Note From Author: Okaaay, I've decided to make it that Greg decided to "try-out" being a CSI (to
keep my options open!).
Enjoy the fic. Oh, and by the way, in the first chapter Greg wasn't performing a test, he was just
messing about ;)
"Oh, sweet locker room! Oh, sweet locker! Oh.. eww... when was the last time I wore *these*
shoes?"
Sara watched bemusedly as Greg rifled through the contents of his locker, "Happy, Greg?" She
asked, rhetorically, raising an eyebrow.
"Never been feeling *finer*!" He replied, cramming his labcoat into a large garbage bag.
*It was a bright, cool morning in Las Vegas. The birds were singing merrily in the trees; people
were hatching murderous plots all over the city.
But, best of all, Greg was going to be working on a case. Not just working on a case, actually
*working* on it.
Not just annoying Nick as an afterthought, actually *annoying* him as a partner. He had donned
the brightest,
happiest shirt he had been able to find and he'd even spiked up his hair the *other* way. He was
so elated that
he hadn't even cared when Catherine had asked him if he had "stolen that blood-soaked shirt
from a vic".
He was so happy that he had bought her a soda, and he had bought Gris a soda, he had even
bought Nick a soda...*
"I hate Root Beer," Nick stated maliciously, and then thought to himself,"I hate you *too* Greg."
Greg smiled at him.
This disconcerted Nick slightly, he thought to himself,"Time to attack from another angle,"
and he absent-mindedly sipped the root beer.
Greg seemed to be waiting for something,"Nick?"
Slowly and deliberately, the Texan CSI lowered his drink to the table and then folded his muscled
arms,"Yes?"
"Aren't we going to go out to the Crime Scene, Nick?"
"Greg, Greg," Nick tutted,"You need to be briefed first. How can you lab-rats ever learn if-"
" -I have been briefed, we're going to a Music School. Someone got murdered in a Practice
Room,
someone playing the Clarinet."
Somewhere, in Nick's hardy, Texan stomach, an ulcer was born.
*Late the previous night*
- Cue duck-like musical noises -
A fat, balding man is standing playing the clarinet.
He pauses suddenly and wipes the sweat from his shiny head, the resulting squeaky noise is
horrific.
-Close up of the man's fingers -
He is obviously a competent player, very (how on earth can I say this without sounding weird?)
fast with his fingers.
-A shadow passes over the man's hands-
He pauses, uttering the famous last-words of so many people.
"Who's there?"
*WHUMP*
*Back to the present...*
"Oh... the old grey neigh, she ain't what she use to be... ain't what she -"
"GREG."
"Yes, Nick?"
"Don't sing."
"Why?"
"It's annoying."
"Why?" Greg stood up, a swab of saliva in one hand.
In the small, cell-like room, there was barely room for half-a-dozen people at the most. Nick
counted for two, and there was a cop in one corner, so it was quite crowded.
The "vic" had been removed after primary processing and the only remaining objects were: two
music stands; some sheets of music; an empty bottle of "valve oil" and a flute.
Of course there were many pieces of evidence which were invisible to the naked eye, and some
weird stains on the carpet.
"What do you mean, why?" Nick cut a very comical figure, a miniature dusting implement in one
hand, like a maid on steroids.
"I mean, why?" Greg was studying the door-frame.
"You just shouldn't sing. It's a "rule" Greg. We CSIs have rules." Nick turned away from his
partner, glowing with pride at his closing comment.
He kneeled down to take a sample of one of the stains on the floor.
"Hahahaha."
Nick stood up and swivelled round like a piece of well-oiled machinery, or (as Greg thought) a
snake, "What are you laughing at, Greg?"
"Well, you've just infringed upon a very important rule."
Nick's blood ran colder than usual, he raised both hands, he wasn't wearing gloves.
"Better make sure we don't pull your file up on AFIS! Hahahaha."
The temperature in the room increased by a few degrees.
"Oh... the old grey -"
"Greg."
"-neigh she ain't what-"
"GREG."
"-she used to be, she-"
"Shut up!"
"Why?"
"Because..." Nick flexed his fingers,"Because I'm trying to hear the evidence!"
Greg's eyes looked like marbles, "Ooookaaay..." He didn't understand the comment, but, he
dared to think, it almost sounded like something Grissom would say.
As they finally left the building, Nick felt surprised that he'd survived the few hours he'd had to
spend in an enclosed space with Greg.
