"What bugs you most?"
A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).
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 mild coarse language.
Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.
Chapter 13/??
"Ringside seats"
"That was really good," Mickey said, taking another sip from her bottle of Coors light.
"Yeah, I didn't think I'd like the shrimp fajitas, but it sounded alright with the steak and chicken," Bobby replied, sliding closer in the booth to put his arm around her. He brought his beer along the table, sliding it with him. "So, how is your bug stuff going?"
Mickey leaned into his side, appreciating his easy-going affection, and loving that voice—"Not bad. I miss working with Dr. Robbins though. He is a really cool dude, and he so much reminds me of my Dad." She laughed suddenly at a thought. "Daddy would flip out if I suggested we could have a conversation over a corpse."
Bobby laughed with her, giving her a quick kiss on the ear. "I bet, unless it was a fish corpse."
They sat comfortably for quite a while, enjoying the music and company. Their waitress came back once or twice to check on them, winking when she saw that they occupied only a small section of the large, oval-shaped booth. It was all that had been available when they'd arrived. She smiled at both of them as she cleared the empty beer bottles and left two fresh ones, noticing that they were holding hands.
"I hope I'm not nosy for saying so, but you look good together," she told Mickey. "Really."
Mickey reddened, pleased. "Thank you, Lisa." Bobby grinned too and gave her a squeeze. He held his beer bottle to hers, clinking the glass carefully.
"Come on, darlin'. Let's go dance so I can do something else with my hands in public," he said, waggling his eyebrows and giving her a hound dog expression of an unspoken promise of paybacks later. It made her laugh outwardly, and tingle with pleasure inwardly. She'd snuck her hand in his lap a few times during the course of their dinner, making him squirm a little each time. They were both playful; confident and generous in their lovemaking, and comfortable enough to enjoy it.
They danced at least two songs, and once again Mickey marveled at what a great dancer Dawson was. The selection from the jukebox switched to something that sounded more like Louisiana, and Bobby hooted. Several others joined him, though not exactly sure what they were cheering about.
"Now we're talkin', cherie," he drawled, holding her closer, and grinning suggestively.
Toward the middle of the song, a very drunk woman grabbed Mickey's shoulder and shouted at her: "I told you, bitch! Stop staring at my man."
Mickey turned to her, surprised. "Hey, whoa! I'm sorry, I think you have me mistaken for someone else." By now, a number of the dancing couples around them had stopped to watch the commotion.
"Uh, no, I don't think so! I've told you a thousand times already—" she shouted again. An embarrassed young man was trying to pull her back. His eyes were wide and apologetic as he made to move his date from the dance floor.
Mickey tried again, still calm and not wanting to provoke anything. "Look, lady. I don't know who or what you're talking about."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" the woman shouted again. Bobby and the woman's date spoke up at this, just about at the same time:
"Take it easy—"
"Come on now—"
Most of the onlookers were smiling nervously and whispering comments. Mickey shook her head. She gently reached over to touch the woman's arm, still trying to be calm.
"Okay, then let me buy you a drink," she offered. This only made the woman angrier. Her face twisted in an ugly grimace at she came forward, hands raised.
"Stupid—"
It happened quickly, so fast in fact that some of the eyewitnesses were not exactly sure what they'd seen. From a shout of "Lookout!" then in the next few heartbeats, everyone saw Mickey clasping one hand over her right eye with blood coming through her fingers. She stood in a now cleared-out part of the dance floor, a few paces away from her attacker.
Her attacker, on the other hand, was writhing on the floor in total agony, clutching at a dislocated shoulder, her face a crimson mask from a severely broken nose. Mickey heard Bobby talking to her but couldn't make out the words over the adrenaline buzz in her ears. She was only aware of his arms supporting her and helping her to a seat.
Security had called the police and EMS, but the music never stopped.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Mickey drew in a sharp breath at whatever Dr. Leever was doing in Desert Palms' ER treatment room four. "Ouch!" The tall, dark and handsome Sri Lankan was gloved as he sutured her lacerated eyebrow.
He chuckled softly, wincing a little, and looked over at Bobby, who was watching with concern for his date. "Sorry. Just a few more to be sure it's closed safely," he told her. "I'll write a script before you go, Miss."
He knew the local anesthetic was working fine but Mickey was flinching at the action so close to her eye anyway. It was a normal reaction, no matter how old the patient was and he'd seen it a thousand times in his ER.
She heard Bobby's voice say "Captain?" and out of the corner of her eye, saw Jim walking in behind the doctor. The young woman tried not to move too much from her seat as the doctor drew his suture needle again.
