"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Thank you to the very kind folks at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group and at Meg's Brass Fan site. The "Internet Movie Database" is another good source of research information.

Author's notes: thanks to all of those who read and reviewed; I appreciate it (and so does the Muse). More to come as RL permits.

Chapter 02/??

"Jet-lag"

(Monday night in mid-May)

Fairly early the next nightshift, Jim Brass clicked off the tape recorder and was finishing up in Interrogation room 3.

"Mr. Stanton, we're gonna hold you awhile in a nice comfy cell until the lab has finished. I think you know the rest of the song from here, right?" The detective smiled sarcastically at Stanton's sour reaction. The evidence against him was solidly damaging and his county-appointed attorney had advised him strongly to shut the hell up. "Go ahead, Joe. I'll be on the paper trail in my office," he said to the uniformed deputy leading a handcuffed Bill Stanton out.

"You got it, Captain," the sergeant assured him.

Brass checked his watch: 9:45 p.m. On the way to his office, he passed Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes in the hallway, deeply involved in an animated conversation about a readout sheet.

"Sara, Nick. Nice work you two," he told them sincerely. He was referring to the Stanton case they'd nearly completed. "The D.A. is going to go for LWOP." Life without parole.

Both of the CSIs looked surprised at his unusually pleasant mood, and attributed it to the slam-dunk collar and arrest of William T. Stanton.

"Brass. Uh, thanks man," replied Nick.

The handsome and cocky former Texas A&M Aggie fraternity brother/baseball player flashed a million-dollar smile. Sara folded the paper and returned it to the evidence jacket.

"Hey Jim, Claudia said your niece is in town for a conference." The rumor mill is running behind tonight, he thought. That news was twenty-four hours old, but they had gotten busy with cases, after all. New conventions in Las Vegas brought out the predators, of all types, hungry for fresh and unwary prey-the visitors. "Call her in. We'll do a group breakfast or something," Sara offered.

Nick barked a short laugh and grinned mischievously. "Seriously? Cool. Yeah, we'll get some of your secrets out now, Pardner," he teased in his usual Texas drawl.

Of all the criminalists and detectives who worked so closely together on the graveyard shift, it was Captain Jim Brass they had the fewest personal details about. Sara smacked him on the shoulder, but she was smiling too.

"Shut up, Nicky," she told him. "We promised not to play 'twenty questions' anymore. It scares people away, remember?"

Brass shrugged noncommittally and raised an eyebrow at them. "I already warned her all about you, Stokes," he said over one shoulder, grinning to himself as he continued down the hallway.

Nick frowned suddenly, wondering what he meant by that as Sara chuckled and pushed him ahead of her. About what? he mouthed silently, a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

Dialing the hotel and room number Mickey had given to him, Brass checked his watch again, hoping it wasn't too late in the evening. He sometimes forgot about being on the 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift and making non-emergency telephone calls. He had the same problem phoning back East, to Florida or Massachusetts, on the occasions he spoke to his older siblings.

"Hello?" he heard her say, sounding disoriented, sleepy and fumbling with the telephone on its cradle.

"Oh, damn. Mouse, I'm sorry. I thought I could catch you before you went to bed." He grimaced slightly at himself and sat back in the thick leather chair at his desk. He tapped a pencil eraser sharply on his own forehead. Way to go, Jimbo.

"Hi, Uncle Jim. I'm glad you called." Over the line, he heard a click as she hit the light switch, probably sitting up as she did so. Her voice was soft and gravelly from sleep.

"Are you doing okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah, my travel day just caught up with me, big time, especially with the longer than expected lay-over in Dallas; there's a concourse waiting area chair in DFW with my ass print on it. I'll be good to go tomorrow, I hope. What time is it anyway?"

Brass chuckled softly. "In Vegas or Tallahassee? Just after ten."

She laughed too. "Ugh, I'm all messed up. It was presentations all day then I worked on my Power point slides for tomorrow's session. A swim and dinner, and I am toast."

"Whoa, sounds like too much bug stuff to me," he joked. She had told him about some of her most recent work the night before on the drive over to her hotel. He understood about ten percent of it, maybe less. Brass had majored in history, so there was exactly one biology course and one chemistry course on his B.A. transcript from Seton Hall; both sciences had been for non-majors.

"That's it."

He heard her trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn and could almost sense her fatigue and jet-lag through the line.

"Listen, I'll let you get back to sleep. Why don't you give me a call tomorrow or the next day and we'll go do something not too touristy, maybe a baseball game. You have my number?"

Now it was her turn to chuckle. "Yes-siree, all five of them, Captain. What's up with that? You got too many girlfriends calling you at all hours?"

"Price of fame, in this town anyway. Break a leg tomorrow," he told her, grinning and shaking his head at her smart-ass comments…he was usually the one doing that job so it was humorous to be on the receiving end.

"Thanks, Uncle Jimmy. I'll call," she promised.

"OK. G'night, Mouse; I love you, kid."

"I love you too. G'night." He heard her yawning again as he clicked the phone off.

Brass reached for his CD-player remote and switched it on. Sinatra's golden voice quietly came from the speakers, and Jim sighed as he started on the lengthy investigation report. Paperwork was not his favorite thing, legwork was not much better. Catching bad guys, now that was good stuff. Yeah.

"Speak to me, Frank. This shit is for the birds."