Greg, however, was still listening out for evidence.
keep my options open!).
Enjoy the fic. Oh, and by the way, in the first chapter Greg wasn't performing a test, he was just
messing about ;)
"Oh, sweet locker room! Oh, sweet locker! Oh.. eww... when was the last time I wore *these*
shoes?"
Sara watched bemusedly as Greg rifled through the contents of his locker, "Happy, Greg?" She
asked, rhetorically, raising an eyebrow.
"Never been feeling *finer*!" He replied, cramming his labcoat into a large garbage bag.
*It was a bright, cool morning in Las Vegas. The birds were singing merrily in the trees; people
were hatching murderous plots all over the city.
But, best of all, Greg was going to be working on a case. Not just working on a case, actually
*working* on it.
Not just annoying Nick as an afterthought, actually *annoying* him as a partner. He had donned
the brightest,
happiest shirt he had been able to find and he'd even spiked up his hair the *other* way. He was
so elated that
he hadn't even cared when Catherine had asked him if he had "stolen that blood-soaked shirt
from a vic".
He was so happy that he had bought her a soda, and he had bought Gris a soda, he had even
bought Nick a soda...*
"I hate Root Beer," Nick stated maliciously, and then thought to himself,"I hate you *too* Greg."
Greg smiled at him.
This disconcerted Nick slightly, he thought to himself,"Time to attack from another angle,"
and he absent-mindedly sipped the root beer.
Greg seemed to be waiting for something,"Nick?"
Slowly and deliberately, the Texan CSI lowered his drink to the table and then folded his muscled
arms,"Yes?"
"Aren't we going to go out to the Crime Scene, Nick?"
"Greg, Greg," Nick tutted,"You need to be briefed first. How can you lab-rats ever learn if-"
" -I have been briefed, we're going to a Music School. Someone got murdered in a Practice
Room,
someone playing the Clarinet."
Somewhere, in Nick's hardy, Texan stomach, an ulcer was born.
*Late the previous night*
- Cue duck-like musical noises -
A fat, balding man is standing playing the clarinet.
He pauses suddenly and wipes the sweat from his shiny head, the resulting squeaky noise is
horrific.
-Close up of the man's fingers -
He is obviously a competent player, very (how on earth can I say this without sounding weird?)
fast with his fingers.
-A shadow passes over the man's hands-
He pauses, uttering the famous last-words of so many people.
"Who's there?"
*WHUMP*
*Back to the present...*
"Oh... the old grey neigh, she ain't what she use to be... ain't what she -"
"GREG."
"Yes, Nick?"
"Don't sing."
"Why?"
"It's annoying."
"Why?" Greg stood up, a swab of saliva in one hand.
In the small, cell-like room, there was barely room for half-a-dozen people at the most. Nick
counted for two, and there was a cop in one corner, so it was quite crowded.
The "vic" had been removed after primary processing and the only remaining objects were: two
music stands; some sheets of music; an empty bottle of "valve oil" and a flute.
Of course there were many pieces of evidence which were invisible to the naked eye, and some
weird stains on the carpet.
"What do you mean, why?" Nick cut a very comical figure, a miniature dusting implement in one
hand, like a maid on steroids.
"I mean, why?" Greg was studying the door-frame.
"You just shouldn't sing. It's a "rule" Greg. We CSIs have rules." Nick turned away from his
partner, glowing with pride at his closing comment.
He kneeled down to take a sample of one of the stains on the floor.
"Hahahaha."
Nick stood up and swivelled round like a piece of well-oiled machinery, or (as Greg thought) a
snake, "What are you laughing at, Greg?"
"Well, you've just infringed upon a very important rule."
Nick's blood ran colder than usual, he raised both hands, he wasn't wearing gloves.
"Better make sure we don't pull your file up on AFIS! Hahahaha."
The temperature in the room increased by a few degrees.
"Oh... the old grey -"
"Greg."
"-neigh she ain't what-"
"GREG."
"-she used to be, she-"
"Shut up!"
"Why?"
"Because..." Nick flexed his fingers,"Because I'm trying to hear the evidence!"
Greg's eyes looked like marbles, "Ooookaaay..." He didn't understand the comment, but, he
dared to think, it almost sounded like something Grissom would say.
As they finally left the building, Nick felt surprised that he'd survived the few hours he'd had to
spend in an enclosed space with Greg.
Greg, however, was still listening out for evidence.