"Someone I Used to Know"
By JellybeanChiChi
A/N: Happy birthday, Chauncey.
Why is it late? Because I'm a loser. I have to confess, I wasn't equipped to write anything, and I hope you enjoy this, my friend. Please know, if you think it sucks or is boring, I did try. That counts for something, right? :-)
The beginning might be slow, but it does pick up. No violence.
OK, I was told to write a song fic about "Just Someone I Used To Know," by Dolly Parton, a duet with Porter Wagoner. The setting is right before the embarking to Costa Rica and certain names had to appear in the story :-)
Many thanks to my beta, ELM22 (your turn is next :-)
I do not own CSI. I do not own "Just Someone I Used To Know." I do not own Dollyworld. I do not own a tavern in Vegas. I do not like Green Eggs and Ham. But I'd love to lick Billy Petersen, Sam-I-Am. (Many apologies to Dr. Seuss. ... And Billy Petersen).
He could have sat at the bar, but the solitude of a corner booth called his name.
Although early in the morning, it was late in his day when he entered EMC's Tavern. Behind the bar stood the bartender, Emilio, and his brother, Carlos, the head chef. They both counted receipts from the prior evening while Marco, their other brother, dressed tables for the lunch crowd anticipated in three hours. Although he knew them all by name, neither man gave him a look of recognition when he walked through the door. Who could blame them? It had been a few years since he last stepped into the bar and grill off the Strip.
He sat down with a sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. After his shift, he found himself driving his car and simply wandering aimlessly. The last time he did that, he wound up on the steps of Heather Kessler's door, and started an emotional journey he had always feared to take. A few days had passed since that aftermath, and, physically, not much had changed for Gil Grissom. He still worked at the crime lab. Still lived in a townhouse in Vegas with his dog. But now… now, finding himself in a place that neither felt familiar nor strange, he felt exposed, hurt, vulnerable, angry and confused — victimized… by his own failings.
For such a scholar of Shakespeare, Gil Grissom felt like the title character of a sad, twangy, country-music song.
Opening his wallet he picked up a picture, and suddenly he laughed, sadly… softly.
Maybe his life was a country music song — a song he played on the jukebox that still stood at the corner of the bar in EMC's Tavern 10 years ago. Despite staring at the lovely brunette, a memory flooded his mind of another woman; one he never loved, but one who had wisdom to offer. Grissom just never realized it until years later.
(Sometime in 2000…)
She watched as he came back to the table, his sparkling eyes looking even more blue than she had noticed whenever they worked together.
He had a smirk on his face, and she gave him an inquisitive and highly spectacle look in return.
"What?" Grissom asked with a smile as he sat across his date.
"Did you play something that I would like? Because I did give you parameters."
"You don't trust me?"
"After where we just came from? What do you think?"
"I thought the lasers were impressive."
"Yes," Charlotte said as she leaned in a little closer to her date. "It was fun going back to 1985 to watch a laser sight show accompanied by Pink Floyd and Wizard of Oz, but I'm afraid I wasn't dressed appropriately without my leg warmers and jelly shoes. Maybe next time we should get a couple of four packs of Seagram's Wine Coolers."
"I really don't know what you mean," Grissom said as he leaned back in his booth. Charlotte, the fingerprint tech at the lab, was pretty, intelligent, and, honestly, Grissom wasn't all that interested. She's no Sara Sidle, he mused, still enthralled by the young woman he met in San Francisco. Come on Grissom. You'll never see Sara again, and Lord knows, she's a pipe dream. Focus. You've got an attractive, smart woman with you. Make the best of it. "I.. uh... I like your boots."
Charlotte rolled her eyes and leaned back. "Thanks for noticing."
"You're welcome." That worked out well, he thought.
When a song began from the jukebox, Charlotte knew it was the song Grissom picked because he sat up straight and cocked his eyebrows up and down. He was cute. Completely clueless, but cute.
A lonely fiddle followed by a droopy electric guitar opened the song before two voices sweetly and slowly belted out the lyrics,
"There's a picture that I carry
One we made some time ago
When they ask who's in the picture with me
I say just 'Someone I used to know.'…"
Charlotte laughed, "This is the song you choose to play on a date with someone? Didn't I say something about 'upbeat?'"
"It's Dolly Parton. She's upbeat. You know… 9 to 5… What a way to make a living."
Charlotte put up her hands. "Please... stop singing. Come on, Grissom. Listen to the words…"
Just someone, I used to spend some time with
Just a flame, that's lost its glow
"Grissom, how could you compare this song with '9 to 5'?"
