A/T: Merry Christmas, The Sarcastic Typo! This one's for you! The request for this fic was Nick/David with the prompt David Hodges was a difficult person to shop for, but I totally cheated here. I reversed the prompt to work for the story: Nick Stokes was a difficult person to shop for. I pulled out the handy artistic license, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

The Greg Sanders/Ryan Wolfe companion piece can be found on my account page.

Disclaimer: Although Christmas is the perfect time for CBS to fork over the rights, I still don't own anything related to CSI. Maybe next year?

The Pessimist's Guide to Christmas

Secret Santa.

Secret. Freaking. Santa.

It couldn't be Secret CODIS or Secret AFIS, could it? Of course not. Games like Secret CODIS and Secret AFIS would make David Hodges happy and no one wanted that, especially if they had games like Secret Santa that would make him miserable and irritated instead. Miserable and Irritated David was much more entertaining than Happy David and God knew he just lived to amuse his fellow co-workers with his agony.

His loathing of the childish game now fully understood, he had found it undeniably disheartening (but not entirely unexpected) to see Sara Sidle yank open his trace lab door and stalk in with an expression that would have the bravest of men wetting themselves. This wasn't particularly unusual, as she was generally in a less-than-pleasant mood, but she was clutching a red Santa hat with a white-knuckled fist and David didn't like the looks of that at all. Who goes around with an upside-down Santa hat for the hell of it? No sane person that he knew; of course, it wasn't like he knew many sane people to begin with.

No, there had to be a reason behind this irregularity and he suspected that he'd discover it soon enough. He watched as she strode over to his evidence counter (which he had been tempted to try and hide behind, but he had his pride.) and silently thrust the hat towards him with an expecting manner, shooting him an impatient frown before falling still.

A moment passed.

He looked at the hat before looking at the aggravated woman holding it. He crossed his arms. She quirked an eyebrow.

The war was on.

Sara would have been stupid to simply assume that David would comply to whatever silly game the lab was up to; of course, Sara was far from stupid. Had she been preparing for this confrontation? She didn't appear to be phased by his resistance, so she might have. Either way, David had a sinking feeling that the hat was filled with little slips of paper with names of people he didn't like. And Sara was requiring him to pick one.

Obviously, she wasn't well upstairs.

He leaned against the counter with his left hip, making no move whatsoever to draw a name. "You've got to be kidding me, Sidle. Isn't Secret Santa a bit high schoolish?"

"Does it look like I'm joking, Hodges?" she asked, wearing an expression that indicated that she was in no mood for small talk. "It was Greg's stupid idea, but Grissom caught hold of it and decided it might liven up the place."

"You know, stupidity and Greg never seem to be too far apart. I wonder if there's a connection that we're missing? On that note, I can't believe Grissom wanted liven up the place."

"Hodges, just take one."

"This is supposed to brighten spirits, right?"

"Yes. Now shut up and pull a name."

"Looks like it's working already, especially with that cheerful attitude you're sporting."

If Greg's little game was meant to heighten the mood of the lab, it was doing a shoddy job. Sara was giving him a look that implied the only thing she'd find cheerful was his death. Of course, death threats weren't exactly foreign to him and her murderous gaze only meant that he hadn't lost his patented edge. Score one for him.

"You expect me to participate when I haven't even put in my own name?"

"With all the crap you were going to give me, I put it in for you. No need to thank me."

Damn her! That was the only card he had in an otherwise worthless deck! She had obviously thought ahead; way, way ahead if her smug look was any indication.

"Then I respectfully decline."

"You can't respectfully decline," she barked. "Your name's already in there. As a matter of fact, some unfortunate soul might have already pulled it anyway."

Perhaps it was because she was murdering him with her eyes. Maybe it was because he was exhausted from a long shift. It was also conceivable that he knew she'd refuse to dump out all the names and search for his, thus legally avoiding the game. But between the mental homicide, his aching body, and the snowball's chance in Hell that she would actually help him, he let out a theatric sigh before surrendering. He dipped an impatient hand into the Santa hat and yanked out the first paper he happened to grab hold of. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would draw someone he barely knew and thus get away with purchasing an impersonal gift card to some God awful trendy store, like The Gap or Best Buy.

"If I draw you," he announced, "You can expect a ticking box for Christmas."

"And if I get you," she sweetly replied. "You can expect a Cabbage Patch doll."

He shot her a glare –that threat was just inhumane- before he flipped the folded paper open, because even he had a sense of curiosity. The words were hurriedly scrawled in black ballpoint ink and he had to blink once and then twice, because he couldn't have been reading it right.

No way.

No. Freaking. Way.

He stared at the paper, as if the meaning of life were written down on that small slip. The brunette in front of him arched an eyebrow; after all, she'd never seen David fall so incredibly silent before.

"Hodges? Everything okay?"

Nick Stokes.

Nick. Freaking. Stokes.

Sara, fueled with a new sense of curiosity, leaned over his shoulder to chance a peak as he quickly crumpled it up and shoved it in his pocket. She huffed, perturbed that she hadn't seen it as well, before turning and walking out of his lab without so much as a farewell.

Secret Santa.

Secret. Freaking. Santa.

God, he hated that game.

…

The rules were simple: you had two weeks to find your gift and you could only spend thirty-five dollars at the most.

At first, it had sounded easy. Anyone could find something for fewer than thirty-five dollars and David wasn't below stopping by Wal-Mart and buying some Made In China piece of crap if that's what it took for him to get out of the Secret Santa mess. As a matter of fact, he would do anything to get out of it. Anything at all.

At least, that's what he thought when he found himself standing in the middle of Wal-Mart, holding a card and some country CD. Did Nick like country music? Did he already have this one at home? Did he like the guy singing it? And why did Christmas cards have to be so damn sentimental? He closed his eyes; obviously, this Secret Santa thing was going to be more trouble than it was worth. He needed an easy out, but not this easy.

It soon became apparent that buying a present for Nick Stokes wasn't a mere hassle or job… it was a mission. You couldn't just buy a Hallmark card and a Wal-Mart something or another; it had to be an item with a little bit of feeling and meaning behind it and, despite how hard it was to believe, David wasn't particularly talented in those areas of human emotion.

