Title: Swiftly Move

Authors Notes: So.. yes. This just came to me one night while listenning to some classical music. Can you guess the form of art he's watching before I reveal it in the story? Not too hard, I don't think. I used to do this for about five years, but I quit. Why oh why did I?? And the battery thing. That happened to me once while trying to change the channel. I have a new remote, now. And I didn't call it a 'clicker' in the story! Go me! (A clicker is what I was brought up to call it, but apparently people don't like it very much. Hmm.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. CBS, Mr. Jerry B, and Mr. Anthony Z. own all characters and the shows writers own the scripts. No money is being made of this. Only my ideas are mine and are not used with the idea of harming/offending anyone. I do not own this form of art either.

Summary: While flipping through the channels during a slow night, Greg finds an interesting show on. And then, the group of CSI's return.

Spoilers: None.

Rating: PG because of the mention of some eating disorders.

The cushions upon the couch curved and dented with his every move, filling up empty space. Leaning back, arms wrapped around a pillow he'd gotten from somewhere unknown against his chest. Legs stretched out and heels placed in shoes, sat on the low coffee table. Eyes were riveted to the raised screen in the room, following the beauty. Music played, drifting lightly from the speakers at times, striking at his eardrums during moments.

Somehow he had stumbled across the currently playing form of art. He knew if someone were to walk in, see what he saw, he knew there would be no end to the teasing; the torture. However, no matter how many times he demanded his brain to send signals to his fingers, to touch the button once, or twice, to change channel, it never worked. The music, the way the art moved gracefully across the screen, back and forth, was ensnaring.

He was sure his facial expression was in one of awe, or possibly void of any emotion. Just eyes staring, mouth hanging open slightly, not being able to tear his attention away for one moment. Now he knew how others could sit for an hour or two watching what was laid out in front of them. How people could sit in a room, eyes closed, mind blank, and listen to music which was heavenly. There was no other way he could describe the sounds that entered his head.

And later, maybe he could tell others how it was the costumes that showed so little, even for those of the same sex. Although, the amount of times he could use that excuse could not amount to the many times he'd be watching a show like this in the future. The graceful features of those on the screen amazed him, made him think of how one could make it look as if they were defying the laws of physics. And not only that, but the way moves were made that showed how the music sounded. It seemed weird to think of being able to show a way something sounded but these people, they seemed to pull it off.

Moisture started to makes its way out of the side of his lips and he quickly swallowed, bringing up a hand to erase the offensive drool. Over and over he continued to tell himself it wasn't the beauty of the art, nor the music, or the way the whole thing made him speechless, but the girls. They were all so young, some seeming skinnier than models. It made him think of how much training they went through, how much was expected of girls so young. He'd bet that some had disorders, trying to make themselves live up to what was supposed to be, trying to get rid of the insults shot at them daily.

Never could he live a life like that, people telling you how worthless and how ugly you were on a day to day basis. In his job, during stressful days, he sometimes got nagged but nothing that could amount to something as drastic as changing himself to fit a specific norm. And in the end, he was always apologized to, but these girls never got that, never get a sense of peace.

Maybe it wasn't just the girls, the guys too, but how would guys be forced to diet, or to binge and purge? For most guys it was either, you have the body or you don't. Although, he supposed there were guys out there in the business that had the same kinds of disorders the girls had. Nobody talked about those cases though, them being rare, or not being brought to the light as much as with the opposite sex.

Chatter growing louder, nearing the room he was sitting in, startled him into a panic. As swiftly as possible, heart hammering in his chest, he dove for the remote that sat beside him. The voices became clearer and he knew who it was, but before they could enter or see what was playing on the screen, he began pushing buttons furiously. None that he wanted to press though, the sound being muted, then turned up louder, subtitles starting to show, although nothing was being said. Fingers scrambling around the remote, sweat starting to form on his forehead, he bit his lip and pressing a button extremely hard by mistake. The back popped off, the batteries following suit. Swearing, he reached for them, knowing in the back of his mind it was too late. The voices had already entered the room, fading away as they saw him, red-faced, arms stretched out towards the batteries, music playing in the background.

"Greg?" came a timid voice from the front of the group. He cleared his throat, and grabbed the batteries before turning to face Catherine. His face was hot from embarrassment, and although it was wishful thinking that they might believe he was just flipping through channels when they entered, he tried for the sake of it.

"I... I was searching for something to watch and then the batteries popped out and I heard you guys from down the hall and..." He was rambling, and by the look on their faces, they weren't believing any of it.

"Ballet, man?" questioned Warrick, frowning slightly. Nick, head barely visible as he was near the back of the group, tried to muffle his laugh. Greg bit his lip once more and shrugged.

"Girls." There was a pause as the group seemed to contemplate the excuse, Nick's chuckles still heard, although drifting to a stop. Another moment, and they were nodding, believing the reason and starting to chatter away again, people going for the coffee.

Greg, however, could still feel someone's eyes keeping him under their gaze. Looking at each person in question, he stopped as he came upon Grissom, brows furrowed slightly in concentration. Smiling sheepishly, knowing Grissom would understand, as he himself was a fan of classical music. Greg got a knowing look in response before somebody else captured the older mans attention. Smiling, Greg turned his eyes back towards the screen, memorizing the channel number for later use. He quickly replaced the batteries where they belonged and turned the television off with a click.