"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 in later chapters.
Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.
Chapter 04/??
"Oh Captain, my Captain"
(A Wednesday morning in mid-May)
Brass barely glanced up at the knock on his door, not really bothering to look out of the waist-high glass windows.
"Yeah, it's open," he called out. Then he checked his watch and guessed that it would probably be Mickey. He had left word with Claudia at the front desk, letting her know to expect his special guest and to have a visitor's tag ready.
She poked her head in, beaming from ear to ear about something.
"Oh Captain, my Captain. Hey, I got you a present yesterday at the conference."
Brass couldn't help but to grin back, not surprised at all that she'd come in a little early. He knew he'd created a monster when he told her about the lab's state-of-the-art DNA sequencer and other equipment. Well, he'd told her the names of the machines as best as he could remember them. Heaven knows what most of the stuff was actually for, in his opinion; a lot of high-tech voodoo to him. Jim understood wearing out shoe leather with good, old-fashioned detective work.
He pinched her cheek gently when she came over to his side of the desk, holding out a bright green object and giving it to him with a two-handed flourish.
"Well, good morning, Mouse-who-is-way-too-freakin'-cheerful-at-this-time-of-the-morning. Um, thanks. What is it?" He tilted it left and right and only saw it as bright green goop in a tube, with a pen cap on one end. It wasn't like any pen he'd ever seen before.
"Synthetically-fluorescent pseudomonad pus highlighter! It's from a hospital infection control company based in North Carolina. Isn't it great?!"
Her dark eyes were twinkling like some daft and drunken leprechaun's. Jim wondered for a brief second where she had gotten that facial expression; no, he knew exactly where it had come from. It was entirely genetic: his father used to look like that sometimes, especially if the Red Sox were leading the AL East after the Fourth of July, or more importantly, after Labor Day.
He wasn't sure what to say, and he frowned suspiciously at the neon green stuff. Brass wasn't too sure if she was serious either, then she snickered at the look on his face and relented.
"You're such a big sissy, Uncle Jim. It's just a broad-line highlighter. I thought the green was neat, but there really is a live pseudomonad bacterium about that color." Mickey rubbed her hands together in mock greed, eyes still twinkling. "And I got six for myself."
"Eeeuw. And, uh, what's a pseudomonad when it's not talking to a scientist? A bug or something?" She nodded, of course. The detective Captain wrinkled his nose before gingerly placing it on his desk, treating it as if it really were toxic waste. "You ain't right, Mick. You just ain't right. Come on, let's go meet some people."
Mickey followed him out of his office, adjusting the tag on her jacket and making sure it was in the same position as his LVMPD shield on his coat left breast pocket. She stopped sheepishly when she realized he was watching her with an amused look on his face. Raising her eyebrows in an expression that her uncle used so often, she said:
"What?! I gotta have a badge to be in here, Uncle Jim. Right?"
He pulled her into a brief one-armed hug and squeeze about the shoulders as they made their way down the corridor to the break room. "I think you watch far too much television, young lady. You know they always get the cop shows wrong."
"I do not," she protested, smiling. "I don't even have cable at home, which really sucks big time during Red Sox season."
Brass shook his head and had to smile as he recited the next part: "And Patriots season, and Celtics season…"
"And Bruins season," she finished the litany for him.
They both knew it so very well: Brass' father, and Mickey's grandfather, Peter, had been a huge sports fan and kept track of the years with his personal version of the four seasons back in Canton, Massachusetts. That, and the Winter Olympics for international ice hockey every four years, and he was set. He enjoyed ESPN, immensely, right up until his death in 1992. Brass' mother, Kathleen, had been a huge tennis (especially Wimbledon) and figure skating fan. It seemed that sports programs were always on in the house.
In the CSI break room, Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows were chatting around the table, ready for the end of their shift. Catherine relaxed and lingered over a hot mug of herbal tea, while Nick and Sara companionably shared a store-bought bowl of fresh fruit chunks. Sara had a thick journal article open in front of her. Warrick was half-heartedly working a crossword puzzle from the newspaper, in red ink.