See, Nick had been buried alive and David had been so frantic to get him from below ground that he had promised himself (as well as God, but he had been desperate) that he would never take Nick (or any co-worker, including Sara) for granted again. That meant he would buy a decent present when the time rolled around, because a thoughtful gift showed that he was keeping his promise, that he was appreciating Nick's life. With a sigh, he put the CD and card down and left the store.

He needed a plan.

A good plan.

And he only had thirteen more days.

Days Left: 13.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #1: Wow. This isn't going very well for you, is it? Don't worry; that's what The Pessimist's Guide to Christmas is here for. We're going to take you step by step, guiding you through the holiday process. Our first piece of advice? Vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. Stock up, 'cause you're going to need it.

…

"I asked you if you knew what sort of movies he likes," David ground out, trying not to mill his teeth in frustration. If he had thought that learning what kinds of things Nick liked was difficult, then trying to get the information from a verified source was even worse. It had taken careful studying of the clock to deduce when Catherine would be in the trace lab without Grissom or Warrick accompanying her. He knew he had to corner her without anyone else being able to overhear, but who knew she would be so smug about it?

"You drew him, didn't you?" she asked, sporting a wide grin.

"CSIs aren't supposed to make assumptions," David replied, his impatience clear. Why couldn't she make this easy on him?

"Hodges, I'm just using my God-given common sense. You've never bought Nicky a gift before and I doubt you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, so I can only assume that you drew his name from the Secret Santa hat."

"Can you help me out or not?"

"Not, but only because I don't know any movie he particularly likes. I don't even know his favorite actress," Catherine replied and then, as an afterthought, "Or actor."

David chose not to dwell on what Catherine was suggesting; that is, perhaps the Texan preferred actors to actresses. Instead, he attempted to keep focused on the issue at hand. The issue being, of course, that she didn't seem to grasp the severity of the predicament he was facing.

It appeared as though a movie wasn't going to be his answer. He watched Catherine leave, irate at the smile she sent over her shoulder, and inwardly groaned.

Days Left: 12.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #2: Don't worry: we hate smugness just as much as the next guy. Buck up and get over it. Your holiday season is probably going to be the worst so far, but you can't let women like that get the best of you. We've been thinking about it, and our first plan was to just ignore the dim-witted game and not but the guy anything, but that would be cruel. Sure, we're pessimists, but we aren't cruel.

Our second plan? Just keep asking around. You won't find anything useful, but at least you're putting forth an effort. No one will be able to blame you for not trying.

…

"I'm talking purely hypothetical."

"Of course you are."

"Listen, this isn't a difficult question to grasp. You're his best friend and I'm the sap who's stuck buying him a gift."

"Hodges, as much as I'd like to help you out, he and I don't exactly mesh when it comes to musical taste. I wouldn't even begin to know what he does and doesn't have. I wouldn't know what the band or album's called. All I know is that he likes country and a couple of pop songs."

"You couldn't get anymore vague, could you?" David asked, mentally scratching Warrick's name off of his list of potential information sources.

Warrick sent him a grin as he snatched the sample results out of David's resisting hands. David had watched the clock as he had done yesterday, making sure he was able to corner Warrick alone before inquiring into Nick's musical preferences. However, he had proved to be as helpful as Catherine. "Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."

Now there was a news flash. Still, Warrick had to know something. This called for drastic measures.

With a quickness that not even Warrick possessed, David grabbed the sample back and, for good measure, took a few steps away from the other man. Not that David was afraid or anything, but Warrick was a big guy. A tall, muscular guy that could easily flatten anyone smaller than him. As it so happened, David was smaller. Not by much, of course, but that didn't change the logistics by any means.

"Hodges, man, I suggest you give those back to me."

"Forget it, Brown. Either you give me an idea or these results will never see the light of day. Or night, whatever the case may be."

"Just how desperate are you?"

"Uh, hello? I'm putting my professionalism at stake. Just give me a hint or something."

"Listen, you're bo-''

"Excuse me?"

David and Warrick blinked before turning to the doorway in unison. Last time David had counted, there had only been two people in his lab: Warrick and himself. Considering the timid voice interrupting their conversation wasn't Warrick's and it certainly wasn't his, he could only guess that someone else had crept in undetected. Who dare interfere with his present-buying attempt?

Warrick, however, seemed to recognize the stranger while David, who knew everyone in the lab, did not. Warrick sent a smile past David's shoulder and ushered the man inside; David, in no mood for kind words or polite chitchat, shot the dark haired visitor a pointed look.

"We're talking. Come back another time."

"Hodges," Warrick admonished, frowning at the technician's tone. "It wouldn't kill you to act somewhat human towards our new CSI."

"New CSI? Since when?"

"Since yesterday. Where've you been?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Between running dozens of samples and trying to keep you investigators happy, I haven't had the time to try and deduce who's transferring and when. I'll try and improve on that."

"Sorry Ryan," Warrick said as she approached the younger man with a smile. "We didn't want to introduce you to him on the first day, but the meeting's inevitable. Ryan Wolfe, David Hodges. Hodges, Ryan Wolfe. Transfer from Miami."

"Hi," Ryan said, sticking out his right hand. "It's a pleasure."

"Maybe for you," David remarked, pointing to the manila folder in the CSI's hand as he clutched Warrick's results in the other. "If that's evidence, then you had better take a number."

Ryan and Warrick exchanged glances before Ryan nodded, placing the folder on top of David's Inbox pile. David knew he was making a horrible first impression, but his mission was on the line. Either he made friends with the new guy or he wheedled some information out of Warrick. The newbie could wait, but Christmas couldn't.

"No hurry," Ryan said, nodding towards the pile. "Just take your time with it."

"Like you have a say-so," David muttered as Warrick deftly grabbed his results once more. David made a move to protest, but decided against it as the two CSIs left him alone and thoroughly discouraged. It was obvious that Warrick had nothing to offer and Ryan certainly couldn't help.

Days Left: 11.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #3: You're surrounded by idiots; get used to it. You only have your God-given intelligence to fall back on, so you're going to have to figure this one out on your own.

…

"Listen, do you know Nick's favorite author or something?"

"You drew him, didn't you?"

"What tipped you off, genius?"

Sara Sidle grinned as she began to artfully arrange a stack of crime scene photos on the table before her. David rolled his eyes before glancing out towards the hall, making sure Nick wasn't anywhere close by. Couldn't she just spit it out already? What was with the gloating game? "The fact you're asking about Nick's taste in books kind of gives you away."

