Autonomy

by lilyvonschtup

Not my first endeavor into writing, but first fanfic. Original character works with the lab outside forensics and finds herself bonding with the crew, and Grissom in particular. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Joyceanna. Now finished! Feedback?

1. Part 1

AN: I don't own the characters...except for Vanessa. She's all mine. And my humblest apologies to the ACLU and Cesar Chavez. If I was getting paid for this I'd have a much better apartment.

Part One Late February 2005

Chapter One: Pawns

Night had long since closed over the city, but the woman in the break room would never have known it. She'd been there for at least ten hours, tapping away at the key board of her lap top, music roaring over her headphones, oblivious to any activity around her. She was currently compiling information to develop a union contract under which the Las Vegas crime lab could operate along with adjunct law enforcement agencies. Once this was done, it would be on to staff interviews; find out what the people who worked there felt they needed. And then, on to drafting a proposal so that union lawyers could argue over the new contract.

In all honesty, she didn't really care to return to her "crash pad." She'd been rooming with two other people, since this was a temporary assignment until her contract with a community outreach program began. Her "roomies" were...younger...than her. Physically and socially. Not that she would be considered a prude, but she valued her space, and it seemed that her space was subject to constant violation with these two. However, the space had been cheap and she knew they didn't mean anything by it, so she spent long hours at work to maintain her patience.

She frowned as she looked over one of the files in front of her, tapping her pen on the table. Its been howlong since this person took time off? She could hardly believe her eyes. She flipped the file back over to look at the name. Gil Grissom. He's either very dedicated or very stupid, she thought. Shaking her head, she moved on to another file.

Next one. Catherine Willows. Single mother. Put in for a promotion to supervise day shift. Got swing. "Mmm-hmmm." She said through pursed lips.

The more she read, the more she got the feeling that grave yard shift has been screwed with. It reeked of interdepartmental politics -- something she never had any patience for. Disgusted with what she'd read in files, she took off her headphones and got up to make more coffee, trying to figure out if she'd read enough and should just launch into interviews or if she should keep studying the files.

By the time the coffee maker started dripping, she'd decided on a double pronged attack. She had the basic information on graveyard staff, so she could begin their interviews that evening, provided there was a lull in activity. Depending on what she found out, she could keep fishing in the files for further details. Looking at her clock, it was about time for the people in question to start arriving. She cleaned up her area, stashed individual files into a plastic carrier, and deposited her compiled notes into her lap top bag. Working on a piece of scrap paper, she started outlining the names of the staff and which questions she's going to ask.

The first person to enter the break room, promptly at ten pm, on the dot, was a tall man, with receding brown hair. He poured a cup of coffee and gave her a smile that didn't quite hit his eyes. Sticking out a hand, he introduced himself: "You must be Vanessa. I'm the administrative supervisor, Conrad Ecklie. I'm glad to have you working for us."

His hand shake was a lot like his smile, plastic and lifeless. She repressed an urge to yank her hand away and wipe it on her pants, and forced a smile. "It's good to meet you. I hope you don't mind my holing up in your break room. I find that it helps the process if I 'enculturate' myself to the people I'm working with and their surroundings."

Her emphasis on the fact that she was working with the people in the lab, and not for the administration, did not go unnoticed. "I'm sure whatever you come up with will be just fine." Another half smile and he left the room. She had a feeling in the base of her gut that she'd just met one of the instrumental parties in the dirty dealing she was just reading about. Something about his false manner reminded her of too many 'good ol' boy' politicians she'd dealt with. The type who would slap you on the back with a knife in their hand.

She sat back down with her own cup of coffee and tried to center herself in her surroundings. The white noise of a dozen conversations taking place in the hallway as some people left and others came in, buzzing phones from the reception desk, heels clicking on linoleum. Fluorescent lighting which sometimes served to better highlight shadows than provide illumination. A veritable labyrinth of offices, evidence rooms, labs of all sorts. She saw a center of activity. This was where lawyers, cops, coroners, suspects, and victims all came together.

It wasn't long before another man veritably bounced into the break room, head bobbing along with whatever was playing on his I-pod. He walked quickly up to the coffee pot and gave it a startled look when it was full. He shook his head, picked up the pot and headed to the sink. "Why can't dayshift ever clean up after themselves?"

"Hey," she started toward him, putting her hand on his arm. "I just made that!" She said a little louder, hoping he would hear her over his headphones.

He turned and jumped, "you're new here. I didn't hear that they were hiring anyone else," he recovered his 'cool' and went on, "maybe I can give you a guided tour later."

"I'm not officially 'hired.' Not for the lab, anyway. I'm here to work on a proposal for a union contract for the staff at the crime lab, so I'm here temporarily while I'm waiting for another contract to kick in." She told him, smiling a little. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed -- hair mussed, loose fitting button down shirt, wrinkled jacket. He reminded her of people she'd known in college, right to his eyes, which held an enthusiasm that was almost contagious.

"This the stuff out of the can in the cupboard?" He asked, indicating the coffee pot he still held in his hand.

"Yeah, it was all I could find. Was there something else I should have used?"

"I have my own personal stash, but I don't usually leave it here," he said as he poured sugar into his cup. "Sounds like complicated work. What contract are you waiting on?"

"I'll be working with a youth violence program downtown," she replied.

"You just a glutton for punishment?" He joked, taking his first sip.

"I've been told. It'll blend nicely with the curriculum I'm hoping to start at the University," she concluded. "So is this pretty much a main pathway here in the lab?"

"What do you mean?" His eyebrows lowered.

"Well, I don't want to be in the way, but I also want to be somewhere that I can run into just about everyone pretty routinely..." she left it hanging.

"Yeah, you should be in the right place then. Are you sure you don't want that tour?" He asked.

She took a deep breath, "then this is gonna be my office for a few weeks. Fundamentally I'm cheap labor. And for the record, I'd love a tour. Whenever you have time."

Greg leaped right into the topic. "Is there anything else I can help you out with?"

"Nothing yet -- I've been doing preliminary research most of the day. Is there a good place to grab a late dinner around here for cheap?"

It was Greg's turn to laugh as he stood up. "Just about any of the tourist traps on The Strip will fit that. I'd try the deli down the street, though. The food's a lot better and you won't be tripping over vacationers."

She smiled in return, and made note of his suggestion as he left the room to start his shift. "Hey," she called after him, "who do you think I should talk to first?"

"What, am I chopped liver?" he teased, "I'd figure out who's having a slow night and start there, or maybe I can help you hook up with everyone for breakfast..." he left the sentence hanging.

"For a price?" She responded.

"Well...I might want you to keep making the coffee around here. This is the first drinkable pot I've had without bringing my own in," he laughed and headed out the door.

She couldn't help chuckling over the exchange after he left. She instantly formulated a word association to help her remember which face went to the name: 'Greg'arious. Which he certainly was. Something told her he used to get in trouble in science classes because his curiosity and enthusiasm ran away with him, leading him to blow things up and make smoke bombs and such. On the same note, he was probably perpetually five steps ahead of his class mates. Like those kids in the movie "Real Genius," manufacturing ice skating rinks in the hallways and developing weapons grade lasers.

She sat back down at the table and gave the files in their plastic box a disgusted look, opting instead to put the headphones back on and listen to something loud and obnoxious while she set her thoughts down on a clean, yellow legal pad.

Gil Grissom stepped into the break room, surprised to see a stranger sitting at the table, apparently absorbed in thought. "And you would be..." even if he hadn't left the sentence hanging, it wouldn't have been a question.

"Mmph," she responded, not looking up. She was stretched out with her feet propped up on the chair opposite her at the small table, staring absently at her notebook. She was putting together common threads from the files she'd been going through. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright in her chair, and tossed the pad down on the table while almost simultaneously reaching for the files in their plastic holder. She rapidly looked through each one, knowing by now which pages she needed. Most, nearly all, were signed by the same person. She was becoming less impressed with Conrad Ecklie by the second.

"Hey. You're in my lab. Why." The voice cut through growling electric guitars and complex percussion, but only faintly -- hardly enough to break her concentration. Instead, she impatiently waved him off, indicating that he was interrupting something of great importance.

"Figures. That son of a bitch." She mumbled as she flipped through files. That signature kept popping up. Mental note: Conrad Ecklie equals road block, she thought.

She jumped when she felt the head phones slide from her head. "Who's a son of a bitch?" a man she didn't recognize asked her.

"Nothing..." she recovered lamely. He looked at the file she held -- with his name on it.

"I'm a son of a bitch. How did you arrive at that conclusion?" A lifted eyebrow neatly masked his amusement.

"I don't think so, unless you prove otherwise. I was thinking about something else. This is you?" She asked, indicating the file she held.

"Yes. And you would be..."

"Vanessa Goldman. I was sent over to draw up the proposal for the new union contract," she got up to refresh her coffee, surprised to find the pot already nearly empty. "Can I get you a cup?" she asked over her shoulder.

He shrugged, so she poured a fresh cup and took the dregs for herself, then set about to brewing a fresh pot. "Eventually, I'm going to need to meet with the entire staff for the graveyard shift. Once individually for interviews, and another time collectively to go over my work before it gets sent to the lawyers."

Flopping back down in her chair, she asked, "as the graveyard supervisor, what, in your opinion, is the best way to make that happen?"

"In my opinion, I wouldn't do your job for all the money on earth," he said under his breath.

She caught his mumbled comment. Annoyance flickered in her eyes, and concern wrinkled her forehead. "Why is that?" It came out with a tenacity she hadn't meant to show. Yet, after drawing conclusions from the files, and his comment, she was beginning to feel a fight brewing.

He started slightly, figuring she hadn't heard that, then smiled a little, "I've been told I should be more politic. I'll let you arrive at your own conclusions, and in the mean time, if there is a lag in the work load, you can do your interviews." With that, he left the room.

She watched him leave with more than a little frustration. He was thinking something -- she had a feeling he could back her hunch about Ecklie. Well, every office had a gossip mill. She just had to find out who was at the root of it.

She looked at the clock on the lower right hand corner of her computer again. Eleven at night, which meant she'd been in the break room for twelve, and had been up an extra six, bringing her up to a grand total of eighteen hours for the day. Another couple hours and maybe...just maybe...she would go home.

The weekend at the lab was hectic. The cases weren't overly complicated, but they were prolific. Vanessa found herself checking the windows for a full moon -- the volume of assaults and burglaries was stunning. It was like the entire city had flipped out at once.

Finally, on Tuesday, the staff seemed to have all the loose ends tied up and the pace slowed some. Enough for her to at least sit down with people to discuss working conditions and start compiling their input for her proposal. Her first 'victim' was Catherine Willows. She'd become familiar with the crew and their habits, and had decided a straight forward approach would be best.

"What would you do to improve your working conditions?"

She laughed a little, "I've already been over this in my evaluation. I'd like to not work so many triples. I'd like to be able to take time off. I'd like to work days. I have a daughter, but I never see her. Grave is better for that than swing, but still..." she let the sentence hang.

"I noticed how many long shifts you guys pull. Why is that? What are the other shifts doing?" Vanessa asked.

"I don't think its a matter of the other shifts not pulling their load, but the graveyard team is where the most experience is, so when the others get in over their heads, that's where they go," she was tip toeing around something.

Vanessa pursed her lips. First the supervisor, now Catherine. Something was up and no one wanted to talk about it. "Look, this conversation doesn't leave this room, and last I checked, Ecklie hasn't wiretapped the place, so you can speak freely. What's going on?" Her last question held a note of exasperation. All she'd gotten from files were frustrating hints and hunches that something wasn't fitting together like it ought to, although she couldn't pull a single piece of information to conclusively back her feeling.

Both of the red-head's eyebrows shot up. "Why do you say that?"

Vanessa heaved a sigh. Best just throw your cards on the table with this one, she thought. "Is there a lack of training on the other shifts that is preventing people from moving ahead like they ought to? Is there something supervisors could do? What? Here's the deal. I'm not impressed with Ecklie already, so if he's at the bottom of something, let me know."

Catherine leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, "so you're acquainted with the political arm of the lab? Okay, he could be a little less stingy with sending people to seminars and conferences. If he didn't have such a beef with Grissom, maybe he could let people from other shifts work graveyard a few times so they'd get more experience. He wonders why the other shifts aren't as tight as graveyard; personally I think its because he spends most of his time nit-picking the rule books and not enough time giving people what they need to excel. That was his excuse for breaking up the team, but it was a political maneuver. Although I have noticed, since you showed up, he's been a little more attentive to the rules he should be following..." she laughed.

"How's that?" Vanessa continued, eyebrows dipping in consternation.

"Well, he's supposed to spend time on all shifts. But he avoids grave like the plague. Partially because he's avoiding Grissom, partially because he hates the hours."

"You've mentioned animosity towards Grissom twice now. What's up? Does he let personal problems interfere with his work or yours?"

"Oh, he's all politics. He'd rather play games than be productive. He's already looking at getting out of his office and running for Sheriff in a couple years. He and Gil have never gotten along, but once Gil got promoted, he challenged Ecklie on a couple cases, which only made things worse. I've told him he needs to play a little smarter with Ecklie, but its like talking to a brick wall," she shook her head, "he just doesn't have it in him, and to be honest with you, I'm a little worried that the whole thing is wearing him out."

Vanessa paused to make some notes, "so you would say most of the problems shifts are encountering are coming from the administrative level, rather than poor shift management skills?"

"By and large. I can speak for graveyard...Gil isn't perfect; he can be a pain in the ass to work with. But he's trained one of the best teams out there," there was a note of pride in her voice, "it'd be rough if he left."

"Can you think of any instances where your colleagues were put into unsafe working conditions or treated unethically?"

"Unsafe working conditions? That's a nightly experience!" she joked, "I know what you mean. Nothing we aren't trained or prepared for, for the most part. As for unethical. Nothing overt. Its just that the supervisors try to treat crew like they are human beings where as the administration treats them like cogs in a machine. I think you'd find that anywhere." Her pager went off and she looked down to check the ID. "I gotta run to check on some DNA," she said, getting up, "did you need anything else?"

Vanessa's tone was grim, "no, I'm afraid not. Thank you, though." She shuffled the papers in front of her on the table and prepared to conduct her next interview.

Warrick Brown was the next member of the team to step through the door. Vanessa caught him on his way to the fridge, "you got a few minutes?"

"Sure. Vanessa, right? What's up?" he replied over his shoulder and turned back to poking around in the fridge. "Awww, ugh," he grimaced.

"What's wrong? Something go bad?"

"No. Bugs. I don't know what its gonna take to convince him to get his own damn fridge," the voice was muffled as it emanated from the appliance. He turned around, "what can I do for you?"

