AN: Wow, I got a better response than I anticipated! Thanks! Well here is the next part, yeah it is
going to be a series. Kind of alternating POVs. This is Catherine and this story is still Greg-
centered. Plus the case-file enters the story.
Disclaimers: I don't own CSI and the First Continental Trade Bank is fake.
Title: Dancing All Alone
Part 2: Why don't you tell some one?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This job is getting to me. I know it.
I know it because I can tell the discrepancies in his voice as he tried to give me an explanation of
why he hadn't done his work, excuses really. I know because I've been trained to stare into
suspects's eyes to see if they can meet mine in the truth, his are just as shifty as a murder suspect.
I know because I've seen the same posture in a person that is hiding something.
But most importantly, I know because his welfare isn't the first thought that crosses my mind
when I see the blood thickly sliding down his hand, it is the words: cross-contamination.
What have I've become?
Now he has passed the point of excuses when he held my eyes in that shocked and confused gaze.
He's fumbling for a reason that eludes him. I know.
Then the silence is gone with a blinding grin and a slight laugh.
"Sorry Cath, ever since I've got that cat of mine, I haven't quite learned the fact that cat nails are
sharp and sharp things hurt." The grin stays firm. "It doesn't help that I've yet to grow out of that
childish picking of the scab phase. You know how it goes."
I know how it goes. For all is imagination in dress and speech, his brilliant mind could only come
up with the 'cat scratch' excuse? We work with the police force, we are CSI, I'm not a dumb
blond that would let that evidence slide by. I know the signs.
It's my job to see them.
Why didn't I see them earlier is the real question here.
I open my mouth to accuse him, to ask him, to plead with him, but Grissom decides to make his
presence known.
"Catherine, Greg, we've got a 445A, they're calling in all hands, days and nights." he delivered his
message and was leaving before either I or Greg could answer.
All seriousness with the situation prior to Grissom's arrival was gone. All I could see in his eyes
now was anticipation; he wanted to be out in the field, even with something as messy and
complicated as a 445A.
"Refresh my memory Cath, what's a 445A?" he asked as he shrugged out of his lab coat. I
noticed that he was wearing a long sleeved shirt under the coat and there was just a slight bit of
drying blood on the cuff of the sleeve. And with a quick snap, the gloves with the blood from his
arm were deposited into a nearby trash can.
"It means a bomb." together we walked out of the lab, "If they are calling in both shifts, then
there is a high body count and extensive damage."
"Bomb." he whispered under his breath.
"Yeah, its cases like this that are the hardest to work" I can't help but let the world-weariness
tone color my voice; it is the truth. "and even in years after the 9-11 attacks, we're suppose to
treat 445As as terrorist attacks."
"Terrorist attacks in Las Vegas?"
"Hey, people in New York were saying that before the Twin Towers fell. Now are you riding with
me?" I hoped he would. There was no way I was going to let the issue slide with him. I needed to
know, I needed to get answers.
It was like I've been assigned my own personal case. And I like to solve all of my cases.
Something is wrong with him and I need to get to the bottom of it, call it a part of my nature, the
need to know.
"Yeah, sure." he was starting to look nervous, I wouldn't blame him. Heading to a bomb site,
with the entire Las Vegas crime lab isn't one of the best first field case for him. But, I have to
remind myself, he was there for the 401C with the bus and the blowout, so he's seen massive
injuries.
Not to mention he's been in an explosion.
I have to control a guilty wince at that thought.
Greg is walking silently besides me and I wonder what is on his mind. I haven't been that close to
him as I am with the rest of the CSIs, lab techs are lab techs to us and that is the harsh truth. Then
I blew up the lab and I realized how much one lab tech's live meant to me.
Now something again was wrong with him. But what?
Let's look at the evidence.
We have blood. Blood originating from some point on the lower arm. The blood was sluggish, old
almost and it pooled near the palm of his hand.
He had been holding a pencil when I walked in; a pencil near the middle of his arm. But my
startling him couldn't have forced him to press down hard enough to break the skin but then there
was blood. Unless...
Unless there was a previous cut there. A cat scratch. Unlikely.
We had reached my Tahoe and jumped in and after a quick radio to Brass of the location, we
were off. I guess it is time for 'the talk'.
"Greg, how's your arm?"
He had been spacing out the window, fingers rubbing his thighs lightly. "Huh?"
"Your arm. It was bleeding, remember?" he didn't forget, he was avoiding.
"Oh, yeah, it's good." his voice was flip, "What do you think happened?"
"What?" now I was thrown off.
"At the site? Where ever it is that we are going?"
"Oh, according to the particulars that Brass radioed over that the First Continental Trade Bank
suffered a series of explosions. The first on scene say the building is gone."
"Gone?"
"It collapsed." It was then that I realize that he had successfully detoured me from asking about
his arm.
Back to the questioning again.
"Greg?"
"What?"
"What happened to your arm?" there it was point blank.
"Nothing, Cath. Just a cat scratch."
"Tell me the truth, Sanders."
"I did."
When did a conversation with someone I know become an interrogation?
This job is getting to me. Everything is becoming a case now.
He seemed to be trembling now. I couldn't tell if it is from the approaching crime scene or the
attempts at a conversation. Or could it just be the PTS of the lab explosion.
Shit, I just remembered, we are heading to an explosion site, and he must be remembering the lab
site explosion.
At least the blood has dried.
Because here we are at the site.