"Was I obvious? Damn."

"No need to be crude."

"It's not crudeness, Sidle. I'm just being blunt. Please tell me you have some idea of what Nick likes. He's a bird geek, right? Can't I just buy him something about penguins?"

"He already owns a whole slew of bird books," she informed. "And every penguin guide ever published, including March of the Penguins on DVD. If I were you, I'd find something else."

"If you were me," David muttered, "You'd be considering a one-way ticket to Hawaii."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she reassured.

As small, theoretic storm cloud began forming over his head, he left her alone with her precious pictures and began towards the break room, truly desolate. It was a game, so why did he feel it was so important to buy Nick the perfect thing? His break had started five minutes ago and all he had managed to do was follow another dead end. He needed coffee. Preferably Greg's coffee, only Greg wasn't going to know about it.

He shuffled inside the empty room and stuck his hand behind the refrigerator where Greg thought he could hide his prized stash of Blue Hawaiian. Obviously, the younger CSI didn't have faith in David's investigative abilities, but rest assured David discovered his new hiding place every Monday morning. It was a subtle mix of following evidence and tracking Greg's every move in a coffee-obsessed way. David never admitted it, but once you had Blue Hawaiian, you couldn't go back.

Just as he was filling the filter, he felt the presence of someone else in the room. He seriously hoped it wasn't Greg, because as daft as the blonde could sometimes be, even he had begun to notice how the bag was emptying way too fast for just one person.

David quickly turned while trying to think of an excuse. I just found it. Ah, yes. He just happened to find the coffee when he was casually searching behind the refrigerator. Greg would believe that, right?

The man he ended up facing wasn't Greg. This, of course, was cause for celebration. However, it was Ryan, the man whom he had been rather rude towards. He was rude to everyone, but they deserved it; Ryan, on the other hand, hadn't done or said anything that would warrant David's attitude.

"Hey," Ryan said, sending him an uncertain smile. "You taking a break?"

"I'm drinking coffee in the break room," David replied, not bothering to look up from his copy of the Thrifty Nickel that he had found on the counter. Someone was selling a 1966 Ford Mustang. Gas guzzlers? Sure. Beautiful? Absolutely. "I'll leave it to you to figure out the rest."

Ryan's smile faded and then he nodded, obviously embarrassed by the apparent brush off. David grimaced at the look and inwardly kicked himself; why was he always so mean? "Right. Anyway, I guess I'll see you later."

The younger man quickly turned and headed towards the doorway while David had an internal war within himself. He was being an ass. He knew it, Ryan knew it, and although the rest of the lab didn't know it for a fact, he'd bet money that they were guessing it. He watched as Ryan turned right and began down the hall, about to pass the room altogether.

Before David even knew what he was doing, he held his hand up and rapped against the wall. This quickly caught the other man's attention; Ryan turned towards the noise and, with a slight sigh, David waved him back in. Even he had manners. Not many, of course, but they were there.

The Floridian sent the technician a troubled look but complied. David felt uncomfortable beneath the gaze; at the same time, he knew all too well what it was like to be uncertain and not fit in. The last thing Ryan needed was someone pushing him away when all he wanted was to belong.

"What's in the bag?" David asked, casually looking back down at his paper. Indeed, Ryan had been holding a brown paper sack that was clearly meant for his lunch. Elementary schoolish? Yes, but oddly endearing.

"Sub sandwiches. There's two," Ryan replied, a tiny bit of optimism coloring his words.

"Well," David began, silently hoping he hadn't scared Ryan away permanently. "If there's two of those and there's two of us…"

"Your math makes perfect sense," the younger man responded, smiling before holding up the bag. "Share?"

"If you can stand me for more than ten consecutive minutes," David replied by way of accepting. Ryan smiled again before sliding into the seat across from David, obviously pleased to have someone to talk to.

"So," David began, accepting the offered sandwich with a small nod of thanks. "You're the newbie."

"Not newbie," Ryan corrected. "New guy."

"There's a difference?"

"The way I see it, yeah. A newbie means they've never done the job before. A new guy means they've done it, but they're new to the locale or team."

"You've put an unsettling amount of thought into this."

"I've had time to think it over."

"Is that bitterness I hear?"

"Me? Never."

"I bet," David replied, tossing a slice of black olive into his mouth. Were these sandwiches homemade? Whether they were or not, they were still delicious. "I hear you're getting along with the team pretty well. What's your secret?"

"Manners."

"Maybe that's what I'm missing."

"You think?"

"Its been hinted."

Ryan laughed and shook his head as David secretly enjoyed the conversation. Who knew Ryan could quip with the best of them?

"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me out. It's my third night here and I've met most of the team, but there's this one guy I never have the chance to speak to. I don't know his name or anything," Ryan said, a small tint of pink coloring his otherwise pale face.

"Describe him and ye shall have the answer."

Ryan's eyebrows rose. "You know everyone in this lab?"

"Ryan, I'm a lab technician. That means I know all, see all, and hear all. I'm part of a complex system that mere CSIs will never fully comprehend."

At Ryan's confused silence, David allowed himself a small smile. "It means I have a lot of time to overhear conversations and follow gossip. And yes, I know everyone in this lab. Ask them about me and you'll probably get an eye roll and muttered curse."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry about losing the popularity contest."

"I get the gold medal every time, so don't even try it. And by the way, if you're trying to lay claim on a guy with dark hair and a Texan accent, you'd better get in line. I called him first."

Even as the words left his mouth, David felt himself mentally faint. He had just admitted his crush on Nick to a complete and utter stranger. God, what did Greg mix into his coffee, marijuana?

To David's relief (and surprise), Ryan merely laughed and shook his head. "Don't worry, you won't have any competition from me. This guy's about my height, I guess. Sneakers, blonde-''

"Whoa, whoa," David interjected, holding up his hand. "Idiotic saying on his t-shirt? Hair that looks as if it's defying gravity?"

"The hair's kinda goofy," Ryan agreed, smiling a bit.

"You must have some deplorable taste, Wolfe."

"Why? He seems like a nice guy."

"Oh, he is. That doesn't mean he has any intelligence, common sense, or basic manners."

"But he has a name?"