"I just have a few questions. To start with, what would you do to improve the working conditions around here?"

"Well, you just heard part of it. There's gotta be a health code violation in that somewhere. Gris has got to start keeping his experiments to himself," he started. "Fewer triples would be a good start. After a while you just can't think straight was split up there for a while. That was an arbitrary political maneuver if I ever saw one."

"Really?" Vanessa prompted, hoping he'd be more open than Catherine. She was going to get really tired of having to pull teeth to get information.

"Things got ugly when the team was split up. I wasn't in the room when the decision was made, but I know Sophia -- she was acting supervisor on days then -- was pissed when she didn't get the spot permanent. Ecklie jumped every member of the team individually and twisted what they said to make the shift look bad, and when Sophia wouldn't make her evaluation match his opinion, he demoted her. And seriously, in spite of the bugs, Gris is a great supervisor," he explained, then looked at her critically, "who gets to see this report of yours?"

"Administration, meaning a copy will go to Ecklie and to the Sheriff. Then shift supervisors and union reps, who are typically one and the same. The only thing they do is sign off that they've seen the document and it gets sent off to the lawyers, who hash it out from there. Rest assured that the information I base my conclusions on will remain confidential," she responded.

He nodded, looking somewhat satisfied, "but the lawyers representing the administration are going to tear it to shreds?"

"That's why I'm going to throw together an entire wish list, and leave a few things in there that I know will probably get slashed. But, if the union lawyers can use it for a stall tactic, the bulk of the document should make it through unscathed. It has to be signed, sealed, and delivered in three months from when I started, about five weeks ago," she replied with a conspiratorial smile. "Ecklie seems to be under the mistaken impression that I'm going to compose a document representing what he wants instead of what you guys need. And he can go right on thinking that until I'm finished and it lands on his desk."

"You really think you can play ball with him?" Warrick asked cynically.

"I'm sure I can," she replied with a stubborn set to her jaw. The CSI didn't look entirely convinced -- but then, she figured, he probably wasn't convinced of anything he couldn't see.

She finished the interview quickly and waited for the next person to buzz through the break room.

"Well, speak of the devil!" she laughed when the supervisor stepped through the door. "Close the door behind you, we need to talk."

He looked surprised, almost like he wanted to bolt, but quickly recovered and closed the door. "Something you need?"

"I just have a few questions," she was beginning to feel like a broken record. Two down, four to go! she cheered herself on mentally. "Do I look like I'm gonna bite? Grab some coffee and sit down, for crying out loud."

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Now, there's no need to be smarmy about it. Keep it up and I might bite, after all," she teased. He laughed uneasily, still looking at her warily as he sat down. "So, can you think of any way you'd improve working conditions in the lab?"

"Well, Catherine should get days," he started, "if that happened, someone else on swing could move up to take her place, but I don't see Ecklie giving her days like she wants," he frowned, "they could stand to offer better counseling services for people who have related to the job -- Nick comes to mind. Sara, too, but in a different way..."

Vanessa cut him off, "that's all well and good, but how would you improve your own working conditions. I'm going to talk to all of them, so be selfish for once. What would you like to see?" she leaned forward on the table, resting her chin in her left hand, waiting for him to respond.

He was silent for a long while, going to great length to avoid the gray eyes that were trying to bore into him. "I'd like less paperwork. I'd like more time to attend and give seminars," he shifted, "but that's not the point. None of that is going to happen. As Catherine is all too happy to point out, that's why I get paid the 'big bucks.'"

"Keep going. In a criminalistic utopia, what would you want?" she pressed.

"A criminalistic utopia? You mean a perfect world where crime still exists?" he couldn't help laughing.

"Well, if there were no crime, you would probably have a much different job, and we'd never have this conversation. So, yes, in a utopian world that still has crime labs, what would you want?"

"I'd like for the team to have the resources to advance the way they need to. It would be nice to take more than a couple days off without having to dump everything on Catherine," he mused, not realizing that he was still considering the needs of his crew before his own, even if indirectly. "It would be nice to not have to worry about inter-office politics, and watch every word I say, but again, its not gonna happen," he insisted.

She nodded, formulating her next question, watching him look at her notebook with unabashed curiosity. "Analyzing my handwriting?" she joked.

"No, that takes place down the hall," he returned, finishing his coffee.

"I don't know how to break this to you, but I'm going to make it my business to see that you and your staff get everything you need. I don't like what I'm hearing about how the team was broken up. I've already gotten the impression that your people don't think I can out-politic Ecklie and the Sheriff, but I'm telling you I can and I will, because I've done it before," she returned to the subject at hand.

The stubborn set returned to her jaw, her eyes hardened, and her normally low voice dropped to almost tenor, all telling him that she was perfectly capable of doing exactly as she said. It was an image that seemed to be at odds with her small stature. He remembered something his Uncle had told him once: "big explosions come in small packages," referring to just this kind of woman (in that case, his Aunt). Vanessa was, for all intents and purposes, cut from the same cloth as many of the women in his family, he realized.

"I shouldn't have been so specific, but in the end, those are the two I'm going to be going up against, right?" she asked.

"You have my sympathy, for what its worth," he replied with a nod.

"What are the chances they're going to argue with me, even though they're just supposed to sign the damn thing and hand it off to the lawyers?"

"Honestly? Fairly good. Its hard to tell how much they'll drag their feet, but I'm sure they will. What's good for the people in the field isn't necessarily good for the administration."

"Well, the final product is for the lawyers to argue over expensive lunches on the tax payers' dime. The administration can take any of their demands to the lab's lawyers, or to their own union lawyers, but my proposal is hands off and I intend to keep it that way. Listen to me," she shook her head, "I probably sound like the pushiest bitch on the planet!"

He was silent again, studying her body language. Nothing struck him as anything other than genuine about her. For some reason, that surprised him -- he'd expected a polished politician to be doing this job. "Greg mentioned that you're going to be working downtown after this...doing what?"

Aha! Head of the gossip mill! she thought triumphantly as she began her reply, "I'm stepping up to lead a youth organization that's trying to reduce violence in key neighborhoods. At the same time, I'll be taking the plans and projects I develop to UNLV, along with reports on success or failure, and helping them re-evaluate elements of their social science department. I'd like to get a program going that would encourage students to break out of the ivory tower and practice the stuff they read in text books. Of course, most of the old school folks don't like that," she chuckled, "but, they usually conveniently forget the fact that the players in Plato's Republic were drunk. Ideas for their own sake are nothing more than mental masturbation. Its not enough to sit back and complain and theorize about social problems, we have to train a new generation to get out there and do something about them... I'm sorry -- I just got on my soap box there," she laughed at herself a little bit.

"Well, if the lab can support you in any way, let me know," he replied.

She gave herself a mental shake to jog her mind back to the job at hand, and the interview finished quickly. She let her mind wander and her eyes followed him down the hall to his office.

A female voice jerked her back to her senses, "I saw that!" It was Catherine.

"Saw what?" Vanessa asked, slightly shaken.

"You were looking at his ass," the other woman teased, sitting down at the table with a carton of Chinese food. "Don't deny it," she laughed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vanessa replied, busying herself with her notes.

Her only reply was a snort of laughter, "so how are interviews going?"

"Three down, and I'm already starting to feel like if I hear myself asking those same questions again, I'm going to beat my head on a wall." She glanced around at the papers that had started collecting on the table, threatening to take over the surface, and sighed. "Maybe I'll finish tomorrow. What time is it?"

Catherine looked at her watch, "almost four-thirty. Why?"

"Just wondering how long I've been here and if I'm tired enough to go back to the crash pad yet."

Vanessa got up and stretched, walked over to the couch, and sat down. I'll be fine if I just don't look at that stuff for a little while, she thought, leaning back into the cushions. She didn't even hear the other woman leave -- she was already asleep.

Chapter Two: Time Off

It was about a week later that her room mates were jumping all over her last nerve. Technically, she was supposed to be taking a day off -- strict orders to do nothing from a friend of hers, Eric, who had helped her secure the job researching and writing the union proposal. She'd known Eric for the better part of 20 years, since she'd spent a season working on a political campaign with him. He'd been an invaluable resource from those days on, someone she knew she could always count on.

She could hear video games in the front room, giggling and conversation from the kitchen, and it seemed like the phone was ringing constantly. They, of course, had friends over. The scent of incense wafted under her door.

She threw her book down on the nightstand and got up. "I'm getting to old for this crap," she muttered as she stalked to the bathroom to brush her hair. When she walked out and headed toward the front door, she was met by Tom, one of the room mates in question. His blond hair was long and rumpled, his eyes were slightly bloodshot and the smell of marijuana hung faintly on his clothes.

"Want some pizza rolls?" He asked from the kitchen.

"No." She was slipping on her shoes and grabbing her bag.

"Are we bugging you?" To his credit, he did seem concerned.

"No." She headed out the door and started the beat up Subaru that she had driven to Las Vegas in. It was late, but Judy, the receptionist, was getting used to her odd hours. She probably wouldn't be surprised to see her wander in at this hour, although she'd never seen her out of her professional clothes. It was her one concession to keeping her day off -- she refused to change out of her comfy jeans and tee shirt.

It took her about fifteen minutes to get to the lab, and she trudged from the back of the parking lot to the sidewalk that led to the double glass doors. Judy was on the phone when she walked past the desk, and gave her a wave and a smile. Vanessa managed a weak smile in return and made her way to the break room.

Her first move was to grab a cup of coffee. It looked like tar and tasted worse -- it had probably been on the burner since that afternoon. She grimaced, but slugged it down anyway as she dumped what remained down the sink and started a new pot.

Searching for distraction that had nothing to do with union work, she poked around in cupboards until she found a bottle of window cleaner, a box of baking soda, and a scrubby sponge. She started with the cabinets, climbing on the counters to reach the tops, spraying them with window cleaner and wiping them down with a paper towel. From there, she tore into the other surfaces in the break room -- the counters, the table, the refrigerator and the small stove. Finally, she sprinkled baking soda in the sink and attacked it with the sponge.

"What, now you're providing maid service, too? I have an office you can clean," a voice from behind her said.

She looked over her shoulder at Grissom. She'd gotten to appreciate his off-center sense of humor over the last week. In fact, he got most of her jokes, which she found a little strange. She was quickly coming to the conclusion that nothing surprised him. "Things were a little crowded at the crash pad tonight," she explained, blowing a wisp of hair out of her face and finishing rinsing the sink.

Grissom refreshed his own coffee and sat down at the table. "I thought Eric told you to take the night off. Wasn't there somewhere else you could think to escape to?"

She sat down opposite him, "yes he did, and no I couldn't." Her eyes narrowed, "how did you know I was supposed to take tonight off?"

He shrugged, giving her what she'd come to know as his "enigmatic look." For someone who was used to getting answers, it was unsettling.

"Okay, plead the fifth. Don't you have anything to do?" It came out more bluntly than she intended.

"If my presence is that distasteful to you, I can leave," he told her, glancing over the tops of his glasses at her.

"I didn't mean that. I'm just on edge. I was just wondering if you weren't busy with something other than sitting here keeping me company on my night off."

"Actually, I sent the team out on their assignments and managed to get my paperwork done for once. I'm free as a bird, as the saying goes," he replied.

"Don't say that too loud. The work gnomes will find something for you to do if you call attention to it," she laughed.

"I don't suppose you play chess..." he smiled.

"You know perfectly well I do. You took my move for me the other day when I was playing online."

"You were headed straight for a trap," he actually managed to look innocent.

"I had a strategy I was working on. Where were you going with that, anyway?" She tried to steer the conversation back to his original question.

"I have a board in my office," he lifted one eyebrow and looked down the hall.

"Fine, if you're going to twist my arm, but you know I'm not that good." Teasingly, she sighed heavily.

"I could always tell Eric you were working, otherwise..."

"That's dirty." She smiled as she wagged her finger at him, and followed him to his office.

There were racks upon racks of jars containing specimens of all types and sizes. It was like he had his own pickled menagerie. She looked at particular pieces with curiosity, including what appeared to be an empty terrarium containing a bit of sponge. She jumped a little bit when one of the 'rocks' in the container moved, then looked closer.

"I should have told you -- I forget not everyone keeps spiders," he apologized.

She simply turned to him, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." She nodded in the direction of the tarantula, who had returned to stone-like stillness in the corner of the tank.

An "aha" moment. For a split second, she saw surprise register on his face. She couldn't help feeling a little smug. "That would be Herman."

She pulled a chair closer to the opposite side of the desk from him and sat down, watching him carefully set up the board. "Ladies first," he said.

"You've heard the kind of language I use. I'm no lady." She laughed as she moved a pawn.

"But you'll take the advantage, anyway," he replied as he moved a piece. "And I would have to argue your 'lady' status with you."

"Really? How do you figure? I'm not exactly delicate and demure," she took her turn.

"So you didn't attend the best finishing school," he joked. "Your habits are what make you able to do the work you do, which deserves respect. Sensibilities are what make a lady." Another piece moved.

"Uh-huh," she let her gaze wander over the board, looking for any early weak spots in his game. A girl can hope, she thought to herself as her fingers came to rest on one of her rooks. "Sensibilities. You realize I paid for my Master's degree by hustling pool?"

"I funded a body farm by playing poker." He told her matter of factly. "What is your degree in?"

"My academic path has been long and convoluted. That may be more of a story than you have time or interest for," she replied. "You might use it to accuse me of distracting you from your game." Her tone was teasing at the last.

He leaned forward over the desk, eyes fixed in hers over the rim of his glasses. "I guarantee I've fixed my attention on things considerably more dull than your academic career."

"You asked for it," she wagged a finger at him, smiling. "The first school I attended was a college for the performing arts -- focus on dance and music. That was the direction I'd been heading in for years, since before high school, at the expense of everything else, really. I didn't have much of a social life, even in college. On the rare occasions that a friend would drag me out to a bar or party, I would sit against a wall and watch everyone else act like an idiot. Maybe it would have been good for me to cut loose a little, in retrospect," she laughed, "might have avoided a reputation as an ice queen, that's for sure."

One of his eyebrows shot up. She continued, "about three years into it, I kept feeling like something was missing. There was a part of me that was just not engaged by the work I was doing. I was passionate about what I did, and I was a hell of a performer -- at the risk of sounding egotistical -- but I felt very narrow and smothered. I can't think of any other way to describe it. I couldn't adjust myself to the kind of tunnel vision many of my fellow students ascribed to. They worked on their art, and they partied, and that they took any other subjects that were required, but they didn't really indulge curiosities that lay beyond..." she faltered.

"I think I know what you're talking about," he encouraged. "Keep going."