"I tell you what, the pros are out workin' it. Third trick roll in two days, man," complained Nick in his east-Texas drawl, emphasizing his point with a piece of melon speared on his plastic fork. He was from Fort Worth, Texas (and not the 'Big D', Dallas, like Sheriff Brian Mobley was). "All these microbiology geeks coming into town, hoping to get laid, Vegas-style. You think they'd read the dang information packets…" He shook his head, laughing in disbelief, referring to "client robberies" by prostitutes, a well-known occurrence in "Sin City".
From the doorway, Captain Brass cleared his throat to get Stokes' attention before he said anything else. Catherine Willows had already seen the two of them standing there, and came nearer, extending her hand to Mickey. She smiled warmly in welcome, ignoring that they'd heard Nick's comment.
"Never mind him. Hi, I'm Catherine Willows. You must be the mysterious Brass niece he's not been hinting about for two days now. We weren't too sure if you really existed or not, so it's great to finally meet you in the flesh."
Brass rolled his eyes at her. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Michelle Kaye, or Mickey rather, meet Cath Willows, Sara Sidle, Warrick Brown, and the ever-PC, Mr. Nicholas Stokes," he said, indicating each person. Mickey came to the table to shake hands with the other three CSI's.
"Please, don't let me interrupt your breakfast," she told them as she and Jim leaned against the counter. "You're probably ready to get off for the night, er, day. I don't think I could handle your night-owl schedule at all."
Nick, embarrassed that they'd most likely overheard him, tried to make pleasant conversation. "So, um, Mickey. What are you doing in our little corner of the desert?"
She shrugged and decided to flirt a little. "Oh, same old, same old: microbiology geek, in town, hoping to get laid." Stokes reddened and tried to stammer an apology as the others in the break room burst out with unconcealed bouts of laughter. Jim Brass spluttered and nearly had a coughing fit, moving to the water cooler ungracefully.
"Dammit to hell, Mouse," he commented under his breath as he slipped by her. He was laughing too, and had to dab tears from the corner of one eye with the back of his hand.
Reddening a bit herself, Mickey leaned over and placed a warm hand on Nick's arm.
"I'm sorry. I see an open door; I walk in. It's probably inherited and very hard to control," she told him, with a significant nod of her head towards the Captain. Sara and Catherine shared a wordless, knowing look at what seemed to be going on already between Stokes and the newcomer.
Just then, Gil Grissom came in carrying a clipboard, oblivious to the on-going conversation. "Nick, Greg's ready for us. Oh, good morning, Dr. Mickey. Nice to see you again."
She waved and smiled. "Good morning, Dr. Gil."
Warrick gave a low whistle. "Doctor Mickey? You go girl. Alright, I'm out people," he said, tossing the folded crossword on the table and grabbing his jacket. "Later." The tall, good-looking black man gently punched Nick on the shoulder as he went by, teasing. "You're so smoooooooth, man. My hero."
Grissom, Stokes and Brown all exited the break room. Nick blushed again as he passed Mickey. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, opening his mouth once but nothing came out.
"That's awesome. What's your doctorate in, Mickey?" Sara wanted to know, looking up from her article. She had done some graduate work after finishing her bachelor's degree at Harvard. The move to San Francisco, and then on to Vegas had temporarily interrupted her goal of an advanced degree or two.
"Micro, mainly soils and environmental stuff. The ASM meeting just happened to be in Las Vegas this year since it needs a really big, giant convention place," she replied modestly.
Brass had noticed that she rarely mentioned her own college degrees (at least three, maybe four; he lost count); someone else always did. He admired that about her. Being the youngest child among his family too, Jim knew that it could be tough to be the baby of the bunch; always being compared to a brother or sister who was taller, neater, quieter, smarter, whatever. He'd worked hard to find a niche, and apparently, so had she. He reminded himself to ask her about the other three Kayes at breakfast.
Catherine was at the sink, rinsing her mug and leaving it on the dish drainer.
"Time for a quick tour? We don't have to do the El Grande if you need to get back to the Convention center," she asked, including Mickey and Brass as she looked over her shoulder.
"I dunno. My seminars today start at 9:00. Uncle Jim?"
