Note: This is a repost that I categorized as West Wing before... I have reposted under CSI. If you don't know who Toby Zeigler is, you won't get this, at all.
"Scotch. Rocks." The bearded man said, leaning forward on the bar, stretching himself over the dark mahogany almost possessively. He smoothed an eyebrow with his index finger and dipped it into his scotch when it arrived. For a moment, he stirred the ice within his glass, feeling the coolness on his finger.
He wanted to feel numb all over.
A man sat next to him and Toby glanced over. He looked about as dejected as Toby felt. For some reason, the thought gave him comfort and he took a sip of his scotch.
The man next to him also called out for a scotch, a double on the rocks. He promptly drained half the glass and bit his upper lip. He rested his elbows on the bar and brought one hand up to make a pass over his tired face. His other hand clutched his alcohol.
Toby leaned on a palm and rested his head. He sighed a loud sigh and drained his glass. He smiled as the amber liquid slid down his dry throat and grunted when it hit his stomach-hard.
They both called out for another at the same time and turned to look at the other.
"Drinking in the middle of the afternoon?" Toby asked, flippantly. He was hardly ever flippant; he realized then that something was truly wrong within him. He was being friendly, without much cause to be. Without any cause to be.
"This is my night. I just got off my shift. My triple shift." Toby detected no anger or annoyance in the man's voice, and he took it as a sign that he was upset to be away from work, not from having worked overtime. The other man answered Toby's stare by gulping a bit of scotch and wondering why he had done so.
"What do you do?" Toby asked, making it sounding almost forced, but turning towards the man a bit more to show that he was listening.
"I uh, I work for a crime lab. A crime scene investigator. But I'm an entomologist... at heart that is." He took a swig of his scotch. His brain was telling him that he was drinking far too fast for his own good, and his stomach threatened to rebel the offensive liquid.
"Huh." Toby replied, running a hand through his hair.
"Got the doctorate to prove it... and everything." This was said banally, and Toby smirked a bit, finding similarities between himself and the man. It was almost refreshing, but then again, Toby Ziegler was not often refreshed... by anything.
"Interesting."
"Not really, what about you? You look a bit jaded... politics?"
Toby laughed and lit a cigar and puffed it shortly. He blew a smoke ring or two and smoothed his eyebrows again.
"Hm," Clearing his throat he began. "I'm not from around here. I'm a, ahhhh, I'm a political player of sorts."
"Any good?" He downed the rest of his drink but held off on ordering another. He pulled his glasses from his face and cleaned them on the tails of his rumpled shirt. Then he smoothed his beard and waited for Toby to answer.
Toby looked at him; forlorn… he was thinking about a woman.
"I work for President Bartlet." The stranger's brows jumped a bit but held off from other signs of surprise. "White House Communications Director. Toby Ziegler." He extended a hand to the man who took it in his firm grasp and shook.
"Gil Grissom." Grissom turned and looked to the door, watching a group of men enter and head for the pool tables near the back of the establishment. "You're here with him for the speech." At least the guy knew what was going on in the world of politics.
"I am."
"That you wrote," Gil continued, fingers running over the surface of the bar slowly, admitting he knew more about the speech than he was letting on.
"I did."
"Why are you here then?" Grissom asked, his patience more stable than it had been in some time.
"I like scotch." Toby replied, idly puffing the acrid cigar and releasing the smoke in low, controlled breaths. "And I uh, want to drink away a woman."
Grissom almost laughed in response. Ah, irony. "Me too."
They smiled, just a bit, a corner of their mouths turning up a fraction of an inch.
Toby looked up at one of the muted televisions sets. Yankees versus Red Sox, bottom of the ninth, Sox on top. On another, ESPN Sports Desk, discussing the Redskins game, on another, CSPAN, most likely only due to the fact that the President was in town. Toby was sure that when he left, all of the stations would be set back to sports, his visit a minor blip on the Strip.
He caught a glimpse of a reporter, a picture of the Press Secretary popping up behind him, and Toby quickly looked away; Grissom caught it easily.
"Friend of yours?" Grissom asked, pushing only slightly.
There was a long moment of silence. "Uh, yeah."
"Cregg, right?"
"That's right." Toby replied, streaking a dirty finger across the bar top, and inspecting his finger. Grissom watched as he did, and his mind drifted to lycopodium powder and Sara before he brought it back to the hazy bar.
"She's good. Witty. I like that." Grissom said, looking at the other man until he looked back at him.
"Witty." The other man replied and took a deep swallow from the small glass, a side of his mouth lifting in a sad half-smile. He shook his head for a moment and looked back up to the television. "Yes."
Grissom nodded as well, and the two of them fell into lethargic silence looking up at the television.
"Democrat?" Toby finally asked him, the question gnawing his insides from the moment the two of them began speaking. Toby was always looking for a debate, willing to talk anyone out of possibly swaying to the right, from becoming a member of the Green party.
"Hm? Oh, well, if you're asking if I voted for Bartlet, then yes, I did. Twice." A tiny smile perked up his lips and he turned back to the television. "But... independent."
Due to his mood, Toby Ziegler bit his lip and held back his comment. He knew his companion wouldn't take the bait anyway, and he wasn't quite sure that he was up for an argument. This was new for him. Whatever happened to his will? He was pretty sure that she, CJ Cregg, had sapped it in their mid-morning tryst in the men's bathroom of the conference hall. But that's how it always was. Hurried, unfeeling, wanton.
When all he wanted to do was to love her. But he shrugged and puffed his cigar sadly, and stamped it out in the ashtray that the bartender slid him. Gil blinked and fingered his phone again; maybe he wanted to love as well… or maybe he wanted it to go away.
His head turned when the other man's cell phone rang. He hastily brought it up to his eyes. His face smoothed out and his wrinkles disappeared when he read the name. Quickly, he flipped the cover open and spoke into it.
"Grissom... yes, alright... but why... alright, alright... alright Sara, I'll be there soon... no, soon honey." Then he clipped the phone shut and rested his face in his hands. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and looked up to the ceiling, blowing a harsh breath out through tight lips.
He was wanting.
"The wife?" Toby inquired.
"Oh, oh no." He was almost sure that Gil blushed at his comment. "No, not, no wife." He said, almost apologetically. "Co-worker, dead, uh, dead body."
Toby watched as Grissom glanced at the phone, something close to longing passing over his face. He knew that expression all to well: wanting what you can't have but still wanting beyond what was normally reasonable.
"Ah."
"Well, nice to meet you, I suppose." Grissom stuck out his hand. Toby took it and shook it gratefully.
"You too." Gil threw a twenty on the bar, slid his sunglasses onto his face, and was gone.
When Toby looked up to the television, an anchorman was discussing the new tax deficit bill. As he watched the bland man, and watched the captions scroll up the screen, he made up his mind and pulled out his cell phone.
"Yeah, CJ, feel like a scotch... on me?"