But I don't them of the nights I cried without you
I say just "Someone I used to know"
"I'm sorry," Grissom said, still smiling. "I didn't think about the lyrics. I just saw Dolly Parton's name. I'll pick another one."
"NO!" Charlotte said grabbing his arm before he could get up. "God forbid, you'll probably choose a song about a man running over his daughter's dog. Let's just… sit and order."
Grissom shrugged his shoulders as the song continued to play. He handed Charlotte a menu, and she immediately asked, "So what's good here?"
"Burgers are great here."
"A burger?..." Charlotte smirked as she looked at her menu. "You know what they say… why have a burger when you have steak at home…"
That sing-songy rhythm was something Charlotte had adopted when she was hinting the two should go out. And it was something she used over and over throughout the date. Although the tone was not lost on the scientist, he still wasn't able to completely decipher the female code she was tip-taping like Morse Code.
"I think they have steak here," Grissom said, cautiously. "I just usually have a burger."
"You know what I'm saying," Charlotte said, this time wagging her own eyebrows at him.
"You want chicken?"
"No. Grissom. Come on. How old are you?"
"I'll be 44 in August."
"And don't you think a man your age should start thinking about other things?"
"You mean other than burgers?"
"There are some things that are more ... promising than a run-of-the-mill burger," Charlotte said, using her hands to let him understand great metaphors were at work.
Grissom bit his lip and then licked his lips. Metaphors might have been flying around, but he was apparently too busy thinking about burger toppings to see them. "You know, I don't think there's anything wrong with burgers. I like them."
Charlotte sighed. She had to stand firm. She wasn't going to waste her time if Gil Grissom wasn't a serious prospect. "Sure, but sometimes isn't it better to enjoy a steak? At home?"
"Maybe you've never had a really, really good burger."
"WHOA THERE, COWBOY. I'll have you know I've had PLENTY of good burgers, thank you very much, Gil Grissom."
Still a bit unsettled and confused, Grissom sat back. "Am I missing something here? I mean, I thought you would enjoy a casual meal."
"Grissom... I'm not talking about burgers."
"Weren't we just talking about burgers?"
"Yes... but... you know... we weren't."
"OK... You don't want a burger? The fries are great here, too."
"Oh my God, I cannot believe you are this dense."
"About burgers?"
Charlotte let out a good, hearty laugh and shook her head. "I was warned. Catherine told me specifically. She and others. I was told Gil Grissom was dense. I just can't believe you are this dense."
Jesus, Grissom thought. I really fucked up with the burger. Wait a minute. Brainstorm! "You're a vegetarian, aren't you?"
"Dear Lord. No, Grissom. I'm not. You're cute, but you're just dense. But you're paying, so… yeah."
"I'm not dense."
"Oh yeah," Charlotte said, trying to get the waiter's attention. "You. Are. Dense."
Marco, the waiter, came to the table and smiled at Charlotte. "Hi beautiful. May I take your order?"
"I would love a cheeseburger with everything on it. Fries. Hell… give me an order of onion rings and a large chocolate shake. Do you have chili?"
Marco gave a big smile and said, "The best. Carlos makes it himself, but he uses my recipe."
"Well," Charlotte said flirtatiously, "if it's good I'll have to pick your brain for the recipe."
"I'd enjoy that," Marco replied.
"Well, why don't you smother that chili on the fries with more cheese," she glanced at her date, smiled and shook her head. "And, the hell with it. Onions. Lots of onions."
"I've got you covered, beautiful," Marco said, waiting a beat to share another smile with Charlotte before looking at Grissom. "You got to love a woman who loves good food, right buddy?"
Grissom looked perplexed. "I don't know. I thought she hated burgers."
(…)
He wasn't 44 anymore, and despite not being the least interested in Charlotte, Grissom still wondered if he was just as dense as he was that evening. Probably more so, he thought.
No. He knew.
With his eyes cast upon the photo in his hand, he didn't notice Marco had come to his table. "Hey buddy."
Grissom turned to him a bit startled. "Umm… Hello."
"Sorry about that, man. Scared you."
"No, that's fine," Grissom said with a smile. "How are you Marco?"
Marco looked at Grissom trying to remember him. "You've been here before. But it's been a while."
"Yes," Grissom nodded. "How is Charlotte?" Marco looked surprised, and seeing the reaction, Grissom sidestepped. "I'm Grissom. We worked at the lab together years ago."
"OH! Yeah. OK," Marco replied. "She's great. I'll tell her you said hello."