"Oh shit, Uncle Jimmy. I can explain…" she began, shifting self-consciously on the exam table.
"These kids today always coming to Vegas to get into all kinds of mischief," he said evenly, part in concern, part in amusement as he came around to where Mickey was being treated. "Hiya docs. So how you doin'?"
"Good evening, Captain," Leever responded, and then he pulled back slightly on the rolling stool to look questioningly at Mickey. He looked again at Brass and smiled as he saw the resemblance: same cheekbones and everything.
"Yes, my Uncle Jim," said Mickey, shrugging slightly. "I guess you guys know each other."
He nodded, still smiling. "I'm almost done here, Jim. The uniformed officer already took down her statement." Dr. Leever continued suturing and then applied a small gauze and tape to protect his handiwork.
Brass reached up to his badge, shaking his head and covering the gold shield momentarily with one hand. "This isn't a cop visit, Sunil." He leaned in to get a closer look at the cut as the doctor worked. "Christ, what'd you get hit with, Mickey? A hockey puck from the blue line?"
"Some kind of big ass ring, I guess." She looked down at her ruined yellow sundress and sighed. It had been a favorite. "On a roundhouse left; I didn't look close enough to see if the stone was real. Probably a cheap zirconium."
Dr. Sunil Leever cleared his throat as he finished with the suture tray, and made some notes on Mickey's chart. He also took a prescription pad from his lab coat pocket and quickly scribbled on the top sheet.
"I'll leave you with the police then," he said with a teasing wink. "The nurse will be back shortly with your release orders, okay?"
"Yes, thanks, Dr. Leever," Mickey replied, taking the proffered script. The young doctor chuckled as he left, giving a quick salute to the detective.
Brass leaned in again and squeezed her knee. "But I bet I should see the other guy," he stated quietly, his eyes locking with hers. "What happened, kiddo?"
Bobby stood and moved to step out of the room. "I'll just give ya'll a few minutes, Captain…"
Jim gave him a kind look and stopped him with a short gesture. "You're okay, Dawson."
He smiled his approval when Mickey reached over to take Bobby's hand and pulled him to stand next to her. Brass stuck both hands in his trousers pockets and lounged against the counter, unconsciously entering his detective mode. "So…?" He gently prompted his niece to continue just as he'd done with suspects and eyewitnesses over the course of decades in his professional life.
"So…this woman was extremely drunk and accusing me of zooming in on her guy," said Mickey, heaving a sigh and plowing forward. "Bobby and I were totally minding our own business, dancing and having a good time, and they finally played a decent song." Dawson smiled at her and murmured words of agreement. "Uncle Jim, I tried three or four times to talk her down, and that's the truth. Then she came at me and took a wild swing at my head." Mickey gestured vaguely toward her injured face.
"And got a broken nose and dislocated shoulder for her trouble," Brass said, raising his eyebrows at her. "What kind of kung fu did you use, anyway? That arm nearly came off!"
Mickey reddened with embarrassment and looked down at her hands. "It's not kung fu. Dad taught me some Navy hand to hand stuff when we kids were growing up and…"
"Relax, relax…twenty witnesses said you acted entirely in self defense," the detective assured her. "Are you planning to press assault charges?"
She looked surprised at the thought. "What? No, no way. I just want to get home and cleaned up; we're tired and hadn't expected such a late night."
The nurse came in carrying a small plastic cup and a bubble pack of Tylenol. "Here we are, Miss Michelle," she called cheerfully, handing over the water and silver packet. "No driving, no alcohol and no hair coloring tonight, honey. Get some rest if you can; those stitches are going to ache a little later on." She placed the folded release discharge orders with Mickey's purse.
Mickey laughed as she took the meds and swallowed them down with the sip of water. "Yes, ma'am." Bobby helped her off the table and assured himself she was steady on her feet before he stepped back.
Nurse Hamilton's appraising gaze took in both Bobby Dawson and Jim Brass; the former man in dark jeans and cowboy boots, the latter in a well-tailored blue suit and tie. She gave a soft sound of approval as she went on to her next patient.
"Mm-mmm-mm. Why decide on just one handsome man to have around, girlfriend?" The middle-aged black woman winked at Bobby as she passed by.
Bobby shook his head, blushing, and gave Brass an apologetic smile. "Mickey, sugar, I am always in so much trouble around you." Jim laughed and shook his head too.
The three of them left the ER together and walked to Bobby's truck in the parking lot. "You okay to drive home?" Brass asked Bobby directly.
"Yes, sir. Three hours in an emergency room is better than my Mama's chicory café au lait."