Brass checked his watch and shrugged. "Yeah, why not? Plenty of time." Mickey gave him a grateful, enthused smile, as Willows gathered them in her wake.
"Bonus. It was nice to meet you Sara," she said as she was ushered out of the break room, leaving Sidle to her journal. Sara smiled back and saluted with her coffee cup, getting back to reading.
It wasn't a very long tour of the labs, but Mickey was clearly enjoying herself. Catherine Willows was a great guide (Gil Grissom always referred to her as the "people person" of the lab crew); a kind and imminently qualified senior CSI, and who also seemed to be enjoying the light-hearted interaction she saw between the veteran detective and his niece. She had known him for several years, and remembered how discouraged and hurt he'd been when his daughter had had some trouble in Vegas a couple of years back. Not that he'd come right out and said so, but she could tell. It made her appreciate more and more what she and her beautiful eight-year old daughter Lindsey had going for them.
The three of them turned onto another corridor after passing by some of the more high-tech areas like video, audio and ballistics; not actually going in, but Catherine described a lot of what went on. Brass didn't say much as they walked, content to observe Willows and Mickey, becoming more and more impressed by her questions. He naturally slipped into observation mode and was comfortable with it.
Willows looked down another hallway and stopped when she saw Brass' face suddenly go blank: he preferred to stay out of the autopsy rooms unless he absolutely had to go in as part of the job. Otherwise, he often said: "I'd rather deal with live bodies than dead ones, but thanks anyway."
Mickey read the signs to the right, "Pathology" among them, and was going to ask Catherine about it. Catherine was faster on the draw. "You don't want to ruin your breakfast, or Jim's for that matter," she suggested.
The young woman shrugged easily, nonplussed, and evidently had not noticed that her uncle had become a bit squeamish just by being on that particular corridor. "No, you're probably right. Maybe later I could schedule a post-observation with the M.E.?"
Catherine was surprised; even her use of the terminology was correct. "You'd want to?"
"Sure, absolutely. I took two semesters of Gross Human Anatomy, which it was, especially toward the end of spring term." She laughed quietly at a memory that came to her. "God help the summer term students with the A/C going out all the time. Very stinky job."
"No shit, Mouse? Where was this?" Even Brass seemed a little surprised. Willows chuckled inwardly at the familial nickname. She liked it. She also thought that his New England accent was slipping out more often these days, which was interesting.
"FSU undergrad. It was a great course, tough as all get-out, and I had to take it. I'm pre-med at the time; the head honcho advisor taught it; you know how it goes. Captive audience kind of deal."
"Then we'll definitely have to see about a post for you later. Doc Robbins would probably love a visitor since he gets so few down here. How about the DNA lab for now?" Catherine put in.
Mickey gave her a really big smile then. "Oh, yes please. That's my main gig back home." Willows had to grin at her transparent and guileless enthusiasm, and she patted both the visitor and her uncle on the shoulders as she stepped between them.
"DNA it is," she said, leading the way.
Greg Sanders was still on duty, and was listening to something—loudly, on the stereo while he worked. He was unaware he had visitors, but Mickey thought she recognized "A Flock of Seagulls".
"Greg!" Cath shouted, clicking the CD player off and startling him. "Greg," she said again, her tone more normal.
"Whoa, Ms. Willows," he caught his chest in a dramatic gesture. "What can I do for you?"
"How about a tour? Meet Captain Brass' niece, Michelle, from Florida," she told him by way of introduction.
Greg was, as usual, a spectacular mass of colors in his clothes and disarranged hair, but he was also suave, in his own unique sense of the word. He shook her hand gravely, giving a little bow.
"Hi, Michelle. Good morning, Captain." She made him think of a Beatles song and a quiet Sir Paul McCartney voice started singing the lyrics in his head: these are words that go together well, my Michelle…
Mickey grinned and blushed a little at his courtly greeting. "Hi, Greg. Please, call me Mickey."
"OK, Mickey, welcome to my DNA world, although we do other analysis in here too, such as…" and with that, he launched into a dog and pony show for her. Brass and Willows moved off to one side, to lean against a workbench and watch from the sidelines for a while.
