Bobby nods and looks over at him, surprised and a little impressed. "Hey, I do my research."
"Yeah, it is, but we've been members for a couple of years."
"We?" From what Greg remembers, Sam's a reporter or some sort of writer and he never struck Greg as the firearms type. Admittedly, though, Greg's only seen him in the one picture.
"Nick and I," Bobby replies, like that's something Greg should know.
"Oh." And Greg really shouldn't be feeling jealous, because it's not like Bobby's interested in Nick and it's not like Nick's not allowed to have friends. Still, though, there's something about the casual way Bobby says it that digs at Greg. But he's been helpful, more helpful than he needed to be, and the least Greg can do is be appreciative of his time and effort.
"--better to start at," Bobby's saying when Greg tunes back in."There aren't as many people around, for one, and for two, it's a little easier than an indoor range your first time out."
Greg nods like he's been paying attention the whole time and resolves to actually pay attention. He knows Bobby could be home with his family, and he'd most certainly rather be there than here. Greg wonders, not for the first time, why Bobby's doing this. Is he so incompetent that Bobby thinks he's likely to shoot his own foot off? Has he already made so poor a showing that he needs remedial work? He thinks things have been going well, but Grissom's so hard to read there's really no telling. For all Greg knows, they're just humoring him so that when he ends up stuck back in the lab he'll at least have the certainty of knowing he belongs there. He doesn't think they'd really do that, but they clearly know something he doesn't and it's getting to him.
They pull up to the range, Bobby still talking, and Greg remembers he was supposed be paying attention. Right.
Bobby leads him into the building where he's greeted like a regular by the guy at the desk, who nods at Greg and asks, "This the one?"
"Yep," Bobby says, and Greg gets that whole everyone's-got-a-secret feeling again. The guy just grins and shakes Greg's hand though, and Bobby leads him to the back to get started.
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Greg's much better than he thought he'd be, something that surprises both of them. He'd had visions of not hitting the target at all or worse, a stray bullet finding a wandering passerby and necessitating the services of the very same CSIs he wanted to be a part of, not to mention a cellmate named Butch later on down the line. Luckily, the lesson ends with no fatalities. Better yet, it ends with a fair number of Greg's shots close to where they're supposed to be. By the time they're done, shooting a gun doesn't feel like such an alien activity; Greg's nowhere near good yet, but he can stop worrying about taking too long to become truly proficient.
They're cleaning their weapons, the silence ringing in Greg's ears after the noise of shooting, when Bobby says offhandedly, "He likes you, y'know."
"Huh?" The first person Greg thinks of is Butch his potential cellmate, and he swallows his laughter. "Who?"
"Nick."
"Nick?"
Bobby puts down his oilcloth with a bemused smile, ever-present gum firmly in place and it's almost an exact replica of the smile Bobby gave him when all of this started. "Nick. Stokes, CSI? About yea high, brown and brown, atrocious Texas accent?"
"Oh." Greg nods dumbly, then, as his brain catches up, "What?"
"He's worried about you going into the field. Wants to make sure you're safe," Bobby says, like Greg's been following along since this non sequitur of a conversation started. "Don't tell me you haven't figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
And now Bobby's looking like he's about to laugh. "Why he's always on you, checkin' up and askin' questions, wantin' me to bring you out."
"Wait…he asked you to do this?"
"Yeah," Bobby says. "Didn't he tell you?" Greg shakes his hand and Bobby gives a little laugh. "Listen, Greg. He only worries about the people he cares about. Think about that, huh?"
Greg gathers up the last of their things without comment and Bobby watches him closely, trying to look he's doing anything but. This is all...unexpected, to say the least, especially if Bobby means what Greg thinks he means. Because the thing is, Greg was never really serious about Nick, not the way he's serious when there's a chance the other person's really interested. It's crazy, but it makes a certain kind of sense: maybe what Nick's been doing all this time is offering Greg a chance, and all he has to do is take it.
"Is that right?" Greg asks carefully.
Bobby grins. "Come on, Greg," he says, "you ought to know by now there's usually more to things than meets the eye."
"Yeah," Greg says after a moment. "I probably should." He claps Bobby on the back. "All right, Dr. Feelgood, what do you say we get out of here, huh?"