"Greg Sanders, CSI level one. Worked DNA before he decided to go out in the field. Natural brunette. Appalling taste in music."

Ryan merely smiled.

Days Left: 10.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #4: So you've made a new friend, huh? Congratulations. He seems like a nice enough guy, but he's probably going to turn on you the moment you look away. The knife will be heavy in your back, so don't say we didn't warn you.

Until then, go ahead and keep him around. Y'know, just in case he isn't the monster we think he's going to be.

…

"Everyone eats. If you don't eat, you die. It's that simple."

"I know humans have to eat to survive," Greg replied, crossing his arms. "I'm not that stupid."

"And I would never think of you as such."

"Why are you asking anyway? Oo, I know," Greg began, answering his own question with a bright smile. "You're finally asking Nick to dinner, right? It's about time you make your move. Go Dave-myster!"

"I can't believe you just called me that," David said, nonplussed. "And for your information, I'm just trying to buy him a present that won't be interpreted as completely thoughtless."

"He might have a hard time believing that."

David rolled his eyes, utterly exasperated. If the crime lab planned on playing this ridiculous Secret Santa game again next year, David was drawing up his resignation papers the moment Sara approached him with the hat. There was no way he could go through this again.

"That's why I'm asking for your help, moron."

"So you're going with a Harry and David-esqe gift?"

"It's my absolute last resort. Is he allergic to anything?"

"Sarcasm. He breaks out when he comes in contact with it."

"Go to hell."

"And a Merry Christmas to you as well, Mr. Scrooge!" Greg replied, laughing at David's glare.

"Are you going to help me or not? If you aren't, then I'm wasting my time even talking to you."

"Okay, okay," Greg conceded, an air of seriousness finally falling over him. "I know we only have nine days and I haven't bought anything either. I'll help you if you help me. Deal?"

"It depends. If it involves your horrid music and ugly shirts, then I'm out."

"Of what, the closet?"

"I'm not having this conversation," David snapped, quickly turning to stalk out of the DNA lab. Greg was, of course, a CSI, but he still ran most of his own samples. David had become proficient at timing when Nick was gone, so he hadn't a problem with finding the perfect moment to ask Greg about Nick's choices in food. He had counted on Greg's ruthless teasing and generally giving David a hard time, but he hadn't expected Greg to address David's attraction to a certain Texan CSI with such frank words. He wasn't in the mood to play games.

"Don't throw a tantrum, Dave. I'm just teasing. Listen, I drew Ryan Wolfe," Greg whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being heard. "And I have no idea what he's into, but I've seen him talking to you. Don't ask me why."

"He's clearly unstable," David deadpanned. "God knows that regular folks won't spare me a moment of their precious time."

"You're a regular comedian, Dave," Greg replied, shaking his head. "Anyway, if you stealthily inquire into his likes and interests, I'll get the phone numbers of all five of Nicky's sisters. It's the Secret Santa jackpot."

"Nick's sisters? You're proposing I call a complete stranger and ask if they know what I can buy their brother for our Secret Santa office game?"

Greg paused a moment; hearing the plan in words made it seem like less of a plan and more of a desperate grasp at straws. After a moment of consideration, Greg nodded. "That's exactly what I propose. How about it?"

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Of course you can. It's for your Nicky-poo."

"I swear I'm going to-''

"Shush, Dave. God can hear you."

Days left: 9.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #5: The morons really show themselves in December, don't they? Despite their stupidity, we advise you to accept their assistance. Their I.Q. may be lower than that of a rock, but that doesn't make them any less helpful.

…

On the eve of the eighth day, David was staring up at his ceiling while trying to fall asleep. He couldn't believe it, of course, but the silly holiday game was actually stopping him from getting any rest. With the left side of his mind, he was dreaming up creative ways of killing Greg; on the right, he was trying to figure out what Nick would want as a present. It was Greg's fault that this was keeping him awake; if the idiot hadn't of brought it up, David would be asleep and the Secret Santa nonsense would have never happened.

Alas, such was not the case. David still had a small slip of paper with Nick's name and no corresponding gift to go with it. This was a source of panic.

He sighed, going through a mental checklist. He had asked all of his co-workers about what Nick seemed to enjoy; even Warrick, who had been the most promising, didn't seem to have any answers. David was running out of sources that were close to Nick. He needed a plan.

He turned and groaned into his pillow, fully aware of what he had to do next.

…

David sat resolutely at his dining room table, having a staring contest with his phone.

So far, the phone was winning.

He could hear the clock ticking from the corner of the room, the methodic noise reminding him of what he had to do. Beside the demon phone was a list of five hastily scribbled telephone numbers and the corresponding names that were staring right back, taunting him from their place on the paper. It wasn't fair, because telephone numbers shouldn't be scary.

He sucked in a deep breath. This phone wasn't gong to dial itself and he had lost the contest anyway. With one determined motion, he picked up the hand held and punched in the digits for the first number with the name Mary next to it.

He was suddenly hit by the sheer ridiculousness of the entire ordeal. Was he really calling a complete stranger to ask what kind of gifts Nick wanted? It appeared as though he was, because the next thing he knew, someone was answering on the other end.

"Hello?"

At first, David couldn't find the words. He felt so incredibly stupid; the Secret Santa business had spun completely out of control. Why hadn't he just bought the CD?

"Hello?" the voice asked, a note of irritation showing through. David inwardly winced; this lady was going to be a tough one.

"Hi," he said, wishing he'd planned out his speech earlier. "My name's David Hodges. You don't know me, but I work with your brother Nick."

"Nick? Why, is he okay?"

"He's fine," David quickly replied, and he had to wonder just how many calls Nick's family received on a regular basis regarding their brother's/son's well-being. "I actually have a favor to ask you. Our office is doing a Secret Santa game this year-''

"You poor thing," Mary said, her tone genuine. "I hate that game."

"You and me both."

"Let me guess. You drew Nick?"

"Exactly," David replied, thrilled that the woman seemed so straightforward. "All I know is that he likes country music, but he might own every album known to the genre."

"Trust me, he does. I bet you're calling to ask what he's interested in, right?"

"Regrettably. I hope it's not too much trouble."

"Of course not, but I can't help you. You and I are in the same boat."

"Please don't say that."

