Disclaimer: No own CSI.
A/N: This is my first attempt at a post-episode fic. I've been trying to write a happy Grissom story because I knew we would never see happy Grissom this season, but this came out instead.
This could be a kind of sequel to "Which Way To Go?" but not a lot of people liked that piece. But I would like to say there is absolutely no mention of anal rape in this piece, under advice from a friend. And by advice, I mean the friend said "DON'T MENTION THAT. AT ALL!" And by friend, I mean court-appointed therapist.
Specials thanks to ProWriter11 for the beta. You rock.
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The writers' meeting
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"Writers' meeting. Now!"
The exasperated actor gingerly rubbed his face as he waited for writers to convene in The Room. His cheek was bleeding and he was frantically searching for something to wipe his face.
"Jesus! Aren't there any alcohol wipes or anything around here? What the hell? Isn't the set for the morgue next door?"
A writer, who suspiciously had a pair of latex gloves handy, looked at the actor's rugged, bearded face. Before she checked out the actor's cheek, she dipped her finger along his cleft. You know, just for shits and giggles.
"What happened, sir?" She examined the wound, which was a long, horizontal slice with burnt edges along his cheek. "Oh my God, sir. Were you shot? Because that looks suspiciously like GSR around your boo boo."
Although other writers snorted, the actor batted the female writer's hand away. A jolt of electricity sparked between them. The writer would say it was kismet. The actor would point out she constantly and manically rubbed the souls of her shoes of the carpet to create said, "spark of kismet."
"GSR! Ha ha ha. Very ironic. Very funny. Yes, as a matter of fact, I was shot," he said as he grabbed the alcohol swabs from the woman. "Did you guys hear that? I was fucking shot."
Like a warrior from say, oh, a Sylvester Stallone movie, a brave male writer stood at the table stated what everyone was too afraid to ask: "We heard some pops. What happened?"
"What happened? SHIT HAPPENED! That's what!" the actor stood from his chair and made his way to the writer. "Do you realize I came out of my trailer and this herd of women were screaming at me? Calling me an asshole. Telling me I don't deserve her. They were nuts! One of them had a gun and said I should just live and die in L.A., and the next thing I know, a gunshot grazes my cheek and these woman are surrounding me and touching me like they had friggin' tentacles. It was like being in a herd of cephalopods. And I would know. I know my squid!"
One writer whispered to the another writer, "What the hell is he talking about?"
"He does that," she whispered in reply. "It's like he channels another personality. But on the plus side, sometimes he'll just take his pants off."
"OK, calm down," the head writer said. "We warned you about this. Why didn't you use your trailer's back door?"
"I, ahh, got lost again," he said with a dejected look on his face.
"I'm guessing this attack stems from last night's ep," the head writer said.
"Gee, you think?" the actor replied with sarcasm. "Why are they going after me? They should be going after the writers. Who wrote that stuff anyway?"
"Oh, dat wood be us, señor," said a berry sesy mang, in a berry sesy voice.
The head writer stood up again, "You remember the writers from the Spanish soap opera we hired to write yours and your onscreen lover's scenes, right?"
"Esthcuse me, señor, pero we prefer to say 'novellas.'"
"Why?"
"Is more sesy."
The man with the berry sesy voice crossed his arms as he approached the actor and inspected his face. "Jes. Jes. Dis is berry, berry good. We chave da beard and the wound, she will look berry, berry sesy."
"Remind me why we had to be so angsty with the ep?"
The sesy mang lifted a finger. "Señor… it is all abowt de drama," he said, rolling his "r" theatrically. "Da women, dey luv de drama. Chure ess been a leetle, how you say, heaby on de drama for many, many jeers, pero, the women, dey luv de drama."
"Maybe it's been a little too much."
"No. No. Da drama… she is neber too mush."
The sesy mang and the sexy man kept their eyes locked on one another until the actor spoke suddenly. "Whereareyoufrom?" he said in a rush.
The sesy mang was caught off guard. "Duluth, Minnersota," he said with a heavy inflection on the "minner."
"MY LIFE CAN'T BE IN THESE GUY'S HANDS!" The actor shouted.
