Path of Least Resistance.

CSI fan-fiction

A.J. Breton

Summary: Sometimes the most obvious conclusions are the hardest ones to come to.

Grissom-Catherine friendship, likely romance in future chapters, references to GSR and WCR. Angst. Mature for sex/violence/drugs, especially in future chapters.

A/N: I am starting this story while I am in the middle of a different story, that one GSR-angst, I hate to do that, but once I got the notion for this story my brain wouldn't let it go. I have no idea what Catherine's maiden name was, so I made one up.

Big time thanks to the members of csifanbasecentral yahoo group, they really were incredibly helpful to me in getting the back-story of these characters, and some other ideas, too.

Please Review, the more feedback more quickly you're likely to get an update.

Ch. 1: Gear-Heads and Bugmen in the Dusty Vegas Night.

Las Vegas. 1987.

This wasn't what he normally did on his nights off. Normally he'd be at work anyway, reading his journals, or using some o the lab space to document the latest observable changes in the newest generation of cockroaches he was breeding. Days were spent reading, tidying up his already inhumanly clean townhouse and occasionally sleeping, nodding off as he typically did on his couch with a documentary on the TV. That was "normal" for Gil Grissom. But this was a new town, a vital, exciting town, or at least that's what the brochures said.

"You really ought to get out some." Jim Brass had advised him. When Brass had gotten his hands on some comp tickets to this classic hot-rod show, he'd insisted on giving one to Gil.

Jim Brass, Gil supposed, was almost everything he, himself, was not. Brass was warm, outgoing and had an air of leadership about him. He often played the role of "dumb-Jersey-kid" but in the few short months that Grissom had been working in Vegas he'd come to realize that Brass had a sharp intellect, remarkable observation skills and was much better read and educated than he typically led on.

Gil stopped in front of a Chevy of some sort. He liked cars well enough, but he just wasn't much of a gear-head. He did admire the graphic paint job on the car, red-orange flames, sparkled and glittering, pinstriped in flame blue.

"That one sure is a beauty, huh?" A smooth voice sidled up to him. As was his nature, Gil said nothing, moved slightly to the side.

"It's hard to find a painter who can do those old-school, crab-claw flames justice." Gil frowned. This man was still talking…to him. He slid the stranger a glance. He was tall and lean with dark, slicked hair wearing jeans and simple, rumbled black t-shirt. Catching Grissom's glance the man's face broke into a disarming grin. Grissom's first thought was that if he'd been wearing a blazer, he'd look like a used car salesman.

A sweaty palm shot in Gil's direction.

"Hey. Ed Willows."

Grissom considered the man's hand. He wasn't one who appreciated casual conversation, it was casual, and therefore, non-essential. He'd always felt more comfortable in his thoughts than he'd ever felt exchanging them with others. He supposed that was why he worked primarily with the dead and not the living. He nearly blew this "Ed" off and would have if not for the rigid training in manners his mother had indoctrinated him with at an early age. Annoying or not, this man had offered his hand. Despite himself, Grissom took the extended appendage.

"Grissom."

Ed shook the hand vigorously before dropping his own back to his side.

"You big into Chevy's?" Grissom took his time answering.

"No."

"Oh, a Ford man?"

"No."

"Huh?"

Gil sighed. "I got free tickets. I'm really not into cars that much." With that, which was more of an explanation that he thought was even necessary, Gil moved on to the next car in the line.

"Freebies, huh? You work for the city or a casino?" Gil looked over at Ed incredulously. Why was this man still here? Worse yet, why was he still talking?

"It's not important." Grissom could feel his voice tightening from frustration. He forced a breath, now Gilbert, he thought, be patient, his mother's voice from when he was very little running through his head…

"Oh, the city." Gil stared. Ed continued, "If you worked for a casino you'd be telling me about it, trying to get me to come there." Gil doubted that, but kept silent. He moved down the line. Manners or not, he didn't want to talk and this fellow couldn't seem to understand that.

"You're not much of a conversationalist, are you Gridson?" Ed continued to walk beside him.

"It's Grissom. No, I'm not."

"Me, I've always been told that I don't know when to shut up, I think I was born talking," he chuckled, Grissom didn't. "Anyway, this city is likely to be hard on you; it's a people-driven place. What part of California are you from?"

Gil stopped short. Did he have his biography stapled to his back? Still frustrated he should've just kept walking, but now his curiosity was piqued.

"How did you know I was from California?" Ed grinned.

"I deal with lots of West-Coasters in my business, music, you have an accent." Gil frowned even deeper.

"No I don't."

"Yeah, you really do, man." He shrugged, "So where, L.A.?"

Grissom was still frustrated, but he felt himself being pulled into a conversation, whether he wanted it or not. "Most recently L.A., but originally from Marina Del Ray."

Ed, it turned out, was from Vegas. He worked in a recording studio. He was a gear-head who when he was 16 wanted nothing more than to own a body shop and Mustang. He liked to gamble on Thursday nights and usually ate lunch at a strip club about a half-mile off the main Strip. "Great burgers there," he explained, "the coffee is always fresh and the girls mostly blonde."

In a strange and completely unexpected way, Grissom found himself actually almost liking this guy.