"Well, I was always curious about everything. Any kind of politics, history, literature, languages, sciences, even math -- although I stink on ice with any sort of unapplied numbers," she qualified her statement with a smirk. "At any rate. In an effort to break out of the protective shell of the college, I volunteered with a local political campaign. I started by knocking on doors and making phone calls. I found more and more of my time being taken with what I was doing -- talking to people on their door steps and on their phones, finding out what they were dealing with in their lives, finding ways that I could help. I buried myself in it. I didn't bother signing up for another quarter at the college and spent the next year working shit jobs and volunteering with a local agency focused on civil rights. When I knew what I wanted to do, I started applying to colleges and universities, looking for a good social science program. I wasn't sure whether I was going to go into political science or sociology at that point -- it depended on the curriculum. I dove headlong into political science and added a research writing major and finished both degrees in two years. I had to quit the shit jobs, and that's when I started hanging out in bars hustling pool."

"I took an internship with the ACLU, and did some work with 'at risk' youth, as they're called now. Only back then, they were just rotten kids to most people. It was like starting the whole academic road over -- I had to prove myself to the institutions I wanted to work with just as I had done in dance. It took a couple years, but I got an award to study anthropology for my Masters, and following that, a fellowship for my doctoral studies in criminology. That's the short version. There was a lot of seemingly aimless wandering between degrees, which led me to working with the labor unions, which is why I'm here." By this time, he had most of her pawns lined up on his side of the board. "So...fair is fair. Since I haven't heard you snore yet, why bugs?"

The conversation wandered for the better part of an hour while they took their time taking turns moving pieces.

"Check mate," he announced.

"Dammit," she said under her breath as she shook her head and threw up her hands in mock surrender. At that moment, Sara stuck her head in the office.

"We've got a match on that B and E you sent us on. Brass is getting the warrant and we should have everything sewn up by the end of shift," the lanky brunette told him.

"Good. Bring me the paperwork when you're done," he told her.

"What, you miss it already?" Vanessa teased, moving her chair back.

"Hardly. I'm just hoping not to get buried again too quickly."

"Well, then I suppose I should let you get back to your supervisor-ly duties," she smiled at him. "Thank you for not winning too quickly and for keeping me out of my apartment."

Sara looked at him with her brows lowered, wondering what had transpired in the office while she'd been out tape lifting her fingers to the bone. "You need anything else, Gris?"

"Not at the moment," he said absently, packing up the chess board and resigning himself to the incoming paper work for end of shift.

The young CSI shook her head and walked down the hall in the direction of the interrogation rooms.

"Are you in a hurry to get back to your apartment?" he asked as Vanessa was almost to the door.

"Are you joking? It probably looks like a war zone," she snorted. "I was actually thinking about starting my day early and just working through the night."

"Why don't you join me and the crew for breakfast, instead?" he suggested.

"I might just do that. Am I allowed to bring up my proposal, since I'll have all of you under the same roof? Or will you rat me out?" I wish I really knew if he'd gotten in touch with Eric...she thought.

"We'll see." He shot her another "enigmatic" look and she walked back to the break room to try to put her papers back in order -- what she'd been planning on doing before she'd gotten wrapped up in a game of chess. A week's worth of notes, and her bag and her folders and her notebooks all looked like Einstein was keeping house. She wished she knew how chaos surreptitiously worked its way into things like that.

When she returned home, the place did indeed look as if a tornado had swept through it, but at least it was quiet. She settled in for some much needed sleep.

Chapter Three: Armor

She returned to her "office" promptly at ten the next evening. The first person she saw was Ecklie, wandering in for coffee. "Sounds like you're getting along well with graveyard shift," he said.

"Just fine, thank you," she kept her answer purposely ambiguous.

"Well, good. I hope that the work you're doing will smooth over the problems that have been going on there."

"What kind of problems?" She hoped her question sounded innocent enough, even though he was grating on her nerves. She'd put enough together going through files, and even though no one on the shift said anything directly about the supervisor, she'd detected a tone of rancor whenever his name came up.

"You've been through their files. The team definitely has its weak points. I just hope that your proposal treats some of the counseling and disciplinary practices more stringently than they are at the moment," he replied.

"Really?" She had realized shortly into her tenure that she was internalizing this job more than normal, and was having trouble keeping the edge out of her voice. She'd watched this group put in doubles routinely, consistently picking up the slack from other shifts. She had developed a respect for and, felt that she was growing close to, every one of them.

His eyes narrowed a little bit, "you see, Vanessa, this shift has been prone to problems since Grissom took over. Members of the team letting their personal lives get mixed up in what they do here. I find that unacceptable. I'm sure you do, too."

She heaved a sigh, "we've been over this before. My first day, in fact. I'm not here to make your life easier. I'm here to develop a proposal based on the needs of the people who work here, as I see them. Do we need to discuss this again?"

"Yeah. Why don't we wander down to my office."

She refused to follow him, instead, matching her pace and stride to his so that they were side by side the entire way. She could see that this was the kind of person who found a perceived weakness and tweaked it for all it was worth. Nothing more than a school yard bully in a bargain basement suit. The only way to deal with a bully was to stand up to them -- she'd learned that when she was eleven and had never let go of it since. The scene replayed in her mind as she made her way down the hall.

Always one to stick up for the under dog, she'd noticed a cluster of kids on the school yard. Approaching the group, she heard howls of pain, and laughter from the collected group. Inside the ring of children, she saw a student she knew from the year before. Although she couldn't remember the girls name, she remembered that she'd had difficulty in reading and in sports. There was a scar on her upper lip that ran to her nose, making the area in between look slightly twisted. Currently, one of the boys had her glasses and her book bag while another was viciously pinching her on her arms. As she tried frantically to grab her belongings and dodge the fingers of the other, the children in the circle laughed.

Vanessa felt sick at what she had seen, and broke into the middle of the crowd. "Knock it off!" She'd hollered.

"C'mon. Its no big deal," the boy with holding the girl's book bag laughed.

Vanessa marched boldly up to the boy and grabbed the back pack and glasses from him. She heard a muffled "jee-eez," as she turned on the other boy, planting one hand firmly on his shoulder and shoving him down in one smooth motion. "I said, knock it off."

The boy sat there on the ground, staring at her dumb-founded. "What's your deal? You want a turn?" He asked, picking pebbles out of his skinned palms.

"Sure," she said, "I can knock you down again, too. And I'll keep knocking you down until you act right."

Just then, a teacher came around the corner and the entire group split up, running in different directions.

Ecklie made himself comfortable at his desk before inviting her to sit -- it was a pattern of behavior she recognized. He wanted her on his turf, to make her 'comfortable,' all so he could exert what power he thought he wielded over her and yank the rug out from under her. She wasn't having it.

"I'll stand, thank you," she replied.

"I just want to make sure you know that I have to sign off on your proposal before it goes to the sheriff. And the lawyers hash it out from there. Really, your role in the whole process is insignificant. A small piece of the whole puzzle."

"So maybe I should just pack up my lap top, go home, and slap together whatever sounds good to me at the time?" she asked, crossing her arms, not even trying to keep the acid out of her voice.

"That might be an option. You've been putting in more hours than you should, and you could use the extra time to really get out and enjoy the city," his tone was light, but his hands toyed with a pen on the table. Picking it up, putting it down, spinning it on its side, constantly in motion. He was nervous about something.

"Is there something you need to tell me? If there is, you had better out with it, because I'll find out, anyhow. I don't need to wander the strip like a tourist. You forget, I have a job waiting here in a few weeks, so I'm a resident. I'm here to do my job, not loaf around."

"You have an admirable work ethic," he began, "but they really should have hired someone internally for this job."

"Is that so? Maybe someone more prone to lick your boots? Would that be more what you had in mind?" Her voice was low but sharp. "I've never kissed anyone's ass to get where I am and I'm not about to start on you."

There was a knock on the door, which had been left standing open. It was Brass, with a pile of paperwork for the administrator to apply his rubber stamp to. "Am I interrupting something?" he inquired, not bothering to hide a smile.

"Not at all," Vanessa replied, leaving Ecklie with his mouth open, his own ill-tempered response hanging, unspoken. "I was just about to go back to work." She turned and planted both hands on Ecklie's desk, putting herself at eye level with him. In a low, penetrating, voice, she said, "If you want to play power games, take it some place else. I don't have time for it. Keep it up, and I'll see to it that you get investigated for breech of ethics." She turned and left without even looking back to see his response.

She did go back to the break room, but instead of sitting down at her lap top, she grabbed her purse and headed back down the hall to an exit, muttering obscenities the entire way. She stepped out into a large black topped area, fished in her purse for her cigarettes and lighter, and once lit up, she leaned back against the cool brick of the building. She just sat there, puffing away, looking at the sky. It was almost impossible to see the stars for all the light pollution, but she had no doubt that further away from civilization, they put on a stunning show.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling in a long, drawn out sigh. She was having a hard time getting a reign on her temper this time. Usually people didn't get to her so deeply -- she just calmly made up her mind to reach whatever goal it was that she set and went for it, in spite of obstacles. It didn't matter whether those obstacles were circumstances or people. This isn't to say that she didn't feel the stress of her job. Being an advocate in any capacity brought with it a whole raft of responsibility, frustration, sometimes defeat and guilt. But she had made up her mind to speak out for those who couldn't, or were limited, a long time ago. It was what she did instinctively, and she did it selfishly. It was what she had to do so that she could get up every morning and face herself and the rest of humanity feeling like she was worth the space she took up.

The door next to her squeaked open. "That was impressive." She didn't turn around, but the voice was male, with an East coast accent. It was Brass.

She snorted laughter. "It was the truth."

"Yeah, well, you definitely took him back a peg. He's used to being either avoided or sucked up to, not confronted. Just so you know, the rest of team, and that includes the other shifts, appreciate the work your doing. Word in the halls is that you're a female Cesar Chavez."

"Shit." She blew out the last puff on the cigarette and ground it under the toe of her shoe, then picked it up and put it in the coffee can by the door.

"Isn't that a good thing?" the detective asked.

"I'm not sure." She replied and quietly walked back into the building.

The rest of the night passed relatively uneventfully. She sat at her lap top, compiling her notes from a week and a half's worth of research and interviews. She exchanged pleasantries with the other team members who breezed in and out of the room, but she wasn't in much of a mood for conversation, and it showed. Eventually, the shift was over, and she gathered her things and headed out to her car, wondering morbidly how many crashers her room mates would have over tonight. It seemed like there was always someone sleeping on their couch.

She spotted a bar on her drive back and swung into a parking place on impulse. It looked relatively quiet -- it was off the beaten path, and lacked the wealth of garish neon paraphernalia that graced most of the other buildings in this end of town. Walking through the single door, the atmosphere was one of privacy. The booths that lined the walls were tall and away from direct lighting. There were a minimum of stools at the bar and free standing tables in the middle of the floor. The blues played over a speaker system, but not so loudly that a person couldn't think or have a conversation.

She selected a small booth in the middle of the wall and ordered a tequila when the waitress approached. She took a sip and savored the slow warmth of the amber liquid as she swallowed. Leaning back in the booth, she let her mind stop churning and just listened to the drone of quiet conversations overlaid by Billie Holiday singing "Stormy Weather."

A subtle shift in the light behind her eyelids told her someone was standing at the table. Probably the waitress. I shouldn't, but I guess I will have a second. She opened her eyes and saw Grissom standing there next to her.

"Problems?" He asked.

She rolled her eyes. She was past tact. She was past worrying about maintaining professional distance in her communications. "Your head administrator is an unmitigated ass," she said bluntly. She'd been stewing over the exchange all day. "A bottom-feeding, sleazy, self-important wind bag."

"Don't sugar coat it," he laughed a little, and sat down. "I hope you don't mind..." he finished.

"No, no. Its fine. How much do you drink?" She asked.

The question appeared to catch him a little off guard. "Well, the average person should have at least eight eight-ounce glasses of water a day."

"Stop being facetious. How can you work with him and not drink yourself blind at least once a week?" she started, "I'm sorry. That was really inappropriate of me."

"I think I can handle it," he said, this time with a full smile. "When he gets too irritating I hide in one of the labs and put things together that make small explosions. And there's always the firing range."

"Sounds therapeutic," she laughed, finishing her drink and ordering the second she'd been thinking about earlier.

He shrugged. "You wanna know therapy? There's a great roller coaster in a park on the edge of the city..."

She cut him off, "nope. Not on a bet. I do not go on rides. I'll stick to tequila. And cigarettes. I actually started smoking again, thanks to him and his attitude. He spent all Tuesday evening popping in and out of the break room trying to read over my shoulder!"

"How about on a triple-dog dare?" He responded.

"No. Life is enough of an adventure for me." She said firmly, although she was laughing.

He looked at her with an exaggerated expression of disappointment. Her second drink came, and another one for him, and the conversation shifted tracks. "Brass told me what happened today. Are you holding up okay?"

"I'm fine," she said lightly, sitting up a little straighter in her seat. "Why do you ask? Not because I've been kvetching about Ecklie...I've dealt with his type before."

"Uhh-huh. He gave you a compliment and you swore. You have something against Cesar Chavez?"

"Oh, that. Its nothing." She said, schooling her features into a mask of neutrality, hiding her frown by taking a deep drink of her tequila.

He didn't look convinced, but didn't press the issue. Etta James came over the speakers, singing "At Last." A classic. "I love this one," she said, settling back in her seat, grabbing the opportunity to redirect the conversation without being awkward.

"Interesting," his voice was so quiet that she almost missed it.

He was beginning to wonder if there was anything she couldn't hear. "What's so interesting about that?" She asked, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. She was feeling the effects of the second tequila; her breath was warm in the back of her throat, and it seemed that she could feel her blood thrumming through veins and capillaries, warm and steady. All in all, it was the most relaxed she'd been in a week.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her from across the table. "The side of yourself you show people professionally versus the side that's having a drink in a bar listening to Etta James."

"And the difference would be?" She raised an eyebrow, lowering the enigmatic, neutral mask over her countenance again.

"Professionally, you've had to be very assertive. A classic type-A personality, if one were to simplify it. Outside of work you appear to...soften a little." He finished, looking a little dissatisfied with his description.

"The hard ass wears her armor to conceal the fact that, underneath, she is fundamentally, a cream puff?"

"To put it another way, I suppose," he agreed, smiling again. "How about we go for a walk?" He suggested.

She paused for a moment, trying to evaluate the situation. What the hell, she thought, and nodded. They paid their individual bills and headed outside into the early morning sunlight. They wandered through quiet side streets, avoiding the heavier pedestrian traffic of the main roads. Somewhere in the course of a conversation that ranged through topics such as music, science fiction, comic books, astronomy, physics, history and philosophy, she noticed, uncomfortably, that she was not only enjoying, but growing accustomed to his company.

