Timeframe: AU now, but originally written years ago. No spoilers, really. Inspired by the end of 2x10 "Ellie." SPIKE reruns rule.
Rating: PG, mainly for the content of the show.
Characters: Greg Sanders, Warrick Brown, mentions of Gil Grissom
A Ghost and Cake
The Las Vegas Crime Lab was bustling despite the very early morning hours. The lack of windows within the facility, added to the always bright fluorescent lighting, created the same illusion casinos always worked hard to accomplish: the loss of time.
Greg Sanders, however, had foiled their evil plot: he wore a watch. And he glanced at it repeatedly. He had just a little over an hour left before his shift was up, and the case he and Warrick had been working on was already processed. Robberies were always better on an ethical standpoint, but they were usually pretty boring and quick to solve.
He sat in the break room, his fingers absently drumming the table. While he usually would find this a waste of his well-established skills as a criminalist, it was Sunday and he had the next two days off. Coworkers would call it nothing short of a miracle to get the semblance of a weekend; most, including him, usually ended up with rather odd days of the week off (if any at all). But the fates had bestowed him a blessing, and he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth—or the fates' mouths for that matter, either.
He glanced up as the door to the break room squeaked and gave a polite nod as Warrick entered and made a beeline towards the fresh cup of Blue Hawaiian Greg had recently brewed.
"Man, I could smell this stuff from all the way down the hall." He grabbed himself a flimsy Styrofoam cup from the cupboard and helped himself to the java.
Greg didn't stop him. If he had learned anything at all from all these years at the crime lab, it was to bring enough candy for everyone. Well, at least for the ones that could order you to go digging in the dumpster for a missing body part.
"You look ready to be anywhere but here." He walked over to where Greg sat and took a seat next to him, steam flowing freely from the cup of coffee.
"I'm going to see sunlight; I might actually get my Vitamin D from somewhere other than a glass of milk." Greg took a sip of his own cup of coffee he had gotten himself earlier. He, unlike the rest of his coworkers, had a ceramic mug he kept at the lab. He paid over forty dollars a pound for his coffee; why not have the luxury of drinking it with something that actually had a handle?
Warrick nodded towards the middle of the table. "I see you took our conversation to heart."
Upon the table, between Greg and Warrick, sat a half-eaten chocolate cake, its equally chocolaty frosting mangled where coworkers opted to simply take a forkful from it, rather than cut a slice. Crumbs littered the table past the cake plate, and only one paper plate was left next to the large treat, already having been eaten off of. On top of the brown frosting was another layer of pink frosting, its detail undeterminable due to the damage that had been bestowed to the sweet delicacy.
"I've always been a rebel."
Warrick smiled. "He probably won't ever know."
Greg shrugged his shoulders. "I have evidence. And eye-witnesses."
"Half the people who've taken a stab at this cake probably don't even know why it's here."
"I drew a bug on it!"
Warrick snorted. "Was that what that was?"
Greg portrayed a pretty good impression of an evil glare. "I'm sorry, between Analytical Chemistry and Advanced Genetics I forgot to fit in an Intro to Art." He looked down at the ravaged baked-goody and sighed. "Maybe I can take a picture of it and e-mail it to him."
"Did Grissom even have an e-mail?"
Greg, in all his know-all glory, looked pretty blank in response to the question. His former supervisor had never been one to turn down the new technologies that became available to the lab's resources, especially to those that helped find or analyze the evidence. But the Internet?
Not to be one-upped, Greg quickly replaced his lost look with a smug smirk. "I'll find a way."
Warrick rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. He succeeded in a being a ghost."
Years ago Grissom had made Warrick supervisor for a day. Greg had only been a DNA technician at the time, so he didn't know the details of what went down (other than the cases, of course), but things got a little crazy for Warrick-in-charge.
Greg knew that Warrick had never really wanted the title, or at least never really considered it. But at the end of the shift Grissom had told Warrick that being easily replaceable was important to him, and seeing Warrick take his place—even for just one night—showed Grissom that the work would still get done.
Talking of departure so many years ago seemed rather odd to Greg, though of course he had never known about it until two weeks ago.
At that time Grissom had never mentioned his letter of resignation. Then, only two shifts ago, Greg and his boss had processed a murder scene in a hotel room; by the next shift Warrick had come in to help Greg analyze the evidence.
A simple knock at his supervisor's door and a sneaky (but sincere) peak inside told Greg all he needed to know: no more bug jars, no more entomology books galore, and no more "Gil Grissom" placard sitting upon the lone wooden desk.
That was when Warrick had told him about the conversation he had with the former supervisor all those years ago.
Coming back to the present, Greg finished his coffee, got up and walked over to the sink. He rinsed his cup out and placed it on the counter to let it drip-dry. He turned around and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed.
"What'd Grissom tell you, exactly?"
Warrick laughed, knowing the question to be rhetorical. He got up and tossed his beverage container in the nearby waste can. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."
Greg smiled at his triumph. "He might not know it, but I know it, and you know it, and about six people's stomachs' know it."
Warrick shook his head but smiled nonetheless. "You're right, Grissom's wrong."
"The ultimate finish to many years of hard service!"
Warrick gave no reply, but only saluted to Greg jokingly as he left the break room. Greg continued to smile, but sighed a bit upon looking at the cake. Another look at his watch made him wonder if time had stopped to perversely torture him. He headed towards the break room door, but stopped by the table. He paused, looked around to ensure his privacy, and used his index finger to grab a spoonful of the rich frosting off the top of the cake.
He looked at it and noticed he had gotten a portion of what was supposed to be one of the antennas of a roach. Maybe an art class wouldn't be so bad.
He raised his chocolate-and-pink-coated finger to the ceiling.
"Bye, Grissom."
He licked the frosting off his finger, grabbed a napkin and walked out into the hallway, the door slowly shutting behind him.
When I leave CSI, there won't be any cake in the break room. I'll just be gone.