My god. Chaos.
This job is getting to me, I know it.
going to be a series. Kind of alternating POVs. This is Catherine and this story is still Greg-
centered. Plus the case-file enters the story.
Disclaimers: I don't own CSI and the First Continental Trade Bank is fake.
Title: Dancing All Alone
Part 2: Why don't you tell some one?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This job is getting to me. I know it.
I know it because I can tell the discrepancies in his voice as he tried to give me an explanation of
why he hadn't done his work, excuses really. I know because I've been trained to stare into
suspects's eyes to see if they can meet mine in the truth, his are just as shifty as a murder suspect.
I know because I've seen the same posture in a person that is hiding something.
But most importantly, I know because his welfare isn't the first thought that crosses my mind
when I see the blood thickly sliding down his hand, it is the words: cross-contamination.
What have I've become?
Now he has passed the point of excuses when he held my eyes in that shocked and confused gaze.
He's fumbling for a reason that eludes him. I know.
Then the silence is gone with a blinding grin and a slight laugh.
"Sorry Cath, ever since I've got that cat of mine, I haven't quite learned the fact that cat nails are
sharp and sharp things hurt." The grin stays firm. "It doesn't help that I've yet to grow out of that
childish picking of the scab phase. You know how it goes."
I know how it goes. For all is imagination in dress and speech, his brilliant mind could only come
up with the 'cat scratch' excuse? We work with the police force, we are CSI, I'm not a dumb
blond that would let that evidence slide by. I know the signs.
It's my job to see them.
Why didn't I see them earlier is the real question here.
I open my mouth to accuse him, to ask him, to plead with him, but Grissom decides to make his
presence known.
"Catherine, Greg, we've got a 445A, they're calling in all hands, days and nights." he delivered his
message and was leaving before either I or Greg could answer.
All seriousness with the situation prior to Grissom's arrival was gone. All I could see in his eyes
now was anticipation; he wanted to be out in the field, even with something as messy and
complicated as a 445A.
"Refresh my memory Cath, what's a 445A?" he asked as he shrugged out of his lab coat. I
noticed that he was wearing a long sleeved shirt under the coat and there was just a slight bit of
drying blood on the cuff of the sleeve. And with a quick snap, the gloves with the blood from his
arm were deposited into a nearby trash can.
"It means a bomb." together we walked out of the lab, "If they are calling in both shifts, then
there is a high body count and extensive damage."
"Bomb." he whispered under his breath.
"Yeah, its cases like this that are the hardest to work" I can't help but let the world-weariness
tone color my voice; it is the truth. "and even in years after the 9-11 attacks, we're suppose to
treat 445As as terrorist attacks."
"Terrorist attacks in Las Vegas?"
"Hey, people in New York were saying that before the Twin Towers fell. Now are you riding with
me?" I hoped he would. There was no way I was going to let the issue slide with him. I needed to
know, I needed to get answers.
It was like I've been assigned my own personal case. And I like to solve all of my cases.
Something is wrong with him and I need to get to the bottom of it, call it a part of my nature, the
need to know.
"Yeah, sure." he was starting to look nervous, I wouldn't blame him. Heading to a bomb site,
with the entire Las Vegas crime lab isn't one of the best first field case for him. But, I have to
remind myself, he was there for the 401C with the bus and the blowout, so he's seen massive
injuries.
Not to mention he's been in an explosion.
I have to control a guilty wince at that thought.
Greg is walking silently besides me and I wonder what is on his mind. I haven't been that close to
him as I am with the rest of the CSIs, lab techs are lab techs to us and that is the harsh truth. Then
I blew up the lab and I realized how much one lab tech's live meant to me.
Now something again was wrong with him. But what?
Let's look at the evidence.
We have blood. Blood originating from some point on the lower arm. The blood was sluggish, old
almost and it pooled near the palm of his hand.
He had been holding a pencil when I walked in; a pencil near the middle of his arm. But my
startling him couldn't have forced him to press down hard enough to break the skin but then there
was blood. Unless...
Unless there was a previous cut there. A cat scratch. Unlikely.
We had reached my Tahoe and jumped in and after a quick radio to Brass of the location, we
were off. I guess it is time for 'the talk'.
"Greg, how's your arm?"
He had been spacing out the window, fingers rubbing his thighs lightly. "Huh?"
"Your arm. It was bleeding, remember?" he didn't forget, he was avoiding.
"Oh, yeah, it's good." his voice was flip, "What do you think happened?"
"What?" now I was thrown off.
"At the site? Where ever it is that we are going?"
"Oh, according to the particulars that Brass radioed over that the First Continental Trade Bank
suffered a series of explosions. The first on scene say the building is gone."
"Gone?"
"It collapsed." It was then that I realize that he had successfully detoured me from asking about
his arm.
Back to the questioning again.
"Greg?"
"What?"
"What happened to your arm?" there it was point blank.
"Nothing, Cath. Just a cat scratch."
"Tell me the truth, Sanders."
"I did."
When did a conversation with someone I know become an interrogation?
This job is getting to me. Everything is becoming a case now.
He seemed to be trembling now. I couldn't tell if it is from the approaching crime scene or the
attempts at a conversation. Or could it just be the PTS of the lab explosion.
Shit, I just remembered, we are heading to an explosion site, and he must be remembering the lab
site explosion.
At least the blood has dried.
Because here we are at the site.
My god. Chaos.
This job is getting to me, I know it.