It was Saturday night, and slow, oddly enough, in the crime lab. Three of the five team members had made a day trip for a conference. The building was eerily quiet without them. Vanessa had had the break room all to herself, all night. The table was littered with papers, pens, markers, pencils, paperclips, and folders. To an outside observer, it looked like chaos had taken over her small work space, but in fact, there was a method to her madness. Each pile of papers fit into a loose category which she had mapped out in the notebook in she held in her hand. Her lap top stood open, but the only application that was running was the CD player. It was Beethoven tonight. Piano sonatas, violin concerto, 9th Symphony, and anything else in her music library with Ludwig van's name attached to it. His music always inspired her, calmed her, engaged her passion and her competitive streak, and filled her with a sense of wonder, and it never failed to amaze her that she could hear all that in a single piece.

"Whoa!" a laughing female voice came from the doorway. It was Sara, she was staring at the table with her mouth hanging open, trying to stifle a laugh as Vanessa looked up from her work. She was sitting in a yoga-like cross legged position, and instead of her usual professional attire, she was dressed in faded jeans and an old tee shirt. Her chestnut/auburn hair had been pulled into a messy pony tail, then wound into an equally messy bun, and it bristled with more pens and pencils than were scattered on the table. The sound of Beethoven's Apassionata Sonata blared out of the extra speakers she had hooked up to her lap top. Since there was no room for her coffee on the table, she'd set the cup on the floor by her feet.

"You and Grissom are in the same boat tonight," she said, giving in to the laugh she tried valiantly to hold back, walking over to the coffee pot and liberally dumping sugar into her cup, taking a sip to test it.

"Huh?" Vanessa asked absently. She was elbows deep in supervisory evaluations, reading about everyone from the top down, making a list of who signed whose evaluation and noting any inconsistencies. She had a theory, and she was laying the foundation to make it work; she was still supremely angry with Ecklie, who was working swing this week, lucky for her. Not only would she have some peace and quiet to conduct her research into his performance, but she didn't think her temper could handle any more of his antics. She'd managed to keep herself under control so far, but only barely.

"Grissom is doing case reviews tonight. His desk looks like your table. And he's about as approachable as a porcupine," the lanky brunette finished, flopping down on the couch that sat against one wall facing a TV.

"I'm sorry," Vanessa shook her head, clearing her thoughts, "I didn't mean to be snippy."

"No. He's snippy. You're just distracted. There's a difference." The other woman smiled. "He always gets like this when he can't see over his paperwork, though. He was never meant to be a beurocrat," she shrugged.

"I know someone who was," Vanessa said, exasperated, looking at the files in front of her. "I'm so buried in Ecklie's rubber stamp right now I don't think I'll ever find my way through this," she viewed the papers in front of her and a look of bewildered consternation crossed her features. "I mean, look at this. I've got papers that say papers were signed, papers that say papers were received, papers to say there was paper in the first place. I'm surprised they don't document which tree made which page with a serial number so they can track it all the way back to its source. And all of it has his signature on it."

"Why are you so worried about that?"

Vanessa has caught a flicker of annoyance on Sara's face when the administrator's name came up. On a hunch, the older woman decided to confide in the investigator, just a little bit. Not enough to show her hand, but enough that she might get the information she wanted before doomsday rolled around. "Something is just rubbing me the wrong way about grave shifts files," she started, brow furrowing, "I can't put my finger on what, but I have a feeling he's at the bottom of it."

"Wouldn't surprise me. He's tried to get me fired a few times," Sara grimaced.

"I know." Vanessa replied. "I read that part already. I'd tell you how it ends, but I don't want to spoil it for you," she finished with a dry laugh.

Just then another figure showed up in the door frame. "What? Coffee clutch and I wasn't invited?" It was Nick, the only other CSI who had stayed back from the conference in Reno. Members of swing and grave, whom Vanessa had come to think of as a single unit despite their divergent schedules, had taken it upon themselves to cover for other members who were out of town, so Nick was covering for Warrick -- pulling a double.

"Well, you looked like you were really busy, sorting through whatever that was in your locker," Sara teased him.

"As much as I like my job, we don't get enough nights like this. Its rewarding to solve a case, but when its actually quiet you feel like you might have made a dent in something," Nick commented, heading for the refrigerator.

Vanessa understood the young man's train of thought. On the one hand, if there were no crime, he wouldn't have a job. And it was a job that he loved. On the other hand, his motivations for building his career in forensics had come, in an odd sense, out of a desire to help people, rather than to spend days and nights in a lab plotting points on a chart. She felt much the same way. She instinctively defended those who couldn't defend themselves, or had a compromised ability to do so. Beyond that, she wanted to teach people how to advocate for their own issues. Help people take up their own causes. Build communities and neighborhoods where people were enfranchised at every level of policy and government. If there were no people to defend, she would also be out of a job. And yet, when she saw people learning to read, writing to representatives, forming their own interest groups, and representing themselves, that's when her job was the most rewarding.

"Yeah, ironic when your job is most rewarding when you don't have to do it any longer," Vanessa said, giving voice to the thought.

That brought a smile to both faces. Nick had been rummaging around, looking for the left over Mexican take out he'd brought with him for lunch. Having found what he was looking for, he sat down on the couch next to Sara. "What's with the mess?" He asked, indicating the table.

"Oof! You're lucky she's not as touchy as Grissom!" She laughed at her coworker.

"Is he still in a bad mood?" Nick asked.

"You bet. Until he can see the top of his desk again." She replied. "Vanessa, here, has a research project she's embarking on. The goal is to go through all of that" she gave the piles on the table the Vanna White treatment, "while Ecklie is out from under foot."

"That looks like a tall order," Nick started, "I saw him hovering around the other day, I know what you mean. It'd get on my nerves, too."

"You used to do it to Greg all the time," Sara chided.

"Yeah, but that was different. I'm likable," Nick replied over his shoulder, chucking his lunch container in the trash and heading out the door, back to whatever had been occupying his attention before he'd walked in.

"Between us," Vanessa started, sensing a conspirator in the woman who sat on the couch, looking like her fingers were itching to neaten piles of paper, "when was it that Grissom and Ecklie started to but heads?"

"Since I can remember. Catherine would have a better answer if you're looking for an outside opinion, she's been around longer. Her or Brass. It seemed to escalate when Gris got promoted, though. I couldn't even tell you why -- it isn't like Ecklie wanted graveyard shift. Hell, Grissom didn't want to be supervisor, for that matter. I wish I knew more." Sara shrugged.

"Thanks," Vanessa said, "I'm just frustrated because there's something in these piles that should tell me something, and I can't find it for all the back tracking and garbage."

"I probably ought to get back to clearing out the storage room," Sara said grimly.

"Before you try to organize me?" Vanessa asked, laughing at the sheepish smile that crossed Sara's face. "I thought so. Happy sorting."

Vanessa was left to her own devices for the better part of an hour before Grissom wandered in the door, looking like he'd been pulling at his hair. He made a bee-line for the coffee pot. He didn't even notice the table.

"I'm fine, and how are you," Vanessa smirked when he jumped at the sound of her voice.

"Half blind." He pocketed his glasses and ran a hand over his tired eyes.

"You too?" she laughed, gesturing at her mess. "I should be out showing people how to plant community gardens, lobbying for asbestos removal in old buildings, developing better school curriculums, giving kids something to do besides injure each other. Instead I'm here."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't know we were such bad company. And you know, the working conditions are abysmal," he said in a voice thick with sarcasm.

"Well, one of you is bad company," Vanessa muttered.

"I've been meaning to talk to Greg about his attitude," he joked.

"You know perfectly well who I'm referring to. I'm trying to use his 'bury 'em in paperwork' strategy against him here. A person shouldn't be able to create a paper trail like this without screwing up somewhere." she told him. She'd gotten over her professional inhibition about griping the other night at the bar, and didn't even attempt to hide the growl in her tone.

Vanessa sat up and stretched backward in her chair, trying to work the knots out of her shoulders. "I quit," she blew a few stray hairs out of her eyes and threw her pen down on the table. "I surrender. I need a break. Chess?" She suggested.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Two hours later, they were into their third game. She watched him deliberating over his next move, chin set on his hand like The Thinker. She'd been pondering the situation between him and the administrator almost the whole time. The more they talked, the more she felt she had a grip on it. The crux of the problem was a basic personality conflict. These were two people who would never be able to really work together or like each other. Yet, before his promotion, Grissom had posed no serious threat to the day shift supervisor turned head administrator. There was no question in anyone's mind who the better scientist was, and when Grissom had been elevated to grave shift supervisor, putting him on equal footing with Ecklie, the 'threat,' whether real or not, had materialized.

Yet, from what she had seen in file after file and countless documents was that Ecklie seemed to be going out of his way to impede the entire grave shift, not just the supervisor, (which would have been petty enough, really) in order to keep the perceived threat from becoming a reality.

Then there was Brass's comment the other day. She didn't want to be anyone's hero, or anyone's leader. She didn't want to step up on that pedestal. She just wanted to quietly work to help people help themselves, one at a time if necessary, well out of reach of the lime light. She was familiar with leadership, with a group of people looking to her for answers, hoping she could work a miracle that would save their cause. It was draining; the long hours, the stress, and worst of all, the fear that she would prove unworthy and come crashing down from that pedestal...

"Check," his voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"What the..." she hadn't even seen the opening she'd left, and now that he'd taken the opportunity, it was as big as a barn. "How did I not see that?" She shook her head.

"Looked to me like your mind was somewhere else," he said, giving her a penetrating look that made her want to squirm.

"Didn't think I was that obvious," she laughed at herself, shaking off the disconcerting feeling that he was figuring her out. "Next time, we're playing pool. You've won three times in a row."

"So, what were you thinking about?"

"Is it some sort of compulsion that you have to indulge your curiosity like this? That could get you in trouble," she said pointedly.

"Probably. That didn't answer the question, though." he replied.

"I shouldn't talk to you about that. I'll be fine. I only have to deal with him another week or two, and then I'm outta here. I'm sure to run into even more people like him. Its a curse of community organizing," she told him, trying to keep her tone dismissive. A piece of her, a well stifled, deeply buried, piece, itched to have someone to really unload on. She imagined herself stomping rudely on that piece, driving it out of her consciousness. Or at least making it small enough to ignore.

"How about over pool. We can pretend to be civilians," he said, smiling at her a little.

Why on earth is he being so stubborn about this? she thought, feeling confused. "I suppose. It might be nice to spend some time out of uniform."

He arched an eyebrow at her, "you can't talk about what's bugging you, but you can offer to spend time with me out of uniform?" he was trying not to laugh at her.

"Ha. Smart ass. You started it," she returned. "Pool it is. When and where?"

"Tonight, after shift?" he offered. "You wouldn't hustle me, would you?" his eyes narrowed.

"Never..." she told him with wide, innocent eyes. "Not even if you deserved it. I'll just beat the pants off you fair and square."

"There you go again. Freud would definitely have something to say about that," he said, chuckling.

"Don't you have case reviews to do?"

"Not unless you want to set up the chess board again..."

Chapter Four: Bagged and Tagged

It was her final week in the lab. She'd put together all the information from files, conducted her interviews, and her five copies of her proposal sat in manila envelopes on the break room table. All she had to do was turn them over to the proper people and head out the door. One for each shift supervisor, one for Ecklie, and one for Brass, as the union rep elected to give the document its first reading. She was surprised to find herself reluctant to hand her work over and be done with this job. For all the petty politics that had been involved, she felt she'd grown attached to the people who worked in the lab, particularly the grave yard shift. She'd always gravitated toward late shifts and the sort of people who worked them. Somehow, this was different. She was deeply satisfied with her work, convinced that it would help them somehow.

She heaved a heavy sigh. No time like the present. Tomorrow never comes. Why put off til tomorrow what you can do today... there seemed to be a million adages that were supposed to spur one into action. Not a one of them rang true. She walked to the reception desk and asked Judy to place the enveloped destined for swing and day shift supervisors in the appropriate boxes. The rest she would hand deliver.

"How's the battle?" a male voice broke into her thoughts. She'd been ambling down the hall, trying to decide who's to drop off first. It would be nice to just get Ecklie out of the way. At the same time, it would be nice to make him wait for it. Her head jerked up and she saw Brass standing in front of her.

She gave him a wry smile. "Almost over," she said, handing him an envelope. "Enjoy..."

"How'd you know what I wanted? I love union proposals!"

"Well, it wasn't easy. I talked to just about everyone...I wanted to make sure it was your favorite," she teased. "I kept the receipt in case you don't like it, and it does come with a five year warranty," referring to the five year review stipulation she had included in the text.

Brass just smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, "we're gonna miss you around here," he said simply. His pager went off before she got a chance to respond. "Shit. I gotta get out to Freemont. I'll catch you later." His mind was already on the call as he walked away from her and out the door.

She watched his retreating form with a smile. He was all gruff on the outside, but she had a strong inclination that the exterior hid a great big teddy bear. She squared her shoulders and looked at the second folder in her hand. Ecklie, she thought. Get it the hell over with. She walked purposefully down the hall, long strides carrying her quickly over linoleum squares and around the corner to the posh office that housed the administrator in his 'official' capacity.

"I'm finished." She said bluntly. No need to dress it up. No love lost on this one. In fact, she still wished she could have found that one shred of evidence that she would have needed to open an investigation on him. She'd read the case file about the arsonist his testimony almost sent to the chair. An innocent man. And Grissom had stepped in with tenacity and his own odd compassion, and proved the man innocent. How many others were there like that one, who were sitting in a cell for something they didn't do, because Ecklie was content to simply go with the first answer that came to him, bending the facts to fit his reality? The thought made her want to retch. In fact, that was part of what she loved about what these people did -- they made damn good and sure that the people paying for crimes were truly the people who committed them, not a convenient scape-goat. As someone who had worked in her share of 'developing' communities (as many liked to call them), she'd known many people in the prison system. Some were there justifiably. Others weren't. Other's were railroaded because lack of funds or resources made it impossible to supply ample defense. She'd met her share of public defenders who were treating their current lowly position as a stepping stone on the way to something bigger and better, and didn't give a rip about the people they served. Same with prosecutors. How many had she dealt with who were using the people they went up against as fodder for their political resume? Who cares if they're guilty or innocent -- just get another case under your belt, so that your record looks more impressive than it did last week. The attitude literally sickened her.

"Well, good. I'm looking forward to reading it." As with the first day, his smile never reached his eyes. She wanted for all the world to tell him to just cut the crap, but the people in the lab were depending on her to get the best deal for them that she could. That meant she had to be diplomatic.

"And I'm looking forward to your response," she said lightly, hoping she sounded convincing, as she stepped out of the office and walked back down the hall to the office across from the break room.

