"What bugs you most?"
A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP.
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 08/??
"BoSox"
(A Saturday night in mid-May)
The clock radio went off at 5:00 p.m. and soon they were more or less dressed for work and out to the kitchen. The coffee pot was nearly finished with its gurgling task (but Jim had forgotten to set the timer, so it had to be Mickey, whom he'd invited to stay for the remainder of her trip. The guest bedroom wasn't fancy but she seemed to like and appreciate it), and a pair of aluminum foil-wrapped pizza pans waited in a warm oven. There was a note: "Dinner: no kidney beans for you; no onions for me. Love,". She had drawn a caricature of Mickey Mouse as the signature, big ears and all.
"Wow. I thought something smelled yummy out here," Catherine commented, pulling three mugs from the cupboard. "What is it?"
Jim had grabbed a set of oven mitts and was moving the pans to the stovetop. He shrugged. "I have no idea. Ow! Still hot, though."
"Mediterranean pizza," said Mickey, wearing rumpled gray sweatpants and a dark blue "Sponge Bob, Square-pants" t-shirt, wandering barefooted into the kitchen with a hand cupped carefully over one eye. "I invented it over the years in grad school." She stopped at the small mirror and widened that eye, trying to reposition her contact lens. That sorted, she came over and kissed Jim on the cheek. "Good morning. Afternoon. Whatever." On her way to the refrigerator, she spontaneously kissed Catherine on the cheek too.
"What's that secret little smile for?" asked Catherine. She reached up and pulled down three dinner plates, one for each of them.
Mickey gave her the very Captain-Brass-like naughty grin over the bottle of water she was sipping. "My guess was right about you two." She chased down two or three tablets of something from her hand.
Jim was surprised. "When was that, Dr. Smarty Pants?" He put several slices of the homemade pizza on each plate.
"The other day in the DNA lab…the nickel tour."
She frowned for just a moment, and then Catherine laughed and shook her head fondly. "Oh, yeah, the tour. Are you ready to eat, Mickey?"
"I will be in a few minutes, thanks. I need to stretch out my back before I do anything else."
"Too much Nevada golf, Tiger?" Jim asked.
"No, not really. Mainly woman stuff," she said, heading into the living room. Jim blushed hard and barely stifled his snickering with the back of the oven mitt he still wore on one hand. Catherine smiled but pointed a very stern finger at him. You be quiet, mister she mouthed.
As they carried trays into the living room, Mickey was lying on the floor, twisted into a seemingly impossible stretch position, and exclaiming at "ESPN Sports center" on the television: "Damn those Yankees! Shoot, the Red Sox lost again, Uncle Jim."
He sighed dramatically and started in on his pizza. "Yeah, I know. 'Rocket Roger' was hot last night, the bastid…" Jim was referring to Roger Clemens, the NY Yankee right-handed pitcher (once a member of the Red Sox team), and pronounced it like he would have back home in Canton. He hit the mute button on the remote control when the program switched to yet another cellular phone commercial.
Mickey giggled from her spot on the area rug in front of the glass cocktail table, continuing to stretch. "It is too friggin' early for the All-Star break choke fest," came her voice from the carpet. "Aaaargh, come on guys."
Catherine went a little wide-eyed and struggled to catch toppings that fell from her first pizza slice and onto the plate. "You two alright?" She sounded mildly concerned.
"I'm fine. How about you, Uncle Jimmy?" A brown-haired, pony-tailed head popped up to look at her over the remotes and magazines.
"Sure, I'm good. It's family tradition to bad-mouth the Sox, Catherine. We're actually licensed for this 'curse-of-the-Bambino' thing," Jim explained. "You should hear my brothers. They're so rabid it gets a little scary; my Dad was too."
The so-called "Curse of the Bambino" is due to "expire" in 2018. One hundred years is a very long time to wait for another World Series victory: the "Bambino" or Babe Ruth was traded by Boston to the Yankees. He wasn't happy about it and pronounced the hex that bears his name. So far, it has been eerily accurate, much to the chagrin of Red Sox players and fans everywhere.
Mickey laughed as she got up slowly, stretching again, and went to the kitchen to fetch her own tray. She came back to the low table in the living room moments later. Brass had changed the TV to the Weather Channel. Big surprise: it would be sunny, warm and dry in Las Vegas and Henderson today.
"I can't believe I'm eating pizza with coffee as a creative breakfast, no less," mused Catherine. "What's in it, Mickey? This is absolutely fantastic."
"Thank you. Lemme see: olive oil, fresh basil, oregano, fennel, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, black olives, green olives, sun-dried tomatoes, tomato sauce, feta cheese, mozzarella cheese, and prosciutto. All baked on a large Boboli-pizza-dough thingy." She sat on the couch eating with both legs crossed under her plate, which made Jim's almost fifty year-old knees ache just watching. "I went to the store on the way home. Oh, the Dicksons said to tell you 'hello'. They fly back to Scotland tomorrow night." She had put a couple of ice cubes in her coffee and stirred it carefully with a fingertip.
Jim nodded, chewed and swallowed. "Nice couple; Alistair nearly wet himself laughing when you started doing his own accent back at him. Keep cooking like this, kid, and you can stay here for as long as you like. You know, you don't have to do the full lab tour on the graveyard shift tonight. It's okay to be on vacation for a few days."
"I know," replied Mickey around a mouthful of food. She grabbed her napkin and swallowed before continuing: "I'll sleep on the plane tomorrow, and I bet I get stuck in Dallas again with a big steak for dinner, compliments of Delta Airlines. No problem."
"Okay, 'nuff said then. What'd you shoot today, anyway?" he asked. Catherine looked interested too.
"Eighty."
"Uh-oh. You slackah you," teased Uncle Jim. Mickey wrinkled her slightly sunburned nose at him, making Catherine laugh at the expression as she got up to carry her empty plate to the kitchen.
"Somebody sounds jealous to me…" Catherine joked, winking at Mickey. "Who's ready for more coffee?"
TBC
A/N: the irony of my current state of "slackerness" is not lost on me as the Boston Red Sox have won the Baseball World Series not once, but twice (in 2004 and in 2007) since I started this fic! Curse, schmurse.
Thank you to Stephanie for encouraging me to continue.