Las Vegas. 1979.

Catherine looked out the window of her mom's tiny trailer. The windows were dirty and tape covered the cracks in the panes. It was sunset and the orange glow of the fading light diffused across the grime. Tonight. Tommy would pick her up tonight; she'd finally be out of this shit-hole.

Mom was in her bedroom with the TV on much too loud, it was easy to ignore the calls of bill collectors if you never heard the phone ring.

Leaving shouldn't be hard. If mom wasn't already passed out, she would be soon, and then Tommy just had to pull up and….

"CATHY!" The 16 year old whirled around, staring into the blurred blue eyes of her mother. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Ya think Prince Charming's gonna ride up on his damn horse and sweep you away? It don't work like that, honey." Catherine just sulked away from the window and flopped down on the couch.

"Turn those lights off; I don't want Dave knowin' we're home."

She shouldn't have spoken, Catherine knew better, but before she could control herself, "He can probably hear your fucking TV blaring…"

SMACK

The slap was quick, hard. Lilly leaned over her daughter, "Don't talk back to me, girl. Just do like I tell you."

Chided but fuming Catherine turned off the lights, but felt compelled to respond.

"Dave said he'd wait another two weeks for his money, I don't know why you're so worried…"

"Oh Dave said that, did he? When? Before or after you slid into his backseat?"

"MOM! I told you, Dave offered me a ride to the grocery, that's why I was in his car."

"Yeah, I'm sure, and he just offers to give me more time to pay him outta the kindness of his heart? Men aren't like that, you little whore. You musta done a good job on him."

Catherine hated herself for crying, but tiny drops of liquid anger dripped from her eyes. Her voice choked as she spat back, "I hate you! I can't wait to leave this place!"

Las Vegas Crime Lab, 1989.

Grissom realized quite suddenly that he had no specimens starting with the letter "J," which seemed quite odd to him. He mentally ticked off what appropriate species he might be able to acquire to fill that void.

"Griss." Brass's voice snapped his head up. "Inventorying your cockroach collection again?"

"Again? I haven't inventoried these in months."

"No, you were doing this a couple weeks ago."

"Those weren't my roaches; those were my 'beetles-of-the-world' collection." It was only then that Grissom notice the thin, mortified looking redhead beside Jim. Catherine met Grissom's eyes.

Before, in the hallway Jim had warned her, "Don't let Gil freak you out, he's kind of…well, he's…well, he's just Grissom. But he's the best at this job, the guy I'd want investigating my murder."

At the moment, in the darkness of 'Grissom's Lair' Jim was giving introductions.

"Grissom, this is our newest CSI to join the Graveyard shift, Catherine Harrisen. Catherine, this is our resident bugman, Gil Grissom."

Catherine wasn't sure if she should step forward or not, Grissom made no attempt to stand at his desk or shake her hand, he did offer a slight, "Nice to meet you." And then dropped his head back down to the disgusting little creatures pinned to cardboard, his beetles, or roaches, or whatever.

Brass rolled his eyes and turned apologetically to Catherine. "You will have to excuse Griss; he's not like the other boys." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper, his eyes gleaming with humor, "You see, he was raised as an infant in a small, wooden box with no human contact. He learned interpersonal skills from daddy-long-leg spiders." Catherine couldn't help but laugh. She looked at Grissom, who for his part did break a smile, thought it was only a small one. She considered him for a moment. He wasn't half bad looking when he smiled.

In a slightly more conversational tone than he'd had before, which in the near future Catherine would learn was about as conversational as he got, Grissom addressed Brass while giving a nod to Catherine.

"Did you get her blood yet?" Brass shook his head. Catherine frowned, had she heard that right?

"My blood? Did you ask if I gave my blood? Like for what, a drug test?" She'd already taken the prerequisite drug test to work in the county lab, and passed it, with a silent prayer of thanks.

"No," Grissom responded calmly, almost melodically, "We need about a pint." Her eyes widened.

"What do you need my blood for?"

His face might best have been described as philosophic, "Oh, so many reasons…"

Tommy's Place. 1980.

"Don't tell me what you want, you fucking bitch!" SMACK "What the fuck do you need a job for? What the hell do you think you're gonna get hired to do? You wanna be a whore?" SMACK "That's about all you're good at, honey. You ain't got a nickel's worth of smarts in that head of yours," SMACK "the only job you'll ever get is on your back." SMACK, this one backhanded. "Is that what you fucking want? Just 'cause I let my buddy Jack have a taste of you, you think you can go off and start fucking other guys?"

Braced with her back pressed against the corner of the room, sobbing, frantically wiping her face, now a smear of mascara, tears and blood, "No, no…I'm s-sorry…sorry…I didn't mean…I know money's tight…I just thought…"

SMACK

"Nobody here gives a rat's ass what you think, slut!"

He stood up straight and glared at the girl for a moment. An idea seemed to come to him and his hands went to his belt. As he took it off and started unfastening his jeans, he spoke again. "You're lucky you're pretty." Hand pressed hard on her shoulder, she dropped to her knees, and she knew what he wanted, what would make the beating stop. "I gotta friend in town who owns a club. I'll get him to give you a job."