Jim reached out and shook his hand firmly. "Alright then. Mouse, be good Sweetie. I gotta go catch some more hooligans and bad guys," he told her after a hug and a kiss.
"Good night, Uncle Jimmy. Thanks." She didn't think to ask who had called him, and she really didn't care to know.
He gave a wave and watched them pull away, then headed for his own car, shaking his head. "Jesus, Mouse. Your mother is absolutely going to kill me…" he chuckled under his breath.
-/-/-/-/-/-
A few hours later, the sun coming up brightly in the east, Jim pushed the front door to his house closed and locked it behind him. He heard the television on in the living room as he unloaded his belt, placing the keys, Glock 9mm pistol and handcuffs case on the kitchen counter.
"Is anyone nude in my living room?" he called, heading to his bedroom to change out of his work clothes. "Better not be…"
"No, not anymore," Mickey replied in the same vein. "That was earlier; you missed it, sorry."
Jim smiled as he passed them, undoing his necktie and shirt collar. He saw Bobby stretched out on the over-stuffed green leather recliner, and guessed that Mickey was over on the sofa. It had become her favorite spot to watch TV during her time in residence.
"Good morning, Jim," said Bobby, stretching and putting the recliner back into its normal position.
Brass came back, suit coat, shoes and socks left behind in the bedroom. "Hey, Bobby. You guys have a good night after the ER sewing lessons?"
"Yes. Nice and quiet," Bobby told him, pulling on his boots. "Your girl got a little ticked off that I stayed to baby sit though."
Mickey grunted softly as she swung off the couch: "Ow, damn." Jim noticed that she was carrying a small towel and a bag of frozen baby green peas back to the kitchen.
"Hungry, Mouse? I thought you hated peas," he asked, indicating the package that she was returning to the freezer.
"Icepack." She got the orange juice out of the refrigerator and turned to ask if he wanted any. Mickey stopped in her tracks at the shocked look on his face, and then he started laughing. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, now that face is just too pretty on you, young lady," Jim teased her. He got several juice glasses out of the cupboard.
Mickey looked in the small kitchen mirror and gingerly touched her right cheekbone. A dark bruise had developed around Dr. Leever's bandage. "Holy crap, Batman!" She started laughing too. Dawson came into the kitchen and had to bite his lower lip, but ended up chuckling anyway.
"Alright, alright, no fair ganging up on the injured," she told the two men. "I'm gonna really catch hell at work tonight, aren't I?" She checked her watch and made sure it was appropriate to take another dose of pain meds. The small prescription bottle rested on the countertop.
Bobby slipped on his black cowboy hat and winked at her under the brim. "Yep, probably. Bye, Mickey." He tilted his head and gently kissed her, avoiding the bruised right cheek and eyebrow ridge. "See ya'll back at the ranch, Captain."
After Bobby had gone, the detective went searching around in the fridge for something to eat. He found a large glass bowl, covered with plastic wrap. "What's this?" He lifted the wrap and took a careful sniff. Brass had lived alone for so long that it was actually entertaining to find decent, edible leftovers in his refrigerator. He was enjoying his niece's extended summer visit to Nevada just as much as she was, he was sure.
"Southwestern grilled chicken salad," Mickey replied. "Bobby made it a few hours ago."
Jim got out a fork and had a small taste. "Yeah, pretty good." He decided to fill a bowl. "Want some?" It looked like it had huge pieces of chicken; red, green and yellow bell pepper; and, plenty of cayenne seasoning.
Mickey yawned. "No, thank you. I ate already." She looked in the mirror again, shaking her head ruefully. "Good God, what have I done…" Taking her orange juice with her, she sat at the kitchen table and unpacked her laptop computer from its case. It started through its warm-up and start programs with several beeps and whirring noises.
Jim came and joined her at the table with his food and OJ. "Did anybody tell you there's an ice hockey league in Vegas, if you were thinking of going that route," he teased. "You'd fit right in with a mug like that one."
"Nope. I can't skate."
Brass looked at her in mock horror, and gasped. "What?! You have got to be kidding me?! I thought all the Brasses got the skating genes." He shuffled through the pile of mail, sorting the bills from the junk. "Man, this is great. If you don't marry that Bobby Dawson, I will in a heartbeat." He pursed his lips in a very effeminate expression that made her laugh out loud.
Just then, the portable phone rang. Jim checked the caller I.D. and immediately recognized the number and area code. He held it as it rang twice more in his hand. "You forgot to call your Mom back, didn't you? Turkey." He pressed the answer button before it was picked up by voice mail. "Hi, Mags. Yeah, I'm great, just got in from work. No, not bad at all. Mm-hm, she's right here, hang on."