"Thank you."
"So, can I get you something? I'm not sure if Carlos is ready in the kitchen yet, but…"
"I'm just looking to relax with a drink."
Marco looked at him curiously. "You want something from the bar? My other brother's back there. He's experimenting with a drink he calls 'The Train Wreck.'"
"Actually… I think a cup of coffee."
"Yeah, it's a cold world out there. Cream and sugar?"
A cold world, indeed. "Please."
The lyrics from the song he chose on the jukebox so many years ago, "Just Someone I Used To Know" by Dolly and Porter Wagoner, flitted in his mind again.
Just someone, I used to run around withJust a friend from long ago
I don't tell them, how lost I am without you
I say just "Someone I used to know"
I say just "Someone I used to know"
As the words floated in his mind, his eyes drifted once again to the brunette in the photo. Without warning, the jukebox came alive. And goddamn if it wasn't the song he was thinking about.
As he cast his eyes toward the jukebox, he thought, "Who would put that sad song on?" But then he noticed who was approaching his booth and recalled another memory attached with that song.
Grissom had a small grin on his face as the only other customer in the tavern sat down at the booth.
"Hello, Greg."
(Back sometime in 2005 …)
Brass secured a warrant for a home of a local dentist who was a suspect in a string of rapes in the suburbs of Vegas. The man's house resembled a packed storage unit, leaving much potential evidence to sort.
Grissom took Greg with him to the scene. The team had recently been reunited but Grissom still kept an eye on Greg in the field from time to time.
They surveyed the large house together and found two small, massively cluttered rooms in the back.
"We're going to be here forever, aren't we?" Greg said, as the two looked around with their kits in their hands.
"Well, forever starts now. Greg, you start in these two rooms, I'm going to work the kitchen, living room and bathroom," Grissom said pointing to the front of the house. He sighed when he saw the volume of stuff. "If we feel overwhelmed, I'll check and see if Sara or Warrick might be available."
"Sounds good," Greg said making his way to one of the rooms and closing the door. "There's stuff everywhere," Grissom heard the young man say as he walked to the kitchen.
Concentrating on his own collection of evidence, a noise for the back room startled Grissom. He looked at his watch and realized two hours had passed. He craned his neck towards the back rooms where Greg was and yelled, "Greg? Something fall? You OK?"
"I'm cool," he heard Greg muffled reply from behind the door. "Stuff fell, but nothing's damaged."
He thought about going over there, but he had examined the kitchen and was almost done with the bathroom and wanted to move to the living room. Again he was so engrossed in collection, he didn't notice the amount of time that had passed.
Until he heard some music.
With a quizical look upon his face, Grissom turned his attention toward the room Greg occupied. He glanced at his watch and saw that 30 minutes had passed since he heard a muffled thud. "Greg?" No response. "Greg? What's going on?"
All he heard was some humming, but the music had stopped. Grissom shook his head and thought he would finish two more things. But then he thought about what another person in his position might do, and decided to go check on the young man.
When he opened the door he heard a click of a CD player and the opening refrains of a particular country-music song.
"Greg what's going on?"
Seemingly out of nowhere, Greg slinked up to his boss and slid his arm over the bigger man's shoulder. He started singing the opening lines of the song in a deep, baritone, off-tune voice, "There's a picture that I carry
One we made some time ago
When they ask who's in the picture with me
I say just 'Someone I used to know.'…"
Grissom just stood stunned as Greg swayed and sang, but Greg was anything but tongue-tied. "Hey there, Griss-ssss." Greg said, his voice a bit slurred. "What's up?" And with that statement, Greg hugged Grissom closer to his smaller frame and added, "I think I know what's up."
Grissom ducked under Greg's arm and faced the young man. He was going to yell at him, but he noticed Greg's glazed look. "Greg? Are you..."
Before he could finish his sentence, Greg pounced upon him. "SHHHHH! No words. No words. I get it. It's cool." The young man hung off a terribly-stunned and uncomfortable Grissom, and in a New York minute, Greg's demeanor changed from a church mouse to full-on, ecstatic-motivational-speaker mode. "SERIOUSLY DUDE! I GET IT! I GET IT! ... I. ... GET. ... YOU. Figured you out old man, figured you O-to-the-U-to-the-tippetee-tee-T!"
At that point Greg was staring into Grissom's face with a Cheshire cat grin and his forehead pressed against Grissom's, which took effort because he had to stand on his tippy toes and he soon lost his balance. When he did Grissom went to help him up, "Greg? What are you... What's that noise?"