The door was open, but she tapped anyhow. Grissom looked up from behind his desk -- now clear of files, no thanks to an evening of chess, she thought -- "Vanessa, what can I do for you?" He looked pleasantly surprised to see her.

"Well, I finished the proposal," she started, "Brass already has his copy. I should give you the heads up, he just ran off to a scene on Freemont. You may be getting a call."

He nodded and accepted the folder she handed to him. "What about Ecklie?"

"Oh, I thought I'd get the unpleasant business out of the way first. I just left his office," she replied, smiling.

Grissom nodded, "so your work here is almost done?"

"I suppose," she said, sinking into the chair across from his desk.

"You sound disappointed," he prompted, his eyes inquisitive.

"I guess I am. I kinda like you guys," she replied, smiling.

"Well, your popularity with the graveyard team is hardly lacking. They know perfectly well who has their back," he started, "and they appreciate it."

"That's sweet, and I appreciate it, but its not necessary," she told him, "I was called here to do a job, and I did it to the best of my ability. I'm here to advocate for the staff, not the administration."

"That's the point, you entered this thing on the side of the people who do all the work here, the people who make this lab one of the best in the country, and they know you're willing to fight for them. It means a lot."

"Well, thank you." She felt herself blushing a little. What the hell is wrong with me? she thought. I don't blush. I don't get embarrassed. I'm not embarrassed, dammit...so knock it off... but the heat wouldn't leave her face.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you," he said, rather quietly. "I just wanted you to know that your efforts haven't gone unnoticed."

She felt the flush intensify, "it's nothing. I'm just doing my job. I couldn't not do it if I wanted to..." she stammered to a halt.

He sensed her need to change the subject, "wanna set up the board one last time?" he raised an eyebrow, and a distinctly competitive look took over his eyes.

"You're on. I'm surprised all this winning you've been doing hasn't gone to your head," she heckled, "you haven't had any trouble fitting through doorways, lately, have you?"

"Not that I've noticed, and I'm sure Catherine would tell me if I were," he laughed. Not the quiet, half hidden laugh she was used to, but out loud.

"Shall I go get us some coffee?" she offered, "while you set up the board. Mind you, if we were playing cards I wouldn't leave you alone for a second," she warned.

"And I wouldn't let you rack at pool unattended, either. We're even. And yes, I could use some coffee, thank you."

Chapter Five: Checkmate

The phone rang on her bedside table, startling her. Now, who the hell? she thought to herself as she lifted the receiver.

"You might want to come down here," it was Judy, the tiny, soft spoken receptionist. No one in the lab would guess the shy woman had such tenacity, but Vanessa had suspected and her next sentence clued her in, "Ecklie just handed me the copy of your proposal that you gave him. He's done some pretty serious editing."

Vanessa had suspected, but now she was shocked, "how do you know that?"

"I'm holding it in my hand," Judy sounded slightly exasperated.

"Wasn't it sealed?"

"No. He asked me to stuff it in an envelope and send it to the attorneys." Vanessa breathed a hefty sigh of relief at the answer. Leave it to someone like Ecklie to assume that someone like Judy would just do as she was told.

"I'm on my way. Ten minutes." Vanessa hung up the phone and yanked on her jeans and a clean tee-shirt, grabbed her brief case and hopped in her car.

True to her word, she was at the lab within ten minutes. Swing shift was just finishing, Ecklie probably thought he was going to sneak out early, but he was in for a surprise.

Judy silently handed her the proposal when she stopped at the desk.

She looked at the thick stack of paper in front of her. She'd handed it over to the administrative supervisor with the intent that it would reach the sheriff and then the mayor, with only their signatures to show that they had seen the document. Intact. Instead, she got it back with a multitude of "corrections." Actually, they looked more like riders and vetoes on a congressional bill. She dropped wearily down in her customary chair in the break room to go over the alterations, literally line by line. Legal pad and paper in hand, she noted each change the administrator had made according to line and page number. These entries were followed with her own, refuting the alterations.

Two and a half hours later, she stalked out of the break room which had become her make shift office (and home away from home) over the last couple months to find Ecklie, the heels of her boots snapping smartly on the linoleum.

Half way down the hall, she spied David Hodges with his nose down a microscope. She stuck her head in the lab and asked in a level voice, "would you be able to tell me where Ecklie is?"

"Yeah...uh...I think he's in the autopsy room." She turned quickly and didn't even see him pick up his cell phone.

It didn't even occur to her in her irritation that the autopsy room would be one of the least likely rooms to find the administrative supervisor. She just strode down the hall and around the corner and burst through the double doors.

Grissom and Dr. Robbins looked up sharply at her as she entered. She didn't pay them the slightest notice. "Where is he?" She demanded. Her normally mellow, alto voice rang off the stainless steel and tile walls; it was a voice to stop a lynch mob in full swing. Her anger was palpable, it came off her in waves. As many times as she'd confronted Ecklie in her time at the lab, no one had ever heard her raise her voice, but she was doing so now. All in all, even for the unrufflable Gil Grissom and Dr. Robbins, it was a little disconcerting.

"Who?" Grissom ventured, snapping off gloves and stepping towards her.

"That narcissistic desk jockey, Ecklie, that's who." She growled. "I need to have a discussion with him."

Normally, the grave shift supervisor and/or the coroner would have instantly escorted an unauthorized person out, but she had taken both of them aback with her entrance. It was obvious that she was holding her composure together by the thinnest veneer of calm. It wouldn't be long before she was turning over steel tables and darting the walls with surgical tools.

"What makes you think Ecklie would be in here?" Robbins asked, brows knitting in concern.

"His little toady down the hall told me..." she trailed off, "but of course, now that he has a cush little desk job he doesn't get his hands dirty, I suppose." The words of her final sentence were like bullets.

"What are you doing in here?" Ecklie asked from behind her. "No unauthorized persons allowed," he indicated the sign outside the door. He looked at Grissom and Robbins, "why haven't one of you escorted her out?" His expression held a distinct hint of gloat.

She whirled around and unleashed her temper: "I'm in here because this is where your lap dog said you'd be. I wanted to ask you just what the hell you think this is," she demanded, flinging it to the floor at his feet. "This is not an object lesson in how a bill becomes a law. I spent four weeks poring over files and talking to the people who work here. The contract is for them, not the administration, although I think we've had that discussion before. This is not up for debate."

"It is, if I say it is, and I didn't agree with your findings." He kept his voice even.

"What makes you think its your place to agree with anything? Why the hell are you so nervous about what I've written? You've been hovering and snooping since I started --"

He cut her off with a patronizing tone, "I realize you've worked very hard, but I wonder if your proposal is as objective as it should be. You've gotten awfully cozy with members of the grave yard shift. I thought, in light of that, that the document could use some critical revision."

The shift in her tone and posture from near violence to icy calm was as disturbing as her entrance had been. "Really," she almost purred. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll get this done, in its original form, with you or without you." She gave the administrator a grim half smile and walked out of the room, down the hall, past the reception area and outside.

A half hour later, as the sun was coming up and early morning commuters were clogging the streets, she returned. Her first stop was at the reception desk. "Do you know where I can scare up one of those 'forensics' jackets?" she quietly asked the receptionist.

"Ecklie has been stomping around in a huff since you left. What are you up to?" Judy asked quietly.

"Just don't worry about it. I need that jacket. Preferably before the end of rush hour. I'll be in the break room."

Her next move was to hook up her printer and make a clean copy of her document. If she could pull this off just right, Ecklie, and anyone else for that matter, wouldn't have much of a choice whether they approved her proposals or not. Just because she detested office politics didn't mean she wasn't good at playing the game.

She picked up her cell phone and called a friend who'd worked with the Teamsters in a similar capacity for years. Handling the phone with one hand and pulling sheets of paper out of the printer tray as they finished, her mind was racing as she finished devising her scheme.

"Yeah. Eric. Vanessa here. I'm in a bit of a jam. Has anyone ever put a contract proposal on line before? As in, public access?"

"I've never heard of it, but that doesn't mean it hasn't been done. Why?"

"I'm emailing you a document and I need you to post it on line. In the mean time, I'm going to stage a one-woman strike. I'm also going to send a fresh copy to you, certified mail, to eliminate any debate anyone might want to start. Wish me luck." She heard Eric laughing as she hit 'send' on her computer and hung up, grabbed her papers, and was headed out the door in time to meet Judy coming up the hall, with a wad of phone messages and mail in her hand.

"The jacket is sitting on a chair in the reception area," Judy told her on her way past, with a conspiratorial smile.

She casually grabbed and shrugged into the jacket on her way through, and stopped at her car long enough to pull a piece of poster board out of the back seat, and marched over to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the intersection from the lab. Once there, she held her sign aloft so that anyone who was stuck in traffic (and most of them were) could read it clearly: DO YOU SUPPORT JUSTICE? and on the back SUPPORT YOUR CRIME LAB.

She garnered a lot of honking horns and waves from people passing by, not to mention a few whistles from construction workers. She paced back and forth on the corner of the sidewalk for the better part of an hour before she saw Ecklie walking toward her through the now thinning traffic.

"What is this? What are you doing?" He demanded.

"The people who work in that building would breech their ethics if they held their own strike, so I'm holding one for them. I'm going to stand here, wearing this jacket and waving this sign, until you play ball," she replied calmly, and returned to smiling, cheering and waving at the cars as they drove past, giving the thumbs up to those who honked.

"Yeah, right..." he mumbled as he turned and walked away.

Inside the lab, the cogs of the gossip machine were humming along at record speed. Grave shift had called swing, who showed up as promptly as possible to witness the political coup that was taking place at the lab. While she stood outside, talking to every pedestrian that passed and waving at cars, Greg was dishing the news to Nick, who told Warrick, who told Catherine...and all of them were taking a secret delight in the administrator's discomfort. They had all gathered in the break room, in part to get coffee, and in part to support the woman who had become a surrogate part of the team over the last ten weeks.

"I haven't seen Ecklie's underwear in such a wad since before he was promoted!" Greg told Nick, laughing.

"You don't think she'll get anywhere, do you?" asked Warrick, always the skeptic.

"Her game seems pretty tight," Greg responded, "I heard that she asked a friend of hers to post the original proposal on line for public access so that the authenticity of her work can't be compromised..."

"And if she brings in enough attention, Atwater is going to have Ecklie strung up. He's gotta handle it before the mayor gets involved." Nick finished.

Grissom was the last to arrive, and walked in on the middle of the conversation, as usual. After Vanessa had left the autopsy room, he'd returned to his office and barricaded himself in to get paperwork done -- therefore he'd missed most of the action. "What's going on?"

Catherine brought him up to speed while the rest discussed her strategy. Grissom's eyebrows shot up, "a 'one woman strike?' I knew she was pissed, but..." he left the thought hanging.

"It sure looks like it. Ecklie can't really do anything about it short of pick her up and carry her back in the building, and that wouldn't look good, either. He's got a situation on his hands and he can either play nice or let it get out of control. Not being a direct employee has given her a lot of power, and I don't think he expected her to know what to do with it," she finished, grinning.

By the time three hours had passed, rush hour traffic had thinned and she'd told her story to a reporter from one of the small, alternative press newspapers published locally. "The people who work in this lab, serving the citizens of this city, twenty-four hours a day, every day, all year long, don't have the option to strike, so I'm doing it for them."

At about ten in the morning, she'd been at her self-assigned post for four hours; the temperature seemed to be rising exponentially, magnified by the surrounding concrete. She saw someone leave the lab and walk toward her, but her vision was obscured by blinding sun and passing cars. She figure on Ecklie again, headed out to try to bully her into giving up as he had several times already. She ground her teeth together and got ready for the argument.

She was surprised to see Grissom walking toward her when the light changed, and breathed a sigh of relief There would be no argument from him. They'd had many a discussion over a chess board on slow nights, and she figured he knew her well enough by now not to try to talk her out of any given course of action. "You're going to wind up with heat stroke, you know," he commented as he approached.

"Will that call more public attention to the issue? It might be worth it," she replied, not without a certain bite to her tone. He held out a bottle of water and she accepted it, "thanks."

"Well, you're certainly the talk of the lab this morning. You really think you're going to get around Ecklie?"

"I was brought down here to revise the union contract you and your staff have to live with, not him. That means I'll go through him, over him, or around him, but it's going to get done. He doesn't have a choice," she said simply, "what's he gonna do...fire me? That'd be a great trick, since he didn't hire me. I'd like to see him try."

"Just watch your back," the supervisor advised before he walked back across the street and through the double doors.

At two in the afternoon, she'd been awake for well over 24 hours, her nose was sunburned, and she'd lost a lot of the "bounce" she'd originally headed outside with. She'd gotten car horns, cheers, waves, bottles of water handed through car windows, and, once, change thrown at her. The sheriff arrived at the lab about as disgruntled as a man can get.

"Does she know what this is doing to the department's PR?" He demanded of Ecklie, who was squirming visibly. "Get her in this building!"

"If you want to blow your next election by being seen trucking her in here like a sack of flour, be my guest," Ecklie returned. "You'd be lucky if she didn't slap you with an assault charge for it."

"Well, let me see the document that started all this, then."

"Maybe we can run out the clock. In a few days she has to take another job, her contract here will be up and we can start over," the administrator suggested.

"And blatantly waste tax payer dollars, after she's made this much of a spectacle of the need for a union contract? I'd never get elected again, and you'll never get elected, period. Do you want to occupy that desk for the rest of your career?" the sheriff snapped. He gave the proposal a cursory scan. "I talked to Brass. She's the darling of the union crowd, and their lawyers are going to eat this up. We won't have a chance if we let her keep going out there, though. Tell her we'll compromise."

Ecklie heaved a sigh and headed down the hall and out the doors again. He found her leaning against the light post, exhausted, but the sign was still waving. She puzzled him almost endlessly, she simply didn't operate on his level at all -- no amount of ass kissing impressed her, no promise of promotion, no "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" held sway. He began to realize that she really would stand there all day if need be, and probably all night. No doubt the lab crew would be running her food and water if this turned into an extended protest.

"Sheriff says we can reach a compromise," he grumbled.

She looked at him, unimpressed, "really. When did I give you the impression that I'd accept a compromise? Finally figure out I've got your nuts in a vice here?"

"What about your new job? We could just stall until you have to leave?" He decide there was no harm in revealing that card since the sheriff had already vetoed it.

"You won't get rid of me so easy. I'll stand here in my time off if necessary. I've gotten to respect the people who actually do the work in that building and they deserve better than the garbage you've been handing them." She took a deep drink from a water bottle. "You don't get it, do you? The entire lab suffers because of the petty power games you play with the grave shift. Do you have any self respect at all?"