Somewhere in Alabama, Mary laughed. "It's true. I don't have the slightest idea what to buy him this year, but I know that Kerry might be able to help. She always seemed to get him something he enjoyed."

"Kerry?"

"Yep. Need her number?"

After saying their farewells, David ended the call and scratched Mary's name and number off the list. It was another dead end, but perhaps Kerry knew the answer. If she did, then it would be a Christmas miracle.

He quickly dialed her number and explained who he was and what he was doing for a second time. Kerry, unable to help, recommend Jenna, who recommended Bridget, who suggested he give Annie a ring. By then, of course, he was frazzled. He had just spent half an hour trying to pry a hint of an idea, but four down and one more to go weren't inspiring odds. Could Annie, last on the list, be the one to salvage the Secret Santa chaos?

Yeah, right. Only optimists thought that way.

With a soft groan, David dialed her number, wondering why he was even bothering. If this didn't work, then he was going right back to Wal-Mart and buying the first thing he saw, even if it ended up being a Twix bar and a cheesy "Inspirational" twelve month calendar. He waited for the first ring, then the second, then the third. By the fourth, he was seriously considering hanging up until a perky voice with a Southern accent answered. The sound made David wince, but he managed to spill out the reason for his call. She seemed to be a bit ditzier than the other four, but sounded excited that he was going to all that trouble to buy her baby brother something worthwhile.

Obviously, she didn't know about the calendar yet.

However, her ditzyness (although annoying) proved to be more useful than Nick's siblings and co-workers combined, because it caused her to ramble.

A lot.

And while he usually grew impatient with bimbos who yapped on incessantly, he found himself thanking his lucky stars nonetheless. He didn't dare interrupt her as she babbled on and on about Nick's younger days, how excited she was to hear from one of her brother's friends, to actually talk to a co-worker who obviously cared about her brother's happiness.

"Well, it's hard to think of something right off the top of my head," she began. "Grown men aren't as easy to shop for as young ones and he was always difficult to buy for anyway. A couple of friends and a good game of Cops and Robbers had him happy for the rest of the day. I always ended up buying him clothes, but Kerry was so much more successful. She was creative and made him scrapbooks and things. I was actually a little jealous. Anyway, he was a tough kid for Santa. The only thing he ever really liked was his car- actually, he loved that car. He was so upset when that jerk totaled it. The guy was completely drunk and just sped down our road, making it look like a tin can by the time he was finished."

David couldn't help himself. He had to ask, "What kind of car was it?"

"A nineteen sixty six Mustang convertible. He coveted that thing. Daddy bought it for him for his sixteenth birthday, and I was happy for him but…"

Annie's voice seemed to fade away as David was struck with an idea that wouldn't die. And although David didn't believe in Christmas angels or anything, he could almost hear a joyous round of Hallelujah from somewhere in the sky.

Days Left: 7
Pessimist's Guide Tip #6: Well, what do you know? There's a light at the end of the tunnel, although it's probably a speeding train, six seconds away from flattening you into a human pancake. Besides that, you actually have an idea. Score one for you. Now go do something about it, because we're sick of giving you advice.

And who the hell is playing that Hallelujah recording? Turn it off. It's inspiring, and we hate that.

…

One week later.

The tree was actually real, which surprised David to no end that evening. It smelled wonderful, like Christmas should, and he was momentarily taken back to his own childhood where times were just a tiny bit simpler for him.

The small box in his pocket was practically burning. The rule was that you had to store your gift under the tree with the rest of them, but David would only do that if a gun were held to his head; even then, it would have to be a big gun with a lot of ammo and a trigger-happy owner.

No, he didn't have the slightest intention of giving his present in front of an audience. First of all, it would be humiliating. Second of all, it wouldn't be the least bit personal and third of all, Greg would probably say something horribly embarrassing and inappropriate. Why did Greg have to be so damn smart? Why couldn't he revert to his clueless self, when he wouldn't have noticed that David liked Nick on a beyond-professional basis? David sighed to himself as he stopped to admire the tree. He knew Greg wouldn't spill the beans, but it was still disconcerting to have someone else know when he was so used to hiding it.

He hurriedly passed the tree and headed towards his wonderfully familiar lab. There were no decorations there, no indication that it was anywhere near the holiday season. He hadn't put his gift under the tree and no amount of banter, badgering, or Grissom's arched eyebrow was going to make him. He half hoped that they would exchange gifts without noticing he wasn't there; of course, the hope was thin. After all, they might not notice he was missing, but the would notice if their beloved Nick Stokes didn't receive a present and they would inevitably hunt him down. David bristled at the thought. They might hunt him, but until then, he was going to do his job.

In the span of two hours, David had managed to immerse himself in what he liked to call a career. He was able to get through several cases without anyone sniffing by, trying to con him into running their evidence first. They might not know it yet, but he had a system: his moods. If he was in a good mood, then it was a first come, first serve basis. If he was in a bad mood, then he made a mental list of everyone who had pissed him off that day and stuck his or her evidence at the bottom of the pile. Sure, it all got finished before the night was out, but that didn't mean he couldn't silently exact his revenge while he was at it.

He was in the middle of running a piece of blue glass when a series of happy voices floated down from the break room and towards his lab. He closed his eyes, aware of what was going on: they were unwrapping gifts. The fleeting thought of actually joining them came and went within a second before he decided that he wasn't going to drop everything in order to appease the participants of an annoying holiday amusement. If they wanted his company, they could walk right down to his lab and get it, although he preferred they didn't. He needed some sort of silence in order to concentrate, and the exclamations and thank yous weren't helping him any. With a resolute motion, he placed the small shard into the machine; after all, if he could work with Greg's screaming music, then he could most certainly work with muted voices three corridors away.

Twenty minutes later, the voices had (thankfully) died down, going back to their usual murmurs and David allowed himself the thought that maybe they weren't going to hunt him down. Maybe the papers had gotten confused somehow and Nick had already received a gift. Maybe Nick wasn't even there, so nobody noticed. Better yet, maybe-

"They're coming."

David glanced into the doorway to see Ryan Wolfe standing there, a small smile on his face. Somehow (David hadn't quite figured it out), he and Ryan had become friends. Ryan seemed to understand David's personality; his likes, dislikes, need for solitude, need for company. Better yet, he seemed to know when David required help, like at this very moment. David had no desire to be caught in a whirlwind of festive diversions alone. It would be better to have an ally, a part that Ryan filled beautifully. His only flaw was his inexplicable crush on Greg, but to each his own.