Again, the head writer tried to calm things down. "OK, why don't the novella writers leave the room for a bit. Yes… Muchas gracias. Love the fishing in Minnersota. … Now, what exactly do you want?"
"Well, is there any way to kind of do some damage control," the actor said, rubbing his cheek. "Because I feel like a lonesome dove out there taking all the blame for what my character does or doesn't do."
"Anybody got any suggestions?" asked the head writer.
It was all quiet, with the exception of one writer who was nervously flicking his Cross pen on the desktop. "I GOT ONE!" he shouted.
But before the head writer could invite the idea, the kid's rhetoric spelled out a mile a minute. "OK, here's what we do. We have a scene that's a complete distraction to the GSR storyline. OK? Got me! Here we go. You go to a Build-a-Bear workshop. You want to get a bear. But what kind of bear? You don't know, so you take someone with you. But who do you take? How about the other young guy who wasn't shot in the throat. You know, don't mess with Texas. Anyway, you two are in the store and your looking around and looking around, but what do you do? So the girl behind the counter comes and helps you and she… THINKS YOU'RE GAY! And you think its funny, and he doesn't, so you … KISS HIM ON THE MOUTH. You know, just to catch him off guard and placate the girl behind the counter to get the employee 15 percent discount. You can say, "Hey, I'm a supervisor, but I'm not made of money." So you guys go to the lab and YOU tease him and say you're going to tell the story, and he takes out a knife and … slices your cheek, and you're like, 'Whoa there, cowboy!' and you guys start dancing around each other like 'West Side Story,' and then the blonde woman joins in and starts dancing and she's joined by the rest of the women in the lab, including that other blonde woman we haven't seen since beginning of season 8, and she's perfect because she could sing, 'I like to live in America,' because WHOA! She's not actually American. OH! OH! And you could be the leader of the 'Sharks,' because you used to be a card shark and THEN your best friend the detective could be the leader of the 'Jets' because he's from New Jersey. …"
The writer started panting and tried to catch his breath, which was the only sound heard in the room filled with adults with astonished looks on their faces. Finally, the writer to the left pushes the can of Red Bull away from the verbose young writer and asks, "Need to use the john, bud?"
The writer nodded fiercely and left the room. The head writer mouthed the words, "Lock it" to the person standing by the door.
"How are we going to convince the blonde to come back and sing a song?" one writer asked.
The head writer smacked him across the face. "We're not, you idiot. Nobody speaks about those last 40 seconds again."
"Why the hell did you hit me?"
"I don't know," the head writer said. "I just kind of felt like Rambo just then."
The actor had sat back down and again rubbed his face. "Well, what do we do now? Pee boy is right. We do need a distraction."
Again it was silent, until one writer who was reading the latest edition of Sporting News put down her paper and piped up. "All we need is 10 seconds."
"What do you mean?" the actor asked.
"Tight bust shot on your character. You look at your phone. You punch in a number. You wait for an answer. You sigh and say, 'I'm sorry.' End scene." The writer took a drink of coffee and went back to reading.
"That's it?" the actor asked incredulously.
Again, she put down her paper. "That's all we need. Hell, we could shoot it right now if you want. Shave 10 seconds from another part of next week's episode, plug that scene somewhere and boom, no more gunslinging at the Sony Studios Corral. It's just vague enough to satisfy GSR fans and innocuous enough to fit anywhere."
Everyone's eyes were on the actor, except the female writer who was reading a fascinating article on Joe Maddon.
"I like it." And with that, the rest of the room was a buzz with activity and the scene was shot and sent to post-production ASAP.
Back in his trailer, the head writer knocked on the door with the edited tape. The result satisfied them both. But the actor still recognized his time with the show is coming to a close.
"That's it," he said. "I can't wait to play more sympathetic characters like, say, a loser alcoholic or an imprisoned child molester. You know, something that doesn't stir fan-based outrage like an aloof entomologist."
END
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A/N: For the record, I don't think Grissom was being an asshole, but apparently there is a contingent out there upset with him. To me, whether he brought it upon himself or not, he sure looked like a hurt puppy. Le sigh. I miss happy Grissom.