Note: Not suitable for vehement anti-smokers. Characters are not mine, sadly.
When working out in the field, the last thing a CSI needed to feel was discomfort. Yet, he or she had to still be a picture of professionalism, sobrierity and maturity. They were visible to the grieving public eye, they were the ones to make sense of the tragedies and despicabilities of human life. Greg Sanders had a tough time adjusting from dressing for the lab, where anything he wore was hidden by the lab coat, to dressing for the field, where everything he now wears is emphasised by the vest proudly proclaiming his profession to the crowd.
One of his first days on the field had been a disaster, and earned him a schooling from Warrick - there was more to being a CSI than just being observant and taking pictures and evidence samples. It did not only matter that he could play the part, he also had to look the part. And so he had to relegate his loud t-shirts for the weekends and his off-days, replacing them instead with sombre, solid-coloured button-downs and sweaters. There was no room for "Ain't no love like the one I got" T-shirts in a scene where someone else's love is lying in a pool of blood, unable to give any more lovin' to anyone, ain't it?
The biggest transition for him though, was having to appear in court and giving his testimony.
Greg could count the number of times he had worn a suit in his life. Once when he was younger and had to attend a wedding. Once for his high-school prom..granted it was a tuxedo instead..he did not really want to remember that outfit much. And once more for his college graduation ceremony. That was the last suit he owned..and he was not too keen on using it for his first court appearance. It dated from the early-90s..that alone was reason enough to send it packing to the Salvation Army. Plus, he hoped that it would not fit him anymore..he would like to think that he's more muscled up now than he was before in college. There was a reason why he did not lose his virginity till he was 22..also something he did not really want to remember that much.
So it was with great trepidation that he made his way to the courthouse, in his crisp, brand new suit. His stomach felt like an aviary, these were no longer butterflies, there were fucking fluttering flamingoes in there! He looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, and hoped that his hairstyle was as decent as his suit. No gravity-defying spikes, check. No inappropriate/obscene slogan tees, check. One level-one CSI in a crisp, ironed, collared white shirt, muted navy-blue suit with pressed pants, matching striped navy blue tie and polished black leather shoes coming up.
The courtroom would never even guess he was into liquid latex.
One very long trial later, he was back in his car and on his way to the lab. He could not find enough words or sounds to describe how he was feeling, but the dangerously high decibels of his stereo was a pretty good indication to his mood. This was why he wanted to be on the field, to see all the cases that they handle through to the end. To see tangible results for his work, seeing justice being served to those trying to evade it, be the one to hand it over to the deserving parties. It was satisfying, maybe not as satisfying as finally losing his virginity, but definitely more than being asked out to dinner by a very attractive lawyer.
He grinned at that memory, and winked at himself in the mirror as he eased his car into the parking lot at the crime lab. That was just the icing on the very delicious cake that today had been. He had to admit, he could get used to this suit thing. It sure seem to work better in gaining the respect of the general populace than his usual outfits. True, the tie can be a bit choking, and the stiff collar took some getting used to, but if Catherine could dance in those sexy shoes that women love -loathe, if you're Sara that is- he could endure the slight pressure of fabric on his neck.
Sara.
She had not crossed his mind as much tonight. Maybe it was the euphoria of having succeeded in his first trial, or the ego boost he received from the dinner invitation by that lawyer. But that weird, wonderful achey feeling he had whenever he thought of her was not as overwhelming as it usually was. He even spent a day not thinking about her - well, until now, that is.
Checking his watch, he saw that he was still a little early. Shift would not start in another half hour or so, and he wanted desperately to saunter in and have his team acknowledge his proverbial first flight. If he was being really honest, he also wanted to see the look on her -"i mean their"- faces when modelling his new look. He may have gone through his first trial, but he still needed the validation from the rest of his team. He needed them to see for themselves - there was more to Greg Sanders than his quirky crazy rocker-wannabe self.
He wanted her to see that.
Grabbing his cigarettes out of his glove compartment, he got out of his car and proceeded to light one up, waiting for the time to pass. He hated waiting, it left him alone with too many thoughts in his head, and that cloud nine he was floating on was slowly falling back to earth as his thoughts went back to Sara. He exhaled the drag in a long frustrated sigh. It had been five years since she entered his life. And in that five years, he had nothing to show for except for being part of a convoluted non-love triangle. He could not help but smirk as he thought of the three of them - him, Grissom, Sara. Nothing was going on between them, yet it meant and dictated everything.
Hell, if she was into older men, that was fine by him. But he could not help notice the other, smaller signs that maybe, maybe she was into him too. He had never seen the older man make her laugh. He had never seen her give the older man a smile that did not contain a hint of pain, or touch him or give him a congratulatory hug. She certainly never asked him to join her on her cigarette breaks -granted the man doesn't smoke- but that still had to mean something, right?
She would usually be there beside him during breaks, blowing smoke out together into the desert air. Sometimes Warrick or Nick would join them, but lately it had just been him and her. Him, her, tobacco, the stars in the night sky, laughter and conversation. The way her lips curved into a smile, or how she threw her head back when she laughed, the white of her neck a tantalising invitation for his lips. For a few minutes he could pretend that that was all there is.
She had always loved coming in to work. But lately, she found herself looking forward not just to being in the field, but to her little 'smoke breaks' when processing evidence. She told herself it was because of the respite from processing strangers' bodily fluids that it gave her. She tried to ignore the mental picture that came to her mind every time she fingered her pack of menthol lights, of the sidelong glance of his hazel eyes, the musky scent of tobacco mingled with sweat and his cologne, the hint of muscle under his t-shirt, the fingers that she wanted everywhere on her body..
Sara stopped dead in her tracks as she laid eyes on what could only be her earlier fantasy coming to life..except that reality seemed to prefer her fantasy gift-wrapped.
He was leaning against his car, a curling cloud of smoke coming out of his lips, as his long lean fingers flicked the ashes to the ground. He brought the cigarette to his lips, holding it oh-so-casually between his fingers, his eyes languid as he took a long drag, his cheeks slightly sucked in. He seemed to have felt her staring at him, for he threw her a sidelong glance, a raised eyebrow and a small smirk at having caught her eye.
She returned him a small smile of her own, and slowly walked towards him, knowing that her game was up. She did not know where this would go, but at that very moment, she could not seem to care.
There is just something absolutely, carelessly, sexily cavalier about that man smoking in a suit.