"Great," David sighed as Ryan walked towards him. "Should I tell you where I hid my Will and Testament?"

Ryan's laugh was sympathetic. "I'm sure it won't be that bad. Just give him your present and they'll be on their way."

"As great as you are on the team, I can see you're still the new guy. You obviously don't know these people."

"You think they'll drag it out?"

"I know they'll drag it out. They take pleasure in my pain."

"That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"Watch and learn, young grasshopper."

The moment David finished speaking was the moment a group of CSIs rounded the corner and made a beeline straight for his lab. Ryan and David instantly began to act busy and nonchalant, as if the trace technician weren't about to be interrogated about his lack of holiday spirit. The man in question took a deep breath and steeled himself against the attack.

"Hey Hodges," Greg called, sticking his head into the doorway. "You have Nick's present? I think you forgot to stick it under the tree."

"We all know Hodges better than that," Sara said, walking straight in and dropping the pleasantries. "He has it hidden somewhere. Cough it up and we'll let you live."

"A stunning offer, Sidle, but I'll decline."

"Oh, come on," Catherine said, nudging David with her elbow. Ah, the badgering had begun. "We have to know."

"Yeah," Greg chimed in, his grin resembling that of a wolf. "Is it perverse? Kinky?"

David shot his blonde friend a glare before wondering how long it would take to usher his sudden audience out. They were invading his personal space, his one place that he expected to be his own. It was a present, for God's sake, not a wedding ring. Why did everyone want to know what it was? They needed desperately needed lives.

"You don't have to know," David retorted, irritated by the sudden array of people blocking his exit. "You won't die if it remains a secret, not that you know the meaning of the word."

"You're right," Sara agreed. "We're investigators. Secrets just aren't our thing."

"You can say that again. Now would you mind leaving?"

"David, we've already exchanged gifts and we don't want Nicky to be left out," Greg prodded. "Be a sport. He won't even have to open it in here."

"Fine," David snapped, retrieving the small package from his coat pocket. It wasn't like he was going to get out of it anyway. The best thing he could do for himself was get it over with as quickly as possible; besides, didn't they promise something about leaving?

"Here," he muttered, tossing the tiny box in Nick's direction, who caught it with deft hands. "Now get out of my lab. All of you. No exceptions."

"Not even me?" Nick innocently asked, a playful grin beginning to grow. David put on his best pissed-off expression.

"Especially not you. You're all contaminating my evidence."

"You're such a Scrooge," Sara observed. David opened his mouth to reply, but realized absolutely no one was leaving him to his peace. He took comfort in the fact that Ryan was there next to him. He might be able to help him if he needed to make a getaway.

David was relived to see that Nick wasn't one of those who took their excruciatingly sweet time to open a gift. The Texan practically ripped off the wrapping, balled it up, and threw it away before everyone crowded behind him to see what was inside the container. David felt his face heat up and the ever-familiar urge to hide behind his evidence counter made itself known once more. Good Lord, he loathed this game with every fiber of his being.

There was a silence before Greg, who had caught sight of the gift, arched a disbelieving eyebrow. "You bought Nick a key chain?" he asked, clearly unimpressed by the offering. "I know you're cheap, but there's a standard, y'know?"

For a bunch of CSIs, these people weren't very observant.

"First of all, it's a Texas A&M key chain," David replied, crossing his arms and wishing he could suddenly die. "Which is where he graduated. Second of all, I'm not cheap. I'm just thrifty. Third of all, Christmas isn't even about presents. I'm here, aren't I? Enjoy the pleasure of my company or get out of my lab."

"There's a key on it," Sara announced, obviously intrigued. David inwardly groaned. He suddenly feared for Las Vegas investigators throughout the state; were they all this clueless? Of course there was a key… how could they even miss it? Nevertheless, everyone's ears seemed to perk up, even Ryan's. Traitor.

"Thanks for that astute observation. Now would you-''

"A key? That makes things more interesting, now doesn't it?" Greg asked, grinning. Catherine let out a low (and mildly suggestive) whistle.

"It's not what you think, moron."

"Oh yeah? Then what's it go to?"

"You're the CSI, big shot. Go find out for yourself."

"That's no fair! Where are we even supposed to begin?"

"Oh, I don't know," David innocently replied. "What do keys usually go with?"

"Doors?"

"And for that, you get a gold star."

"Dave, we can't go trying every door in Las Vegas. That would be…"

"Stupid," David finished, not looking up from his work. "And something you'd do in a heartbeat."

"Then give us something to work with," Greg complained. "How's Nicky supposed to know what to do with the key?"

"Would you stop whining? It's irritating."

"I refuse to leave this lab until you give us a hint."

"Like you'd leave anyway. Besides, you know the key goes to a door. Start investigating. I hear that's what you're actually paid to do."

"Who says this key goes to a house door? It could just as easily belong to a car or drawer," Ryan added, glancing over at David. The technician couldn't help but shoot him a small smile; the guy was definitely intelligent.

"It makes it all the more interesting from my point of view," David added.

"So what, we should check all the doors in the city? And every drawer with a lock on it?" Greg asked, sticking a hand on his hip. "And then all the cars in the parking lot?"

David fell silent. He would have liked to throw another cutting barb Greg's way, but there actually was a car in the parking lot and that key happened to unlock it. He opened his mouth to reply; after a moment of struggling for words, he closed it again. Greg's eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

"You're joking."

"I don't joke."

"I have to see this," Catherine announced, a large smile lighting up her face as she grabbed David's left arm. "Come on and show us."

"I'd prefer not."

"There's no way you can leave it like this, Hodges," Sara argued. "We have to see it to believe it."

"Don't you people have jobs?" David asked, aghast. This had been a terrible idea, no doubt about it. He suddenly wished he was back at Wal-Mart, holding a random country album and a standard card. Then he wouldn't be in this mess. He'd be left alone with his own thoughts with Greg jumping into his lab at irregular moments, intent to annoy him, as was their custom. He wouldn't have Sara and Catherine dragging him down the hallway, grins threatening to split their faces. He wouldn't have Greg pulling Nick and Ryan behind them, Greg excited while Nick looking appropriately hesitant, as if the young CSI were leading him towards the firing squads. And he certainly wouldn't have half the lab staring at their parade.