"You can stand out here all you want on your time off, but for now, get back in that lab and talk to the sheriff." His tone grew impatient.

"You'd best back off with that attitude. I don't take orders from anyone, least of all professional flunkies like you." She snapped. The long day, the lack of sleep, and the heat were all combining to make her temper short.

"What's going on here?" A third voice started in. She looked over. It was Grissom -- he should have left hours ago.

A fact Ecklie noticed just as quickly, "what the hell are you doing here? I can handle this."

"Uhh-huh. I can see that you've been smoothing things over with your usual facility," he said without a trace of the sarcasm he meant. He turned to her next, "look, come back inside. Get some rest, we'll scare up some aloe for your face, and you can head right back out here if they don't cooperate."

She looked at Ecklie, completely unmoved. "You don't think a collapsed protester makes a hell of a statement?"

"I suppose in some circles," Grissom began with a pointed look at Ecklie, "but you could be in for a marathon rather than a sprint. Save your energy." He turned his back to the administrator and with a conspiratorial half smile, continued, "besides...I'd hate to lug the chess board to your hospital room while you recuperate from heat stroke, which is exactly what's going to happen if you aren't careful."

"What are you still doing here, anyhow?" she asked quietly.

"Someone had to avail themselves to a damsel in a shark tank. The entire lab -- all shifts -- know what you're doing out here. We all support you. Besides, if you're half as smart as I know you are, you included a few throw away clauses in that contract for bargaining chips."

"The bargaining chips, as you call them, are for the lawyers to play with. For what its worth, I think you guys deserve all of it. In its original form." She told him. Exhaustion was beginning to win out, even over temper, though. This was going to turn into a sit-in before long...and me without my love beads, she thought, and laughed a little to herself.

"What's so funny?" Grissom asked.

"I don't have any love beads," she said, giggling helplessly.

"What?"

"I was just thinking how it would look if this turned into a sit in. Can I tie-dye this jacket? Maybe someone could bring me a guitar and I could sit here on the corner playing 'Kumbaya,' " she started laughing harder.

"I think you're done here." Grissom smiled, put his arm around her shoulders and led her back through the double doors, into the air conditioned building. Ecklie trailed along, looking sullen. His attitude had taken a serious nose dive since he'd been left out of the conversation.

Chapter Six: Endgame

The instant cold of the air conditioning almost buckled her knees as she stepped in the door. Involuntarily, she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. People stared as she walked past. Ecklie quickly out paced them, heading back for his office to speak with the Sheriff. Meanwhile, Grissom escorted her to his office and sat her down on the couch in the corner. She couldn't stop herself sagging back into the cushions and closing her eyes.

"I'll be back," he said, with an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. From where she sat, she could hear him talking to people in the hall, footsteps fading away. She was past caring. Her face felt raw and tight, her arms hurt, she was sure her back would never be the same again, and although she hadn't checked, she figured the blisters on her feet must be the size of quarters. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was until she sat down, though. Her head lolled onto the back of the couch, and she let herself doze.

Footsteps approaching. She groaned, Leave me the hell alone, she thought. She was sick of people. Great attitude for a community organizer, her thoughts continued wryly. Just how do you propose to work like this if all it takes is four weeks of one beurocrat to wear you out? Footsteps fading, Thank God. I don't even want anyone looking at me. I don't want to be anyone's hero. Don't wanna be in charge of anything. Fatigue was beginning to slur even internal commentary. Shut up. She scolded herself. This is what you do. Buck up. Keep swinging. You sound like a five year old. If you'd done your job better, you wouldn't have to be fighting this now. Her perceived failure tied knots in her stomach.

Looking back she could pin point a dozen ways she could have prevented exactly this scenario. Why hadn't she taken advantage of them? Now things were up in the air, after all her hard work, and everyone's expectations, and it was her fault. She was going to let them all down. She wasn't capable of delivering what she felt they deserved. She went over and over this train of thought, felt it burning a groove in her mind.

Footsteps again. This time approaching. Someone was standing next to her. "Here. Put this on your face."

She opened one eye a crack and saw him standing over her, an almost-smile warring with concern on his face. Quickly burying her discontent, she asked "what are you grinning at?" She hoped she sounded like her normal, ornery self.

"A one-woman strike?" he asked. "Are you sure you want to invest yourself that way?" he sat down on the table in front of the couch.

"What else can I do?" she was honestly confused.

"Move on. Go to your new job. I mean it, put this on your face. I have some water for you, too. You're lucky..."

She just shook her head, "I don't move on until I'm finished. And thank you, but I'm fine."

"Dammit," he said under his breath. Her jaw dropped as he grabbed a finger full of aloe and smeared it on her nose and forehead. "You're stubborn, you know that?"

"I've been told a time or two," she laughed. "Seriously, I'm getting too old for this crap."

"You know how to hold a proper sit-in; I'd say you're definitely getting too old for those kind of antics."

"Watch yourself!" she warned. "A gentleman doesn't poke fun at a lady's age or weight."

"So you admit you're a lady?" He'd wound the argument neatly around. She had no idea how he usually did so, but it was the same when they played chess. It drove her nuts.

"I'm pleading the fifth," she returned lamely, and let her eyes close again.

He sighed. "Where do you live?" he sounded almost resigned.

"Why?"

"Because. You aren't fit to drive, and I've been here long enough already. If they aren't going to snag you into negotiations right away, then I'm taking you home."

"That really isn't necessary. Just let me sit here a few minutes..."

The Sheriff stepped into the office. Grissom cut him off before he approached her, "can I help you?" he asked.

"Actually, I need to speak to Ms. Goldman." Atwater said, a sour look fleeting over his features.

"Its 'Miss', thank you," she griped from the couch, sitting up and taking a hefty drink of water.

"Fine, Miss Goldman. Your display this morning has put the lab in a very precarious position. It was very damaging for our PR. My phone has been ringing non stop," he started. Grissom just stepped back, making himself as unobtrusive as possible.

"The lab, huh?" she returned with a raised eyebrow. "I jeopardized the entire lab by standing up for what's right? You sure I didn't place your political aspirations in jeopardy? You aren't the lab, no matter what your ego tells you."

"Well, of course," his tone was becoming patronizing. She'd read enough about Atwater to realize he was a shrewd politician and to watch her step. "What you must understand, Miss Goldman..."

She realized she should watch her step; should carefully formulate her responses, but she was tired, she was hungry, her head hurt...her patience was tapped. Her capacity for diplomacy used up. Her irritation boiled to the surface and she cut him off, "cut the crap. Have you looked over the proposal or not?"

Atwater looked slightly taken aback. He had walked in to talk to her, expecting to go through the usual subtle dance of negotiations and political maneuvering. Her direct attack rocked him on his foundations. "Briefly...I admit that Conrad took a little more liberty with it than I thought was necessary," he stumbled slightly and was trying to regain his composure.

She shifted to sit further forward on the couch, her posture steely straight, not letting the Sheriff break eye contact with her for so much as a second. She continued going straight for the throat, "how fast can you go over the proposal?"

"Well, I'll need to take it back to my office..."

"Naw!" she replied with a short bark of laughter that was totally devoid of humor, "there's no reason for you to make all that extra effort. I'm sure there's a perfectly comfortable place for you to sit down in the break room to go over it. I'll make the coffee and you can read the document in the environment in which it was written. I think it'll add a little something to the enjoyment." She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but her words turned biting, "can you honestly look at the people who work in this lab and tell them you don't think they deserve that contract? Look every tech, investigator, and officer, in their eyes, and say that you are doing the best you can for them?"

Atwater was looking distinctly uncomfortable. She just continued, verbally battering the man relentlessly. "I think you're here to save your ego. I think you're here to do damage control. Can't have the voters thinking you aren't in tune with the needs of the community, can we? How ever will you run a campaign for mayor at that rate? And how will 'Conrad'" she twisted his name so that it sounded like a curse, "run to take you place? You think I haven't figure out that the only way he's getting out from behind that desk is to get elected to office? Do you think I'm stupid?" Her words grew sharper as she went.

"Well, of course, we have to consider the constituents," he started.

"Stop," she held up a hand. "Just stop right there. I am finished. If you want to pat someone on the head and try to explain the intricacies of local and office politics, go find an intern. If you want someone to kiss your ass, I suggest you go back to 'Conrad's' office. You won't get any of it here," she continued, "here's the situation, Rory," she emphasized her use of his first name, "I've got you over a barrel, whether you like it or not. If you think you can alter that document to fit your ideals and discredit me, its too late. I've got a copy on line and one going to Oregon via certified mail to the guy who recommended me for the job. It sounds like you aren't terribly familiar with the story of how I got this contract. It wasn't for being the lowest bidder."

The sheriff shook his head. "I got this job because the union reps in Oregon recommended me to the union reps and the mayor here. That would kinda be your boss, now wouldn't it? Well, there it is. So go right on ahead. Try to play games with me. See how far it gets you. Even after I leave to go to work for the Youth Center, I will still spend my weekends doing my homework and keeping my ears open for the information I need to bury you and your darling 'Conrad.' I'll make it my business. I suggest you just sign off on the original document and take your lumps like a good politician."

Atwater stared at her in shock. Grissom stared at her in shock. She sat back on the couch, exhausted.

"What?" she shot at the sheriff, impatiently. "What are you waiting for? Shoo!" She waved her hand imperiously.

The sheriff stammered a little. "And I'd better hear that that proposal gets signed in its original state. I will be checking back on that. Now run along. You have reading to do!"

As soon as he was gone, she sighed, "well, that was fun."

"Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" Grissom was shaking his head. She looked at him and couldn't decipher, either from tone or expression, what he was thinking.

"Say what?" she asked.

"You could have told Ecklie how you got the job your first night here and avoided a lot of this. In fact, you probably would have had him pandering to you and kissing your ass the whole time." His expression was still unreadable.

"Because. I wanted to do the job on my own merits. I don't like pulling rank on people, for lack of a better way to put it. Unless I'm dealing with some pompous blowhard who thinks they can sweep me under the rug like that." She replied, cocking her head to the side.

To her surprise, and to the surprise of people passing by the office, the graveyard supervisor sat back on his desk and just laughed.

Chapter Seven: Giving In

They were half way to her apartment when her stomach rumbled. "Excuse me! Guess I'll be hitting the pop tarts before I get to sleep!" She laughed at herself a little bit. How's this for unlikely? A forty year old woman, keeping hours college kids would envy, dining on pop tarts, getting paid in peanuts. Must give her room mates a whole lot of faith in the ideal that a college education is supposed to help them land better, more secure, jobs. She wasn't even sure if the power bill had gotten paid. She thought she remembered leaving the money on the kitchen counter...her brow furrowed in concentration. It wasn't like her to miss bills like that, but the last two weeks had been crazy. Yummm. Raw pop tarts, she thought in a sarcastic turn, wondering if the power was even still on.

"Pop tarts? You're serious," he grimaced. "How long since you had a decent meal?" She caught him looking at her from behind the side of his sunglasses.

She pursed her lips, seriously considering the question. "Ummmm...no fair asking me when I'm this tired?" she ventured, hoping to dodge the topic.

"In other words, you don't remember," he almost sounded like he was scolding her. She could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. He kept glancing at her, the expression on his face one of indecision.

She tried not to look too sheepish, but felt her head sinking down between her shoulders anyway. It occurred to her she couldn't even discern where one day started and the other ended anymore -- the were all just a big blurry wash of activity in her mind. Thank God I keep notes in my calendar, she thought, her mind going to the report she was going to have to write on her activities and accomplishments.

He pulled the SUV into a parking lot, turned around, and headed back the way they'd come. "Where are you going?" She asked, turning to look at him. She couldn't help a note of exasperation in her voice. She wanted to go home, and sleep. Forget the stinkin' pop tarts. Forget the noisy room mates. Forget everything. She didn't need anyone looking after her diet, or anything else.

"You need to eat and a decent place to rest," he said simply. Apparently coming to a decision, he heaved a sigh and squaring his shoulders. "And you should take a shower, too."

"What, now I stink?" she tried to joke. "I can't afford to go out anywhere to eat. I'm absolutely broke. In fact, I'm not sure how I'm going to find another place next month with the lag between paychecks," she caught herself rambling.

"I'll take care of breakfast, we'll be at my place in about fifteen minutes," he started, "and after all that pacing around outside in the sun, you don't smell like a bed of roses."

His tone indicated that his mind was made up and that he wouldn't be budged. She was stunned, but covered with a look of mock indignation, "well, that's just fine. First you pick on my age, now I smell bad. You sure know how to charm a girl, ya know that? You never even let me win at chess!"

"Would you rather I had?"

"Well, no. Then I'd have had to let you win at pool," she admitted. "And I probably do smell like a goat. But I don't see what good a shower is going to do me when I don't have fresh clothes." She looked at him a little smugly, thinking her argument was air tight.

"You keep extra clothes in your car?" She nodded. "Well, we'll just have to swing through and pick them up."

Shit. She just shook her head. He had it all sewn up. Every time. It was unnerving. She was very much used to knowing exactly where she stood and where she was going and what the score was at all times. She had it all under control -- or at least she took pains to ensure that it looked that way. She was warm and friendly and even open, in a way. But underneath all that, there was the very private side of her that no one saw. She felt her stomach drop when she considered that he had somehow ferreted that out.

"I take it there's no arguing about this," she said as they idled beside her car and she fished out her keys.

He gave her a stern look and she rolled her eyes, "fine," she said, dragging her body from the SUV to the trunk of her car, where she grabbed the duffel bag she kept on hand at all times. She heaved herself and the bag into the front seat with an audible groan. It wasn't long before she was dozing as they headed out of town.

"Hey. Rip van Winkle. We're here," a hand on her shoulder woke her up with a start. She looked around and beyond the open garage door, she saw a minimal yard, a small flight of concrete steps, probably leading to the front door. He smiled a little, "didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine," she said drowsily, forcing her eyes to open the rest of the way and getting her bearings.

They stepped into the house from the door that opened from the garage. The house was sparsely furnished and decorated, but the pieces that were there spoke of comfort and quality. She instantly gravitated to the bookshelves, and as was her habit, she let her mind spin for a moment as she tried to read all the titles at once. She saw books about everything from philosophy and art history to basic home repair and physics. Knowledge and ideas had always been a greater high for her than anything provided by any drug. She could lose herself in a library for days -- if she had ever found one that would allow her to, she would pitch a tent and stay there until she had pored over every page in their collection. She had visited he Library of Congress once and thought her mind would short circuit.

He watched her gazing at the volumes with something close to reverence and just shook his head and headed into the kitchen to start coffee. "How do you like your steak?" he called, snapping her out of her reverie.