"It's the music, baby. The beautiful music." The CD was on a loop and the opening words of "Just Someone I Used to Know" played again. "Listen to our song. This can be our song. Because I'm willing to take one for the team in the interest of science and discovery."
While he heard Greg's comment, it was thoroughly lost upon Grissom. But instead of demanding an explanation, the senior CSI went to a corner of the room and searched with gloved hands for an offending noise - a hiss. It wasn't long until he found a canister of nitrous oxide that had its valve loosened, probably from when Grissom heard a crashing thud some half hour ago. He quickly closed the valve and realized his young CSI was in that room with a gas leak and now was under the influence of laughing gas.
"Greg, let's get you outside," he grabbed the man's arm and was ready to lead him outside, when Greg stood firm just outside the living room.
"No, dude. We're settling this now," from his back pocket he pulled an array of condoms. "Found these unused condoms in a drawer. By the way, I also found an entire collection of used condoms, which, is gross but I'm guessing probative. Bagged, tagged and it made me gag!"
Struck with a laughing fit, Greg stopped himself and went back to his other finding. "SO THE CONDOMS! Happy to see them? Because right here, right now, you and I and these bad boys are going to confirm why the hell you haven't acted on the most obviously love connection since Popeye and ... um... Olive Juice."
Again, there was a laughing fit. "Olive Juice. What a gross name."
"Greg. Let's just go outside. You need air."
"I NEED ANSWERS! I CAN HANDLE THE TRUTH, MR. JACKIE NICHOLSON!"
"Greg, I have no idea what you're talking about, and it's Olive Oil."
"What? OH! YEAH!" Another laughing fit and then... "And you KNOW what I'm talking about."
"No, Greg, I don't," Grissom replied, thanking God he released the officers from the scene when the CSIs first arrived.
"YOU'RE GAY! Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay-ga-dee, gay gay."
"Excuse me?"
"That's the ONLY explanation for you and Sara not being together. And she deserves the truth, and I'm going to give it to her! Even though, doing so will likely make me throw up, which is why we should have a trash can nearby."
"Greg... that's really not necessary."
"... and I've been told my skin and body type are catnip to older, gay men, so..."
"Greg, let's go outside, clear your head..."
"For the interest of science and my friendship with Sara, we're going to put proof to the pudding or whatever..."
"Greg. It's nice to know you would do this for Sara, but..."
"Come on old man, one time deal, freebie with the Greggo-meister!"
"GREG! I'm not gay. I'm Sara's boyfriend!"
With a wrapped condom in his teeth, Greg looked at his supervisor incredulously. He spit out the sealed prophylactic and asked, in a small voice, "You? And Sara?"
"Yes, Greg. Since before Nick's abduction."
"You're not gay?"
"No, Greg."
"I don't need to further pursue my hypothesis any further."
"Not at all. In fact, please don't."
"Successfully dis-proven?"
"Absolutely."
Greg let out a sigh of great relief. Then he started swaying again, but this time not to music. "Um... Grissom?"
"Yes, Greg."
"I think I might still throw up."
"I think we should go outside."
As as the two went outside, the closing lines of "Just Someone Used to Know" played for the third time.
"Just someone, I used to run around with
Just a friend from long ago
I don't tell them, how lost I am without you
I say, 'Just someone I used to know'"
"You know what, Grissom?"
"Yes, Greg," Grissom answered as he sat the young man down on the stoop.
"Dolly Parton has sweet boobs."
Grissom sat down next to Greg. "Yes. She does."
"Yeah, you're not gay."
"No."
"And you're with Sara."
"Yes."
Greg put his head in his hands. Grissom could tell the young man's head was pounding. "Be good to her."
Grissom got up and patted the young man on his back. "Will do."
(...)
Greg slid into the booth, but kept a respectable amount of space between him and his supervisor. "I saw that song on the jukebox, and I thought it might give you a laugh."
Grissom smiled, as he looked at his hands, but looked up at Greg. "It did. Thank you."
"Lately you've looked like you could use a laugh."
Grissom sat quietly. The exposed feeling he had seemed to cling off of him, but he knew that Greg was simply trying to be kind. Because he knew Greg was kind.
"I suppose I really could. That dentist's house... it was an interesting case we worked together."
Greg laughed. "Yes. Very enlightening."
"You know, Greg, I never really thanked you for the discretion you kept about Sara and my relationship."
"Hey, why would I want to share the story of how I found out?" Greg said with a smile. "Besides, I knew it was important to Sara to keep it under wraps."