Mickey tried to get up from the table to avoid the phone hand off, but he'd been too quick for her. She sighed tiredly. Shit.
"Hi, Mom…"
-/-/-/-/-/-
That evening, at the beginning of the shift, Mickey checked first in the CSI break room. Sara, Nick and Warrick were there, awaiting case assignments for the night. Mickey had already put her purse and jacket in the assigned locker, and carried her laptop computer for the shift in the DNA lab, keeping good documentation for the prokaryotic DNA project. She now wore the light blue lab coat that identified her as a technician in the Forensics/I.D. unit.
Warrick looked up to greet her as she came from the refrigerator, dropping off leftovers for later. "Wassup, Mickey? Whoa!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
Nicky and Sara looked up at his tone, and stared, shocked at the bandage and bruise. "Damn," said Nick, whistling softly.
"I got into it with some mean drunk chica at the Rio Bravo last night," Mickey said, shrugging. "It turned, um, weird."
Sara's eyes widened. "That was you? I heard about it."
Mickey rolled her eyes. "Oh, no. How?"
Nick and Warrick both snickered. Sara glared at them, but flashed her gap-toothed grin, bearing the friendly teasing with good humor. "I have a police scanner at home. I heard that two women got into an altercation; one was taken to Desert Palms with a seriously broken nose and messed up shoulder. Bad too. The other sustained minor injuries to the face." Mickey raised her good eyebrow and pointed at the bandage with a sheepish smile.
"I guess five stitches would constitute minor injuries to the face. And hey, I met the nice-looking ER doc you were telling me about. He's cool."
"Does Bobby know about this venture into female boxing?" Brown asked. "I'm thinking UFC would be good too, girly girl. Real hot ticket."
"Warrick, he was right there with me," Mickey told him. "But I don't know how to punch. The elbow is the strongest contact point in the body; use that."
Warrick gave her a skeptical look. "Seriously? I'll teach you." He held up both fists over the table and gently jabbed, bobbed and weaved in his seat.
Nick had to laugh. "Oh, yeah, million dollar baby. That's just what we need around here…"
The four of the thirty-somethings were still laughing about this when Grissom and Willows arrived. "Sorry I'm late, gang," said Gil, dropping a stack of folders on the break room table. Catherine sat beside Mickey and began doctoring her coffee with artificial sweetener, listening in. "Annual evals are coming up, so I'll have the forms to you by day after tomorrow." He ignored the chuckles around the room; he was terrible about keeping up with paperwork, even after two years as CSI night-shift supervisor.
"Mickey, how about we start with you," he said, looking across the table. It was then that he saw the bandage on her right eyebrow and gave a sympathetic wince.
She tossed up her hands. "Jesus wept! OK, OK. This chick at Rio Bravo got all rowdy last night and thought I was hitting on her boyfriend. She started something; I finished it; end of story." Mickey sounded a bit defensive, and her jaw was set almost stubbornly.
Gil covered up a shadow of a smile and looked at her over the rims of his glasses. He cleared his throat and sounded professorial. "I meant how about we start with your progress report on the bacterial DNA project you and Greg have been working on."
Now it was Mickey's turn to ignore the chuckles around the table. She blushed hard but continued with a straight face: "It looks good so far. We're designing primers and should be able to configure the database tonight. I've got some standard ATCC cultures incubating for a few trial run experiments but they won't be ready for another 48 hours." At the teasing applause from the others, she carefully plopped her head down on the black canvas computer case in front of her and groaned with embarrassment. Catherine reached over and patted her on the back.
Grissom was trying hard not to laugh out loud, not wanting to encourage anymore razzing from the others. He did, however, agree that it was a pretty funny misunderstanding; Jim had informed him that she'd not been seriously hurt in the incident. "Anything else to report?"
"No, sir. I think that's it for now," said Mickey, her voice muffled as she spoke into the table. Her shoulders were shaking as she laughed at herself.
"Good, moving on to this evening's assignments…" said Grissom, winking at Catherine.
-/-/-/-/-/-
It took a few days, but things eventually settled down after Mickey's "bar brawl". The final note was a pair of Warrick's boxing gloves hanging from her locker door. She promptly challenged him to a race in the P.D. pool, and he gracefully backed down; word had gotten back to him about her regular lap swimming from even some of his scuba-diving buddies in the department who occasionally swam when she did, so they called it a friendly draw. Mickey would have seriously dusted him at any distance.
TBC