Sanders was soon cheerfully involved with Mickey's questions and comments, realizing that she wasn't just what she appeared to be: Brass' gorgeous niece from out of town. If he didn't already have a girlfriend, Greg seriously considered asking her out then and there, right in front of her uncle and the CSI he'd always had a crush on. For their parts, Willows and Brass heard the words "primers" and "DNA strands" with minimal comprehension, but the rest of the technical jargon soon passed them both on by. Jim Brass thought he heard Mickey speaking English, although he didn't understand most of it the way Sanders, the lab technician, obviously did. They may as well have been speaking Swahili.
Catherine nudged him playfully with her elbow, out of sight of the two young people. "Jim, she's the smartest one in your family, isn't she?" Willows said it in a soft whisper, looking up at him with a wink. "And cute as a button."
Brass gave a silent chuckle, and mouthed back: "Yeah." He checked his watch then, and made a noise to get her attention. "We'd better hit it, Mickey, if you're going to make your nine o'clock. I promise you can come back later if you're nice."
Mickey checked her watch too. "Sorry, Greg. I'm at the conference center all day today, and I did tell Uncle Jim I'd take him to breakfast." She looked over at the DNA sequencer station with regret.
"Excellent. Come back any time," he told her truthfully, following her gaze to the sequencer and then patting a large piece of equipment on the bench beside him. "We didn't get to the really good stuff yet."
Dr. Mickey laughed and reached to shake his hand, and Willows'. "Thank you, I will. Catherine, thanks. I hope I wasn't too annoying already."
Catherine returned the handshake warmly. "My pleasure, honey. You'd better go and feed Jim before he withers away," she joked. Brass made a face at her.
"Thanks a lot," he said as they left.
Greg leaned to look out the lab window, making sure that the sharp-eared, sharp-eyed Captain was away. "Are they really related? I mean, she's a total fox, and Brass is…" Catherine had to giggle at the expression of disbelief on his youthful face.
"Not your type," she finished for him, subtly defending the detective Captain. "She must take after her mother, Greggo." Willows poked him gently in the ribs, "Gotta get Linds to school. Have a good one."
Giving her a double-thumbs up, Sanders nodded and flipped the stereo back on, bobbing his head in time to the music. Cath knew that he drank so much of his gourmet coffee during their shifts that he usually worked a few extra hours just to come down from all the caffeine in his system. It didn't matter; Grissom always approved his overtime. Greg Sanders was, after all, the best lab tech they had in the Las Vegas P.D. crime labs.
On the short drive to Denny's, Brass had to ask: "So, you know about DNA voodoo as well: alleles, markers, primers, sequences, and all that jazz?" He laughed softly at the lingo and lowered the volume on the radio as he spoke. "I thought you did bugs and dirt, and stuff like that."
Mickey could tell that he was simply repeating the vocabulary that he'd heard her and Sanders using, but she really didn't think he'd been paying attention in there, and was more focused on his conversation with Catherine Willows; that's what his body language had been anyway. Then she figured that's what made him a good detective: look at something else, but notice details on everything.
"Well, yes, most of it is the same, especially my graduate projects. Bacterial DNA is just so much easier to work with, but…" Brass glanced over when she stopped, curious about her thoughtful expression.
"But?" he prompted.
"I have technicians to do most of it for me these days, though I do still set up my own research projects, to keep my hand in. My job description right now to sign reports, go to meetings, you know, assistant supervisor things."
He thought she sounded almost apologetic for her success, like she really didn't deserve it. Jim had gone through the same thing when he made detective, on the first try, in 1979.
"Good. Now you're the boss," he said, grasping her hand as he drove with the other. "Seriously, I know I joke about grad school and all that. You've told me plenty of stories. I'm proud of you, Mickey. So's your Mom, and so's your Dad."
She looked over at him and seemed embarrassed by his warm praise. "Thanks, Uncle Jimmy. That means a lot from you, honest."
He was going to joke but he stopped himself. "You're welcome." As they pulled into the Denny's parking lot, he continued in a deliberately thicker Bostonian accent: "Now, lemme pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd. I'm stahvin' half to death heah."
TBC