"Medium rare," she answered, turning to make her way to the kitchen, even though her mind kept pulling her back to the bookshelves. "Can I help out with anything? Really, I'm not a total putz. I can cook. I just haven't had a chance lately," why the hell are you making excuses? she thought, irritated with herself, but she heard herself continue, "you don't have to do anything that fancy, anyhow. Its too much trouble."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said, setting a pan on the stove to heat. After looking at the rest of the furnishings, she was hardly surprised (although a little envious) that the cookware was professional grade. "You won't cut off a finger if I let you slice up some mushrooms, will you?"

"Of course not! What do you take me for?" she replied, scoping out the wooden block that held a collection of knives, from a large chef's knife to the smallest paring knife. She selected one and tested its weight in her hand. She had decent kitchen ware, all in storage at this point, of course, but nothing this good. The piece felt like an extension of her arm. She relished the thought of working with it. She realized that she was almost drooling.

Upon slicing her way through a small package of fresh mushrooms, she went to the sink and immediately washed and dried the piece. In the block was a sharpener, and she gave it a few swipes on each side to bring the blade back to "true."

"That...was fun." She said, grinning, as she slid the knife back into the block. "Anything else?" She arched her eyebrows.

"Why don't you go grab that shower, second door on the left."

"You don't trust me in your kitchen?" she teased. "Oh, yeah, that whole smelling like a goat thing. Got it." She couldn't resist saluting smartly as she headed back to the entrance to grab her overnight bag.

The hot shower worked most of the kinks out of her lower back and legs, but felt like fire on her sunburned face and the blisters on her feet. She gingerly lifted one leg up to look at the damage. The swelling took up the entire ball of her foot along the first two toes. She hissed between her teeth when she looked at the other one and saw the same thing. Years of dance classes had inured her to blisters, she'd barely noticed them. Throwing on her spare tee shirt and jeans, she bustled around the bathroom, hanging up towels, rinsing the tub and sink, wiping the counter. One would never have known she'd been in there. Finally she wandered back out to the kitchen.

"Have you got a needle and some alcohol?" she asked. He jumped at the sound of her voice. Good to see him off balance for once, she thought smugly.

"Yeah, why?" Then he noticed she was carefully standing on the outside edge of both feet. Nodding, he reduced the heat under the mushrooms and wandered back to the bathroom, fishing in a drawer and the medicine cabinet to get the requested items.

"How bad?" he asked.

"Nothing huge. I've had worse," she made light of it, already swabbing the needle with alcohol and tissue at the ready. She propped her foot up on the counter and gingerly punctured the swelling, carefully draining it and drying it. She repeated the same procedure on her other foot. Again, she went to pains to make sure each item went back to its appropriate place.

The kitchen smelled fantastic -- garlic and onion with sautéing mushrooms, and steak. Her stomach growled again in response. He was putting the finishing touches on a salad. "You've had worse," his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yeah. When I was dancing. I used to get worse ones all the time," his eyebrows shot up. Dancing had an entirely different connotation in sin city. "An ill-fitting pair of pointe shoes is the worst torture I can imagine," she clarified, allowing herself an inward chuckle at his surprised expression. She watched him work, feeling a little useless. "Hey, I'll set the table. Where do you keep things?" She couldn't be positive, but she thought she caught him glancing at her legs as she stood on tip-toe to reach the plates.

Dinner was the best she'd eaten, probably in the entire time she'd been staying in Vegas. She sat back in her chair at the dining room table, sipping her coffee. She couldn't figure out what was keeping her going at this point, but with a good meal and a shower, her lack of sleep wasn't weighing on her as heavily as when they'd arrived.

"Thank you," she said. "I haven't eaten like that in a month," she told him. She stood up and began clearing the dishes, taking them to the sink. Again, surprise registered on his face when she automatically started running water and washing plates and utensils, setting them in the drying rack when she was done. The setting sun was coming directly in the kitchen window, emphasizing the red sheen of her chestnut hair. "What? You've never seen anyone wash dishes before? You are aware that little elves don't come in and do it while you're asleep..." she gave him a crooked smile.

"No," he drawled, "I usually do them myself. Look, you should go and sit down, let me handle that." He got up and went to the sink, trying to casually elbow her out of the way. He jumped back when he stuck his hand under the water; she had it cranked all the way to hot.

He stood there, shaking his hand, muttering. "Jesus! There is a cold water tap, too."

She tried, but couldn't seem to keep herself from laughing. "That'll teach you to try to shove me out of the way. I'm almost done, anyhow. Go on and relax."

Not used to being laughed at, much less bossed around, in his own house, he was too off balance to argue with her. He wandered into the living room and to the stereo, queuing the CD player to Rachmaninoff. He was seriously beginning to wonder what he'd gotten himself into inviting her to dinner. Catherine and Dr. Robbins had both encouraged him to do it, with conspiratorial smiles they didn't even try to hide. Catherine had even offered to set them up, citing that she'd caught the other woman ogling him. At that thought, he'd dug his heels in. They'd enjoyed their time together, but it was a casual friendship, he'd insisted.

That afternoon, however, seeing how tired she'd been after going to war with the administration, his conscience had nagged him to do something. She'd often complained about the state of her apartment and her room mates, it wasn't a place to go to relax. When her stomach growled and she mentioned that she was having pop tarts for dinner on the way to her place in the car and that had cinched it. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and let his thoughts wander. She was educated, intelligent, cultured, street smart, savvy, passionate, articulate. She was a decent hand in the kitchen, and played an okay game of chess. She looked at books like she worshipped them. She ate like a horse. He chuckled a little, remembering how she had demolished her steak, salad, and the better part of a loaf of French bread. Metabolism was a wonderful thing, he decided. And yet, he felt he didn't really know her. He'd gotten glimpses...an unguarded moment when she didn't think anyone was watching. A mumbled comment. Her tone of voice. All these things she covered just as quickly as she realized they'd been exposed, though. It frustrated him -- his analytical mind was used to observing people and figuring them out.

She dropped onto the couch, and taking her cue from him, also propped her feet up on the coffee table. "Thank you, again," she said.

"You're welcome. I should have done it sooner. Nothing like cooking for someone who appreciates it," he said, slowly returning from his intellectual meanderings.

"You'll have to give me the chance to return the favor when I get settled in somewhere a little more permanent," she started. "God, I hate moving," she grumped.

"I could send Greg to help you..." he smiled.

"He does have too much energy," she conceded, but went on seriously, "but I'd feel guilty using him like that. I'd have to pay him back somehow, and right now I haven't got anything. I couldn't even give him a beer."

"Somehow I'm sure he'll take a rain check. When do you start your other job?" He remembered she'd told him, but couldn't call up the date.

"Not for another two weeks. The beginning of next month. I'm thinking about heading down there anyhow, just to get a feel for the place," she told him.

He turned to look at her, "do you ever get enough?" he asked, bluntly.

She laughed at him again, "this from the guy who hasn't taken a vacation since dirt was rocks?" Ha! Teach you to tease me about my age! she thought. "And honestly, no, I don't. I get tired, I get frustrated, I even get burnt out once in a while, but I never get enough."

"I take time off..." he stammered a little. "I went to a convention in Michigan a couple years ago."

She fixed him with a knowing look, "you mean the cockroach races? I heard about that one. And you took four days, and went straight back to the office when you got back."

"How do you know?" he couldn't conceal his surprise this time.

"Your team has been ratting you out left and right," she said, smirking. "I got all the gossip that's worth listening to. Seriously, they're starting to get worried about you. You need to take a break."

He sighed and settled back into his place on the couch, frowning and mumbling something about Benedict Arnold. It was his job to take care of the team, and he took it seriously, even if he didn't always get their evaluations done on time. It didn't sit well that they were worrying about him.

"You know, you can take some time off without the whole place coming to a screeching halt," she pushed, then lightened her tone, "although I can't say I'd be as confident if Judy took substantial time off."

The shy, tiny blonde ran the entire show from the reception desk. Without her, communications would come to a grinding halt. Paperwork would be irretrievably lost. Schedules and transfers and memos would not get delivered. And she did it all so unobtrusively that most people took her for granted, forgetting she was there. In fact, it was Ecklie over looking her that triggered the days events in the first place. He reminded himself to take her some theater tickets or something to show she was appreciated, but in the forefront of his troubled thoughts were the fact that the team was spending time and energy concerning themselves for his sake.

"You still with me?" she asked.

"Yeah. Do you know if Judy likes opera?"

"That was random. I think so. I'm not sure. I know she likes hockey."

"Judy likes hockey?" he asked, incredulous.

Vanessa chuckled, "yup. Who'd have thought. Nice, quiet, unassuming Judy, cheering when guys get their teeth knocked out?"

"Why is the team so worried about me?" he finally asked, deciding to just come straight out with it.

"They think you put in too many hours, for starters," she began, "Sara told me you lectured her on getting herself out of the lab and developing a personal life. You should really practice what you preach." She continued, "they see you sacrificing yourself for the lab, they see you getting tired, and they care for you, so they're concerned. Much like you would be for them."

He just shook his head, trying to sort it out. He prided himself on being aware of what was going on in the lab at all times. So how had he missed this little tidbit? Then he turned the tables on her again, "pot calling kettle," he scolded. "For the last four weeks, you usually get there before I do, and leave after I do. Even on those days you went to breakfast with the team, I know you went home and worked. And now you have a two week layover between jobs so you're just going to throw yourself into the next one before your contract picks up?"

"Yeah," it was a lame response and she knew it. "I wasn't going to go tomorrow. Does that help?"

"Not really," quiet settled between them briefly.

"Besides, first thing I have to do is find a new place. I only signed a three month agreement for the crash pad," she started. "God, I hate moving," she repeated.

As the sun faded from the horizon, she settled back into the couch and dozed off.

Chapter Eight: Vulnerable

It was dark and she was surrounded by muffling, heavy fabric. Ten feet in front of her, the light was intense. It was blinding. It was hot. It smelled of paint and wood rosin and dust. She could feel the butterflies starting in her stomach and quickly squelched them. This wasn't about her. It was long past the time for nerves. It would either come together, or it wouldn't. Rationally, her mind told her that, even if it didn't, it wouldn't shift the earth on its axis. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself by staring into the dark on the other side of the light, an exact replica of the area she was standing in. It seemed to be on the other side of the world.

There was a fluttering of fabric to her left. She saw her group making their way toward her, the backdrop fluttering in time with their movements. She stood back and looked at them, and everything seemed fine. Costumes were good -- the fit perfectly. Makeup, check. Hair, check. 'See,' she told herself, 'you have nothing to worry about.'

But the nagging wouldn't go away. Her shoulders were knotting up. Her stomach was doing somersaults. Something was wrong. She could feel it, but she couldn't pin point it. And soon it really would be too late. She scrambled to figure out what the problem was while she could still pull a last minute out of her sleeve.

Music started and her stomach dropped. Too late. She pasted a smile on her face and watched them take their places on the stage, even while her mind continued its frantic spinning. She wanted to call them back stage, to keep them safe from whatever it was, but her voice wouldn't work. She heard the first cry from the audience and saw something thrown up on stage. Then another shout. And another and another. Until the entire theater was overwhelmed with the angry shouts and curses of the audience turned mob. Objects were flying. One of the people on stage looked at her, terrified. Then, as if on cue, they all turned. Their eyes were horrible. She'd never imagined such fear existed in a human being. And they needed her. She had to do something to stop the riot and keep them safe. But she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She was totally paralyzed, every fiber of her being clamoring to do something, anything...

Hey!" A hand on her shoulder shook her hard, and her eyes flew open, wide with terror. She looked around and didn't recognize anything around her. She didn't recognize the man standing in front of her. The room spun, and her breathing was shallow and labored. She thought her heart would palpitate its way right out of her chest. It was tight. That was why she couldn't breathe, she realized. She was incapacitated by the panic she felt. It consumed her every thought and motion, keeping her rooted to her spot, even though instinct told her to run or lash out.

"Hey!" a little louder, and the hand shook her again, a little harder. He knelt in front of her. "What's going on?"

The gray spots that were dancing in front of her eyes were beginning to recede. Blessed reality began to re-establish itself in her mind. She quickly moved from terrified to mortified. It was only a dream; ironically a repeat performance by her subconscious. She'd had that one before. Never quite so vivid, but it was familiar. Her head dropped between her knees while she regained her breath, and her hands swept her hair up off the back of her neck. It always tamed the anxiety-demon if she got some fresh air.

She owed him a response, even though she'd have much rather crawled off and hid somewhere. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Its okay."

He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and she was a little startled to see concern there. She'd expected a lot of things: irritation, pity, contempt. She'd always considered these attacks a form of weakness, and they always struck when she was most exhausted. Hence, she'd kept herself going for as long as possible, hoping to return to her own room, so she could shake it off by herself. He was waiting for her to say more, she realized, her stomach sinking for real this time.

"Its stupid. I'll just get my stuff and call a cab, get out of your hair." She still hadn't looked at him directly, instead sneaking glances from her doubled over position on the couch.

His brow furrowed, "no, you don't need to do anything like that. But I think I ought to know what that was..."

"Just a silly panic attack. I get them once in a while. I've got something for it in my purse," she sat up and looked around for the luggage in question. "Look," she continued, looking at him with a combination of chagrin and resignation on her face, "really, I can go home. I'm embarrassed enough, and I'm sure you're uncomfortable..."

"Isn't your lease up in a few days? You really think you can find a place that quick?" he asked. She couldn't say for sure, but she thought he was hiding a smirk.

"What's your point?" a little of her usual spirit crept back into her voice.

"Just an observation," he teased, realizing that the best way to get her back to herself was to push her a little, just enough to get her temper to flare so that it would eclipse her embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, I'm not here to be an imposition. You don't need to worry yourself about my living situation." She told him flatly, getting up from the couch and finding her purse. She was noisily rifling through its contents and produced a prescription bottle. Cursing as she fiddled with the childproof lid, she blew a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Finally she got the bottle open, popped the pill dry, and gave a hard swallow. Then, just as soon as her bravado returned, it faded slightly. "But you probably didn't know what you were getting into when you made it and that isn't fair, so this is your chance to back out." It still sounded like a challenge, although she wouldn't quite look directly at him.

She returned to her purse, dropping the bottle back in and searching for something else. "Do you mind if I step outside for a cigarette?" she looked at him with a little challenge in her eyes again.

"I suppose not," he conceded, "but you know you could probably accomplish just as much with some deep breathing exercises right now."

