It's a little before five in the afternoon, so Jim isn't surprised when Nick comes to the door in sweatpants and an old college t-shirt. Nick, on the other hand, looks startled to see him, and he stands in the door for several seconds before shaking his head suddenly. "Jim. Come on in."

Jim follows him in and shuts the door, and that's when he realizes that Sanders is sitting on the couch in zebra-print pajama pants, eating Froot Loops and watching the Discovery Channel. He squints at Jim, bleary-eyed, and makes a muffled greeting noise around a mouthful of cereal. Nick gives Jim an apologetic look and leads him into the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"No. Thanks. Nick, I'm here about a case. We found a new lead on the Halstead robbery and with Catherine as overloaded as she has been--"

"There goes my night off." Nick sounds resigned rather than pissed, which means that he probably didn't have serious plans. That makes Jim feel a little better. They've been working a lot of doubles since Warrick was killed, and with Grissom gone too--well, Ray Langston is pretty bright, but he's not a CSI, not yet.

"Sorry. I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by and let you know. I was gonna call Sanders in early, too, but seeing as he's already here--"

"Mmph," Sanders says agreeably from the living room. Jim squints at him, then back at Nick.

"Slumber party?" he asks dryly.

Sanders finishes his cereal and wanders into the kitchen to deposit a bowl of pinkish, sugary milk in the sink. He smiles sleepily at Nick and Jim, opens the fridge, pulls out a carton of orange juice, and takes a long drink.

"Use a glass, man." Nick's voice is mild.

Sanders snorts and replaces the juice. "I'm going to find some clean clothes," he says around a yawn. "Since it seems I'm going in early." He wanders out again.

Smiling a little, Nick pulls two travel mugs out of the cupboard and fills them from the carafe on the counter. He glances back at Jim. "Had a few too many beers last night," he says. "He'll live."

"Sure." Jim peers into the darkened living room. There are, indeed, beer bottles and pizza boxes littering the coffee table, but something still seems off.

Jim knows he's a suspicious bastard; it's one of the things that makes him good at his job. He's not a CSI, but he's been at enough crime scenes to get an idea of what's going on just by looking at what's left behind.

There are no blankets on the couch. And Sanders was in his pajamas. Jim can't think of a single guy he knows who'd bring pajamas and a change of clothes with him to have a few beers with a buddy. Come to that, there's no overnight bag or backpack in sight. People don't normally drink from the container when they're in someone else's kitchen, either; though, considering that this is Sanders, Jim's willing to grant that one.

Nick puts creamer in both mugs of coffee, sugar in one, screws the lids on. Two cups. One for him, one for Sanders. The behavior of habit.

It's only when he turns around and gives Jim a funny look that Jim realizes he's staring with his mouth open. Nick doesn't flush or look away or start stammering excuses. He has to know what Jim is thinking, but it doesn't seem to bother him.

Jim shuts his mouth, opens it again, hesitates. Before he can think of something to say, Sanders comes into the living room, dressed, with his hair in disarray and a pair of boots in one hand. "What's my sentence for tonight?" he asks brightly.

"You're with Catherine and Ray," Jim says, still looking at Nick, who raises his eyebrows, all but daring him to ask the question. Cocky, almost. Jim wouldn't have thought it of him, but it looks like there's a lot of things he didn't know about Nick Stokes. "I've got to be heading out," he says at last. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"

Nick grins suddenly and jerks a thumb at the hallway on the other side of the door. "Right through there."

"Great."

He doesn't really need to piss, but he does anyway, zips, flushes, looks around. Two toothbrushes on the sink. A pair of plaid boxers and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt kicked into a corner.

In the kitchen, he hears Sanders laugh suddenly.

"...think you just outed us to Brass," Nick is saying.

"Not like it's a big secret. You mean he didn't know?"

"Don't believe he did. Get your shoes off the counter, that's disgusting."

A clatter. "God, you're such a woman."

Something about Nick's answering chuckle makes Jim turn ten shades of red and he hastily turns the faucet on to drown out the rest of the conversation.

They're standing several feet apart when he comes back into the kitchen, relaxed and grinning. Sanders has a smear of coffee grinds across one cheek. Jim considers several possible comments, but all he really wants to get the hell out of there before he starts asking questions he doesn't actually want to know the answers to.

"See you at work," he says, and flees.

He wants to let it go. He really does. He's always liked Nick, enjoyed working with him. The man is easygoing, respectful, not inclined to make too many stupid mistakes in the field. And Sanders might be a pain in the ass, but he's basically a good kid. Jim doesn't have the first clue how to handle this, and he finds himself sitting at his desk in the dark, scrolling through personnel files. He doesn't even know what he's looking for. Complaints, favoritism, spats that might have interfered with work (lover's quarrels, if it wasn't such a bizarre phrase to use in conjunction with Nick Stokes and Greg Sanders). There's nothing.

He does discover that Sanders' listed address is an apartment off the Strip, but he's got a strong feeling that if he goes over there and talks the building super into letting him in, he's going to find nothing but bare walls and an empty fridge. A front. He wouldn't have expected Sanders to have that kind of foresight.

"You're going to ruin your eyes like that." Startled, he spins and almost falls out of his chair. Catherine leans around the door, blonde hair falling into her eyes, smirking. She flips the light switch. "Seriously, Jim."

He presses a hand over his heart, although it's mostly for show. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Is it working?" She grins. Even at forty-eight, she's a heartbreaker. "No, I just wanted to let you know that we found the body. Robbins is taking it apart now."

"Good. That's good." He must sound as distracted as he feels, because her brow furrows and she steps inside, shutting the door behind her.

"Jim, are you okay?"

"I--" He hesitates for a long moment, then shrugs. Hell with it. He's nowhere near wrapping his head around this on his own, and Catherine knows how to be discreet. "I stopped by Nick's place earlier to tell him to come in."

"And?"

"Sanders was there. With him."

She raises one manicured brow. "So?"

"Catherine, don't tell me you don't know about this."

He can see her considering, as clearly as if her thoughts are printed across her face. Finally, she sighs. "Okay. I know about it. So what?"

"So what?"

"So what." She sits down across from him, hands on his desk. "Jim, it's kind of an open secret around the labs. Everybody knows. Nobody talks about it, but everybody knows."

Except me.

"Look, I'm not judging or anything," he says, frustrated. "It's perfectly legal, this isn't the military, I get that. But if it's going to compromise their working relationship..."

"If it hasn't yet," Catherine says tartly, "then I doubt it will."

Something about her tone gives him pause. "How long?"

"Five years. That I know of. Grissom thought it might be longer, but he's a closet romantic."

Jim knows his mouth's hanging open, but he can't, at the moment, bring himself to care. Five years?

And then things begin to fall into place, little things he's seen, moments, comments, all unremarkable on their own. Evidence without context, as Grissom would say. But given the context--

God, and he thought it was bad finding out about Grissom and Sara. "Is everyone in your lab involved in some kind of secret affair?"

She laughs. "Not that I know of. Look--are you going to give them trouble about this? Because--"

Jim looks back at his computer. Nick Stokes, CSI-03. Former Dallas police officer. Going on thirteen years with the Vegas crime lab. Greg Sanders. Boy-genius DNA tech turned CSI. Nine years with the lab.

He glances up. Catherine is still staring at him. "You should tell Sanders to update his contact information," he says at last. "Not much use in having the files if they're not up to date. Tell him I said so."

Her face softens into a genuine smile. God, she's a beautiful woman. "I will."

A/N: Finished! I might add a few short pieces about Riley and Ray, but for now, this is it. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.