They ended up in the parking lot, David cursing them all under his breath. He would have cursed them aloud, but he rather liked his job and didn't want to get fired. However, the prospect of unemployment was getting brighter and brighter as Catherine and Sara all but heaved him towards the middle of the lot before they stopped between a Beamer and a Ford 4x4. Sara twitched an eyebrow while Catherine leveled David with an expectant expression.

"So? We hate suspense, Hodges."

"So I gathered. I got the impression as you yanked me out of my lab and lugged me into the parking lot."

"It's your fault for not giving us more information."

"Sure, blame the technician. You're used to it anyway."

"Listen, if you don't fess up, we'll have Greg irritate you until you beg for death. Right Nick?" Sara asked, turning towards the other man. But Nick didn't reply; he didn't even indicate that he had heard Sara at all. Instead, he was staring across the lot at what was sure to be a familiar looking automobile.

"Hey Nicky, we're torturing Hodges. Want to join?" Sara asked again as she followed the Texan's line of sight. "We were just…" She trailed off once she caught sight of the gorgeous car. Catherine and her followers did the same.

Greg stared at the beautiful vehicle, his mind barely able to process the sight in front of him before he turned back to David.

"You're kidding, right?"

David elected not to reply, but his silence answered for him. Greg's eyes widened to the size of Pluto as he spun around to take a closer look at the blue nineteen sixty-six Mustang convertible, saying the first thing that came to his mind.

"It's a car."

"Yes, it is. Your CSI powers ceaselessly amaze me, Sanders."

"But it's a car."

"I thought we went over this already."

"David, it's a freaking car!"

"Sanders, I'm leaving. I have fifteen cases to work through and the trace won't run itself."

"You realize that cars cost more than thirty-five bucks, right?"

Nick, who looked absolutely shell-shocked, turned towards the technician but couldn't seem to find any words. David grimaced; it was clear he was going to have to explain the entire situation in detail.

"Look," he said, sighing irritably, annoyed by their insistence for specifics. "There was this guy who had to move out of the country for a new job, but he didn't want to take everything with him. I saw the advertisement in the paper. He had two cars up for sale. One of them was an old Beetle and the other was the Mustang."

"How much was he selling them for?" Catherine asked, her delicate eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline.

"Five hundred."

"Five hundred?" Sara echoed, her tone portraying her shocked state. "You mean you paid-?"

"Of course I didn't," David replied, cutting her off before she could finish her predictable question. "The car wouldn't even start, so I told him I'd pay thirty dollars and the tow truck fee."

"And he took a deal like that?"

"He'd been trying to sell it for three years and he had to get out of there anyway. He was thirty dollars richer than when he started."

"It's a car. And this looks like a fresh coat of paint," Greg pointed out.

"I know what it is, Sanders," David replied, the humiliation beginning to eat at him. "And I have a friend who runs an auto detail shop. I backed him when he started, so he owes me an infinite amount of oil changes and a paint job."

"So this blue paint…?"

"Didn't cost me a thing."

"But you said it wouldn't start."

David shrugged. "I had all the parts at home. The guy who owned it last didn't know anything about mechanics. All it needed was a new starter cable. So I put in a new cable, Windexed the windows, Febreezed the seats, and cleaned out some God-forsaken cheeseburger from nineteen eighty something."

"Sounds disgusting."

"It was breathing. Trust me, I'm never eating at a fast food joint again."

The group, despite hearing his story, still couldn't seem to form words. Nick was in a state of shock and despite how much David liked his voice, he'd prefer Nick stay that way until David could make his getaway. Preferably to the other side of the planet where no one could ever find him and he could forget this ever happened.

And as the great Lao-tzu once said, the journey of a thousand miles (or several thousand, as David planned) began with one step. So he took a few strides backwards, gave them a small wave of parting, and turned back towards the lab. He knew they were all staring at him and he wished they wouldn't; it was irritating and, more than that, embarrassing. He knew it was car. He knew it wasn't expected. Why couldn't they just accept the gift and move on?

Ryan, though, was an angel. He had caught Greg's eye (at least, that's the story Greg told David a few days later) and cocked his head towards David's retreating form, indicating for him to join the solitary technician. Greg, taking the hint, quickly ran up and joined David as they made their way back inside the lab.

"You never bought me a car," Greg argued, the words tinged with mock-hurt. David felt relieved that Greg was with him, that he wasn't departing on his own, because that would feel awkward. Everyone was watching him; what's worse, his present was surely going to be the talk of the evening.

"That's because I don't like you."

"What's not to like? I'm charming, witty, handsome-''

"Annoying, impractical, gaudy-''

"Interesting, fun, adventurous-''

David turned to see Nick studying him. He had hoped his exit with Greg had been enough, had settled the issue of his giving Nick a car. It hadn't cost him that much and he wanted Nick to have it if he wanted it. It was special because Nick was special and damn if that wasn't the sappiest thing he'd ever thought.

…

It was officially Christmas Eve

It was officially Christmas Eve and David was off.

It was Christmas Eve, David was off, and he was watching Elimidate reruns.

It was Christmas Eve, David was off, he was watching Elimidate reruns, and he felt utterly pathetic upon realizing that he was watching Elimidate in the first place.

With a roll of his eyes, he quickly switched off the television. Jacqui was planning a huge get together the next day and David wished he hadn't cooked for the party ahead of time. He'd at least have had something to do instead of rotting his brain with mindless dating shows. He didn't even have a decent book to read, but he supposed he could go find something to reread again.

That, or he could crack open The Zombie Survival Guide. He could just imagine Grissom catching him in the act of reading such absurd material and instead of berating him or cracking a joke, his boss would probably give David a small nod of approval and say that there was no such thing as being too prepared.

As if he were having an out-of-body experience, he watched his hand reach for the gray book. It was pretty thick for something so silly; he flopped onto his previous seat before stretching out, flipping through the pages. There were diagrams, tables, lists… key information for surviving a large-scale zombie assault. It was something only Greg would give. He opened it back to the cover to find To my favorite grumpy lab technician. If anyone could survive an attack like this, I'm sure it's you. You would scare them with your wit… and I mean that in a good way. –Greg, X-mas 2005 in loopy writing.