"Well, thank you again. You want a drink?" Grissom asked.
"I'll have one as long as you're not trying to pick me up."
"Fine. I'll buy one as long as you don't buy me a condom from the men's room."
Greg shuddered at the thought. "It's a deal."
After bringing Marco over, Greg ordered a bottle of beer and soon, the two men sat quietly, slowly sipping their beverages.
"I saw your car outside in the lot. Warrick told me you used to like to come to this place and get a burger," Greg said, offering an explanation of why he was able to bump into Grissom. "Warrick could never figure out why you hadn't been here for a while, and then he said once that you had... you know... told us about you and Sar... well, I guess he put two and two together about why you weren't coming here anymore."
Greg took a swig of his brew. "I told him it was because Sara was a vegetarian, but Warrick kind of looked at me in that way... you know what I'm talking about?"
Grissom smiled. "Yeah, I do."
"He just said, 'Nah. It's about the love, man,'" Greg took another pull off his beer. "I didn't really get that. I guess, I didn't want to."
The talk, while cryptic, was not lost on Grissom. He knew that Greg had a crush on Sara and he probably thought Grissom wasn't good enough for her. God knows, Grissom thought that many times himself.
"You know, Grissom, the first time she left, I really ... I just wanted to... I thought you..."
"I know, Greg."
"Then Warrick... After that happened, I kind of saw things different. Saw things different about you," Greg looked down at his hands. "I don't know how you did it. How you were able to hold his body in his arms and then... lose him. ... Do you think about that a lot?"
Grissom looked up at Greg. He was not a man who shared his feelings. Opened himself. A part of him wanted to just stand up and leave, but he looked at Greg and couldn't move. He heaved a heavy sigh, as if to give him to courage to do something. Instead of standing, Grissom chose to speak.
"When McKeen arrived... Warrick tried to tell me... I just ... I just wanted ... I couldn't believe it was happening," Grissom said, his words leaving his mouth gently, but unguarded and somewhat disjointed. "Sometimes I close my eyes... Even in the security of controlling my own thoughts, I still can't save him."
Greg looked at him with sympathy, his eyes feeling a little misty. They both sat in silence, and when Grissom spoke again, it held a melancholy Greg had never heard before. "I try to think about the joy he had when he was cleared. The joy he expressed at breakfast. But in an instant, all I see is him dying in my arms. It was like when Sara left, ... the first time... I try to remember her happy, but all I see was the pain of the final look she gave me."
Greg looked down at his hands, and then he noticed Grissom's hands. In one of them was a photo of Sara and he as a couple.
"What about the second time?"
The question lifted a tension in the air that should have pushed Grissom out the door. But it didn't. "There was no goodbye," Grissom confessed. "I don't know if I deserved one."
"She seemed different when she returned," Greg said. There was no need for either man to expound on the comment. She came back stronger, but distant. Self-reliant but still somewhat unsure. "I guess we all are different after the last few years."
Grissom silently nodded in agreement. "We are different in some ways, and the same in others, and sometimes that is a problem." As composed as Grissom tried to be, the slight shake of his hand as he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth betrayed him. "But now... she said she's happy."
"She told you that, too?" Grissom looked up at Greg, who smiled at the older man. For the first time, Grissom considered that perhaps he was not the only person Sara had contacted in her absence.
Greg downed the last of his beer and stood up. "As long as we're giving thanks, ... thanks for not writing me up after the ... condom... incident."
"Let's just say, that's between you, me and Dolly."
Greg smiled, and reached down to touch the picture. He looked up at Grissom to get a silent confirmation that it was OK to look at it, and Grissom immediately turned the photo around so Greg could look.
"She looks beautiful."
"She always does."
"It's amazing how much more beautiful in that photo with you." Greg turned the photo back towards his boss. "You know, Grissom, maybe she can be ... I don't know... happier."
Grissom looked at Greg.
"See you next shift, Grissom."
"Goodbye, Greg."
Greg walked away, whistling that Dolly Parton tune. Grissom continued to sit quietly in the booth, once again offering his full attention to the photo from his wallet. Her face seemed to glow in the photo of the two of them. God, she is so beautiful, he thought.
And I look so happy.
She didn't have to just be someone he used to know.
Did she?
No. She shouldn't.
THE END
A/N: I would just like to say the interlude between Greg and Grissom involved sexy talk and a condom, so I think that should qualify as smut. :-) At, least JellybeanChiChi smut. Sadly, folks, it ain't gonna get better than that.
Happy Birthday, Chauncey. Hope you have many, many more.