"That's all well and good, but deep breathing isn't ever so slightly self destructive," she returned, a shade of bitterness to her words. She found her way through the sliding glass door to the small patio on the back of the house. It was peaceful. Traffic hummed in the distance, and the air was cool and smelled good. A barbecue pit dominated one side of the area, and she sat down next to it, leaning into it with her back and stretching her legs out in front of her. The first few drags on the cigarette were all she needed -- she looked at the thing in her fingers, realizing she would probably never be completely quit of them. At moments like this, she wasn't sure if there was anything else on earth that would help her reclaim a calm frame of mind as quickly.

He couldn't figure her out. At all. He decided this while he watched her from the kitchen window, sagging into the bleached white brick of the seldom used barbecue pit. Intelligent and educated, but sent reeling over what she must surely know is a biochemical imbalance. And, from what he could tell, expecting him to be repulsed by it, as if she were defective in some vital, fundamental fashion. His curiosity was definitely getting the better of him...he couldn't stand a puzzle he couldn't sort out. This train of thought led him to quietly step out onto the patio with her.

"That must have been a bad one," he said quietly. Her shadow nodded at him, and gray smoke swirled against the inky black sky. Her shoulders were still tight -- he could tell just by looking at her. Her entire posture had changed. She shifted uncomfortably, rolling her neck back and forth. "It's not silly," he said in the same quiet voice. Now she was leaning forward over her outstretched legs to stretch her lower back. Who knew a forty year old woman could be so limber? "Do you know what triggers them?"

"Fatigue. Stress. That's usually the case. Look, I'm really sorry about that. I was even kind of expecting it and I could have dosed myself pre-emptively, so I wouldn't be such a bother, but I just dozed off," her tone was rushed, as if things would be better if she just spat the words out as fast as she could.

"Its really okay. As long as we're laying our cards on the table, I'm prone to migraines," he hesitated, unsure if he should go further.

"Ugh," she shook her head sympathetically while squashing her cigarette and leaving the remains in the barbecue pit. "I'll do something a little more...hygienic...with that tomorrow. An old coffee can or something similar with a lid on it. I don't smoke often and I try not to be rude about it."

"Its fine. I never have time to use it anyway," he replied. Truth be told, he hardly ever saw this side of the house at all. He hardly remembered what it looked like.

"That's beside the point. This is your space, and it would be rude of me to litter," she responded, her words still slightly clipped and distracted, as she stood up to go back in.

He let her in first, and the door slid quietly shut on its track behind him. She was already at the sink, almost compulsively washing her hands. Her display of imperfection was weighing on her. She could feel her shoulders tightening, as if she had an anvil strapped to her back, carrying it uphill. A chink in her armor, a small crumble in her carefully constructed walls. Thoughts like this made the panic threaten to come back, and she squashed them as quickly as she could. Yet, trying not to dwell on it was like trying not to talk about the proverbial elephant in the room. The more she focused on just getting past what had happened, the more her mind turned it over and over, analyzing it, trying to figure out her dream and his response.

She rinsed her hands under the hot water and scrubbed them with a dish towel to dry them, as if she could wash the dream away. It was clinging to the back of her mind and in the pit of her stomach, she still felt the anger of the crowd and the desperate fear of the people on stage. All directed at her, she should have been able to do something, they were going to be injured or worse and it was her fault they were up there in the first place, and she just stood there, with her mouth hanging open...

Her gray eyes were still distant and dark as she stepped into the living room and sat down on the couch again. He followed her, racking his brain for some way to distract her and snap her out of whatever this was, and wondering what exactly she'd seen in her subconscious during her panic. Would it help if he told her about his mother, to put them on a level playing field again? She probably felt that migraines were pretty weak in comparison to waking up, seemingly, terrified of everything around her. He was more than passingly familiar with her personality type: driven, perfectionistic, passionate, given to obsessiveness, energetic, described in some circles as Type A, although he never gave much credence to lumping people together in general categories like that. He'd come to admire her work ethic, her ability to reach out to others, to connect with them, almost instinctively. She had an intellect and sense of humor that kept him on his toes, and she was naturally analytical. And now he was realizing there was a whole, almost subterranean, layer to her. The inner person who was subject to all the demons 'normal' people dealt with, day in and day out. He'd suspected it was there, but hadn't guessed the form.

He went to kitchen and poured a glass of bourbon, and walked into the living room. "Would something to drink help?" he asked.

She looked at him, her eyes still vague for a second, but gaining their focus quickly. "You drink tequila, right?" he smiled, remembering their conversation in the bar.

"I suppose, as long as you'll still respect me in the morning," she joked, more at herself than with him.

He returned a few moments later with what must have been a triple. She slugged down a shot's worth and settled back into the couch again, letting her mind wander with the music coming from the stereo. He turned to face her and after a moment, decided nothing would be lost if he approached her directly. Curiosity had taken over. "What were you dreaming about?" he asked. Maybe if he showed her he was comfortable enough to ask her, she'd be comfortable enough to answer.

She just arched an eyebrow at him.

"Seriously. I'd like to know. And I'll still respect you in the morning," his tone was slightly joking, but his eyes held more curiosity and compassion than anything else. She realized she may be seeing a side of him that didn't get out of its cage very often. She'd noticed over the last four weeks his propensity to bury himself in work. She'd heard stories about how, on occasion, the members of the graveyard shift had flung his seeming emotional detachment in his face. Thinking about it pulled the corners of her mouth down involuntarily -- she'd been subject to similar treatment once upon a time. She studied him for a moment while she pondered what she knew of him, weighing it with the theories she had developed in response to his seemingly elusive nature.

She shrugged. What the hell. She drank another shot of tequila from the glass and swirled the remaining golden liquid clockwise in the glass. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and began to talk about her dream. Being hidden in the darkness of the wings of the stage. Feeling the burn of the lights overhead. The feel of smooth wood under her shoes. The group of people, the audience, the looks on their faces...

She was shaking a little when she was done. "Who were they?" he asked, perceptively.

"I was in charge of community education and outreach with a political organization for a while just after college; they were the other members of the group. Even before they put me in charge, I was pretty much running things, single handedly keeping the committee going, since the organization was having internal problems and had to re-establish itself in the community. I couldn't wait to get rid of that title and go back to being second banana," she finished. She sipped at her tequila, savoring its spreading warmth, making what was left in the glass last.

He was just staring at her, with his brow furrowed; she wondered what he was thinking. She had to admit, but only to herself, that her chest felt less tight having spoken aloud about the dream. It seemed to purge the heaviness of it from her heart, and the images were growing hazy and indistinct in her memory.

"So, are you sure you still respect me?" she said glancing at the clock on the mantle, "its almost morning," she finished, noting the time was near midnight.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, "of course." He hesitated, a little reluctant to step into this more intimate territory. After an internal pep talk, he started, "Actually, I respect you more than before. To deal with anxiety and still get out there and do the things you do, to become as accomplished as you have, takes great courage."

She looked surprised, an expression she would normally have hidden with others, but the tequila was working on her nervous system, making her more pliable emotionally. "You really think so? I've always thought of it as an imperfection to be buried with all my other personal failings."

"I just told you I respect you, why would I lie to you?" he responded simply.

"You really do? Respect me, that is?" confusion was written clearly in her expression.

"Yes, I do. Professionally, I respect your commitment to others, the way you fought for what you felt was needed, and the way you handled yourself with integrity when others would have sold out."

She mulled that over for a moment, finishing the last drops of her tequila. There was an intuitive tug at her mind that told her he was holding back. She continued to brace herself for the worst, "Its easier to hang on to my ethics than drown in bullshit. At least my conscience is clear," she responded. "What else?"

"What do you mean, what else?" he asked warily.

"You're holding out on me. Come on, I can take criticism. It wouldn't be the first time." Her face felt very warm. She knew she would regret asking, but she couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut.

He was unabashedly shocked. She was working her way down a single track, seemingly convinced that everyone else should be as disappointed in her as she was. "Criticism," he repeated. "There's nothing to criticize. You're human. Just like the rest of us. That might not be good enough for you, but its okay with me."

She decided, with the help of the alcohol to loosen her tongue, that it was time to call him out. "This from you, who hides his feelings from those closest to him," she started. "Practice what you preach. I've watched you kick yourself for not being perfect. You aren't good enough to hide from me." She shook a finger at him, smiling.

He looked down and laughed a little, "you're more perceptive than most."

She continued, "You know what I've perceived? You're compassionate. You simply demonstrate it differently. You have a wonderful sense of humor. You hold yourself to almost unattainable standards. You're strong, and forgiving, and gentle. So there."

"Cite your source," he replied.

"You're good, ya know that? Like I haven't spent the last four weeks with you and your team, going over files, talking, getting to know you. I am an advocate at heart, but I don't go so far as to hold a public demonstration, under today's conditions, for just anyone."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. I envy you, in a way. I don't have any regrets about my work, don't get me wrong. But the nature of the beast is rather unstable. You never know if you're jumping into something that can swallow you whole. People depend on you and you could fail them. I never quite know if I'm gonna be in over my head from one day to the next. You know who you are and where you are and what you're doing." Her voice was quiet and slightly distracted.

"Interesting...that sounds remarkably like what I deal with day to day," he started, "on top of being the last voice of the victim, searching for the truth that will bring closure to families, I have a team of people that I know will look to me if they hit a wall, and I'm never sure if I'll do any better with it than they will. Then there's the personal element -- people bring their lives to their work, whether you like it or not."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that what your job is easier than mine," she turned and looked directly at him, "its just that...oh, I don't know...you probably know this, too. If I fail, I'm not only failing myself, and I always find myself wondering if I'll be able to get back up again. But that would mean leaving my whole life, my self, behind. Needless to say, I don't deal with failure well." She finished with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Was all that so hard to talk about?" he gave her a wry smile.

"Actually, yes," she told him pointedly, "and I'd like to know why I'm the only one unburdening myself here. God knows you don't need any more than you have."

He shifted uncomfortably, dropping his gaze. She continued, "come on. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, as my Grandmother used to tell me. Of course, she also used to call me a little shit. She was right on both counts."

"What are my chances of dodging this conversation now?"

"None. Eric calls me his 'pit bull' because I don't quit until I get results."

He laughed at that, "an apt description. I wish he could have seen you today."

She diverted for a second, "you talk like you know the man. What gives?"

"He called to ask how you were doing your second day working with the grave team," he told her with a distinct gleam in his eye. "And yes, I would have 'ratted you out,' as you so delicately put it."

"Hmph, figures. He always did feel like he had to look out for me. Back to the subject at hand. Unload, dammit. I'm every bit as stubborn as you are, so you might as well."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, while the CD player switched to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." She heard him heave a deep sigh and when he finally spoke, it was very quietly. He spoke in a vein similar to hers, about being in charge, the expectations of others, and fear of failure. But she had a hunch that wasn't all there was. "It gets kind of tiresome being viewed by others as..." he was at a loss for words.

"Super competent," she finished for him.

"Precisely. Where did you get that?"

"Youth worker seminar a few years ago. 'The Myth of Super Competence,' the guy talked about how our perception of how others see us undermines our work. I know I'm guilty of falling into that trap, but it also looks like its not just for activists," she explained. "Sucks being on a pedestal, huh?"

He laughed, nodding. She continued, walking a fine line between prying and encouraging, "there's more and I know it. I can tell by looking at you. Out with it." Wow, could ya have a little less tact? she scolded herself. "I didn't mean to be so blunt," she apologized immediately, "but I can start fishing through my notes and asking about stuff until we get to the bottom of things."

Sensing that she needed to give as much as take, and knowing full well that she would do what she said, he stuffed his reluctance in a corner and went forward, "how is it that the team continually sees me as unfeeling, but you have it all figured out?"

"I'm just good like that," she smirked. "Seriously, though, most people, no matter how good they are, no matter what their intentions are, can't see the forest for the trees. They don't view situations as outsiders, like I did. I saw an entire picture of how you interact with them, where as they're in the middle of the interaction. They don't necessarily see you as unfeeling, though. It came up in a couple interviews, inadvertently; I think they just wish they knew you better."

He looked a little surprised at her assessment. Then he was surprised that the woman could surprise him. It happened rarely, and yet she seemed to be able to do it on a regular basis. She pressed on, filling in a spot that she could tell was awkward for him, "its a fine line to walk; being supervisor extraordinaire and being part of the team," she saw the tension working out of his shoulders and decided to head straight for the middle of what she knew would be a touchy subject. "Do they know you almost lost your hearing?"

There was a flash of anger in his eyes before he took a deep breath, "how do you know about that?"

"There was a note about it in one of the files. Pertaining to a case where the prosecutor sent Phillip Gerard in to monitor your team's performance," she continued, "and I've read that you studied under him in Minneapolis. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach." Impulsively, she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You aren't the only one. I don't know how I worked with him for so many years and never figured out what kind of person he was. He couldn't have disappointed me more if he'd consciously worked at it," he responded, shaking his head. "Catherine is the only one who knows about my hearing, and she figured it out on her own. I suppose I thought, on some level, that I dodged that one. My mother was completely deaf long before she married my father."

She felt his shoulder muscles tense up and relax again under her hand as he spoke. She couldn't hide her anger when she replied, "and no one else needs to know. It sure as hell wasn't any of his business, the bastard," she met his gaze dead on again, "I read that and I was literally sick. I can't imagine having to trash the woman who mentored me, finding out that she wasn't what I thought she was. You dug your heels in and did it, though. In large part, because you're dedicated to the people who work with you. It wasn't just you he was insulting, it was the whole group. I can't tell you how much I respect what you did."

"You do what you have to," he said simply, regaining his composure.

"That was a bit above and beyond the call of duty. Cath actually told me about what happened in the court room, the shady communication between him and the prosecutor. I don't know if she ever told you, but she regrets how harsh she was with you that day. You think I'm kidding? I don't know many people who could have handled that whole mess as well as you did," she replied, maintaining eye contact.

"Yeah, well..." he shrugged.

"Yeah, well, nothin'. Will you just accept a compliment?" there was a jokingly gruff tone to her voice.

She was rewarded by a laugh, "if you're going to force me to."

"I think I am," she said, a little smugly, still smiling. She looked over and noticed the hands of the clock had advanced to two in the morning. She was exhausted, but changed the subject to put things on a less vulnerable footing between them. Sitting back, listening to the music, she asked, "ever get to see them in concert?"

"Pink Floyd? A couple times, why?"

"Lucky you. I've always been too tight on funds to do much concert going. Luckily, local jazz bands and college orchestras where I come from put on shows for cheap or free." They talked for a little while longer, mostly about the arts; music, literature, poetry (which he knew far better than she did), drama, opera and ballet. By the time the CD ran out, she had dozed off, sliding sideways until she was leaning on him. After long consideration, he decided to stay where he was rather than risk waking her again, so he snagged an afghan from beside the couch and threw it over them, and settled in for the night.