David rolled his eyes but couldn't stop a small laugh from escaping his lips. In the silent and isolated apartment, he supposed he could allow himself the luxury of showing an emotion other than sarcasm.

Forty-five minutes and twenty pages later, David found himself seriously wondering whether his apartment could withstand an attack of the living-dead.

He, embarrassingly enough, would have probably kept reading deep into the afternoon until a knock interrupted his concentration. He was partly thankful and partly irritated by the disruption; thankful that someone was distracting him from zombies and irritated that someone was distracting him at all. Was it a salesman? The landlord? A girl scout?

He unlocked his dead bolt, sharpened his tongue for whoever stood on the other side, and opened the door.

Thoughts of both zombies and verbal assault ceased.

"Hi."

David blinked. Nick Stokes was at his doorstep. Didn't this only happen in his fantasies?

"Nick," he said, stating the complete obvious. He mentally kicked his own ass, hoping it might promote brain function. "Hi."

There was a pause before he mentally kicked himself again. Did he just expect Nick to stand out there in the cold while he stood in the doorway like an idiot?

Instead of asking whether he'd like to come in, David simply opened the door wider in silent welcome. Nick smiled and accepted the invitation, peeling off his jacket and revealing a black turtleneck that looked like a second skin. David tried to tear his eyes away before Nick caught him staring; in the end, he did manage to form enough mental control to remember that shutting the door might be a good idea. Especially if there was a zombie waiting outside.

"So I just wanted to say thanks for the gift," Nick said, turning and shooting David a smile. "But I still think it's too much-''

"Nick, it wasn't any trouble."

"I still don't understand why you did it."

David heaved a suffering sigh. This gift-giving business was highly overrated and caused him far too much stress. It was unhealthy, especially given the fact that he was about sixty months away from the beginnings of his prime heart attack years.

He motioned Nick to follow him as he walked into his kitchen and began gathering the works for a pot of coffee; it was the only logical activity he could think of that would give him something to do while appearing calm.

"Two weeks ago, I was standing in the middle of Wal-Mart holding some country CD and a mass-produced holiday card. I had every intention of buying them until I realized that it was the most thoughtless thing I could possibly do." Nick opened his mouth to say something, but David held up his hand. "I know," he continued, shoveling out three scoops of Blue Hawaiian, another gift from Greg. "You're amazed that there's a level I actually won't sink below, but let me finish. So Greg came up with this plan; if I helped him find Ryan a gift, then he'd get your cell and copy down the numbers of your sisters. I didn't know what you liked and I needed someone to help me out. The one who rambles-''

"Annie."

"Annie," David acknowledged. "Told me that you had this blue Mustang that got totaled by a drunk and it just so happened that I like working on cars. Like I said, I found the Mustang, had it painted, put in a new cable and cleaned out some fast food from two decades ago. Which, by the way, was the worst part."

"You did all of that?"

"The CD seemed so wrong. Honky Tonk University? You and I are going to work on your musical tastes if it kills me."

Nick grinned and leaned across the counter, cocking his head. "I'll have you know that Toby Keith's the man."

David rolled his eyes at the comment before reaching into a cabinet and grabbing two mugs. "Please don't tell me you came all the way down here to argue with me about your present," David said, pouring the steaming beverage into the containers. "You could have just called to annoy me about it. I would have at least had the option of hanging up."

"Isn't that the sweetest thing to say?" Nick asked, clearly amused by David's words.

"I'm not sure if you've gotten the memo, but 'sweet' doesn't exactly describe my personality."

"I think it does. Just barely, but it's there."

"Don't let the word get out. People would be having heart attacks in epidemic numbers, all due to shock. You, of course, would be to blame."

"Of course," Nick solemnly agreed, his humor betrayed by the light in his eyes. "But like you said, I didn't just drop by to argue with you about the over extravagant-''

"The car doesn't exactly have a receipt," David interrupted. "It's more of a 'you buy it, you keep it' deal."

"I know, but I can't help but give you a hard time."

"You have a strange way of showing appreciation, Nick."

Nick smiled. "I came over to ask if you wanna go for a drive?"

David arched an eyebrow and leaned against his kitchen threshold. He was a scientist and had to know everything; pull apart all the puzzles until he found his answer. Nick Stokes was a puzzle. A puzzle that had just asked him to go for a drive. And David had a suspicion that Nick didn't ask people to go on drives just because.

"Why?"

Nick's eyes averted for a moment and a blush began to spread across his cheeks. "No reason."

"You can't expect me to believe that."

"Well, Greg sort of… I mean, he kind of told me that you said…" Nick cleared his throat and David's eyes narrowed dangerously. Had Greg told Nick about his feelings? Or crush? Or attraction? Or whatever they called it these days? Evidently, he had, because Nick couldn't seem to meet his eyes. Greg had told Nick. Like that, with no regard to how it might affect David. Now, it appeared, David was destined to die in his lonesome apartment from both humiliation and a yet-to-be-seen irate Texan. And maybe zombies.

"I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. But I just sort of… we could talk about it. Over dinner, maybe. Only if you were free or something."

Nick's eyes jetted away again and something colossally amazing dawned on David: Nick wasn't upset… he was nervous. Before David's mind could tell him to make sense of the situation, to consider both sides of the equation, to think before speaking, he found himself asking, "Where would we go?"

Nick shrugged, donning a relieved smile. "Anywhere. Las Vegas is full of possibilities."

David paused a moment before pushing himself off the door frame and gave the Texan a smile. It was genuine, bright, and laced with its own prospects. "I'll get my coat."

Nick nodded and it appeared that his body visibly relaxed as he let out a shaky breath. "Good. I was so afraid you'd say no."

"Say no? To Nick Stokes? Is that even an option?"

"Some seem to think so."

"Huh. No one's ever told me about it."

"That's good news for me," Nick replied, donning his own jacket. "And you realize that I didn't really come down here about the car, right? That it gave me an excuse to ask you out to dinner?"

"That's an incredibly complex scheme you've hatched."

"Too much time with Sara."

David grinned as he shrugged on his jacket. "I see. I just hope that you realize you never needed any sort of excuse to begin with."

Days Left: 0.
Pessimist's Guide Tip #12: Huh. Who saw that coming?

FIN.