A Chuckle at Grissom's Expense, a CSI fanfic
A chuckle at Grissom’s expense
The following is a CSI fan fic.
Grissom woke up thinking it was going to be a shity day. And it was. But it could have been worse.
Disclaimer: Me no own CSI.
A/N: Special thanks to Chauncey10 (MSCSIFANGSR) for offering a couple of prompts, including Sara being on her period, Grissom not having sex (trust me people, you don’t want me writing about Grissom having sex, for reference see “Don’t take your work home.”) and Ecklie without a shirt (for Diane - you know who you are).
Hope you enjoy. No beta, so mea culpa for boo boos. They are all mine. And there is a lot of cursing. I felt like cursing a lot.
--
He wasn’t the kind of guy who demanded it all the time. Or every day. Or even a specific time of the week like clockwork.
But there were times when he insistently initiated the act. Nothing wrong with that, right? He’s a red-blooded male. And for the most part she was a more than willing participant.
Well, willing except during a specific period of time (no pun intended). The day before and the first three days of said period of time was not the best time to initiate anything.
He knew that. He respected that. He knew rubbing gentle circles on her clothed back as they laid in bed might not getting him a roll in the hay, but it generally elicited a sigh that put a smile on his face.
But he couldn’t help himself on this one particular morning. He just woke thinking it was going to be a really shitty day, and being with her would at least be the highlight that would last him until he came back home (no pun intended... again). Besides it was day three … maybe there would be an early reprieve.
So, going against logic, the gentle circles morphed into the dance of wanting a little “something, something.”
They’d been together long enough that he knew the reaction before it began. First came the “ahhh, baby, not today.”
Yet, he pressed.
Next came the turn over on the side not facing him combined with the call of the last name: “Grissom, seriously, I … really don’t want to do this.”
Yet, he pressed.
And then, right when his erection was settled in her ass, came the dialogue of the whiner with the mouth of a sailor. “Dammit Grissom! Please stop being an ass. I don’t fucking feel well. My fucking boobs feel like fucking lead weights and I’m fucking bleeding like a bloated rhino freshly killed from a fucking slaughter.”
All this talk of “fucking” and yet … no fucking.
As if she read that thought, Sara turned around in bed, jerking Grissom’ manhood from its buttock cocoon. “And don’t be a dick and even think any fucking back door entry.”
Grissom let out a sigh, and it softened Sara. “Sorry baby, but you know…”
“I know. I know,” Grissom interrupted.
“So, what the hell is with you today?”
“I feel like it’s going to be a shitty day, and … I just wanted to be with you,” Grissom said. He saw Sara as she smiled and put a hand on his face.
“YES!” he thought, but then she did that move - the move that was a love making killer. “NO! Don’t pull down the shirt! You’re going to get out of bed, aren’t you? NO! I’ll lose all leverage if you leave the bed! JUST ADJUST! JUST BE ADJUSTING THE SHIRT…”
She adjusted the shirt… then she got out of bed.
“NOOOOOO!” Grissom thought.
Sara leaned down and kissed Grissom’s forehead. “I’m sure your day won’t be shitty,” she said. “Get ready for court and I’ll make you some coffee to go. Hopefully we’ll see each other before my shift, OK?”
“No. I want to pull you into bed, shove your legs on my shoulders and thrust into you,” is what he thought.
“That’s great, dear. Thanks,” is what he said.
--
So Gil Grissom started his day by leaving the house for his afternoon court appearance. He was early, but it didn’t matter because all he did was sit on a bench outside the courtroom thinking about B-3 in the vending machine that was a mere 78 tiles due east and 14 tiles due north from his present position. Three and a half hours later, a young ADA approached him and told him the district attorney’s office and the client’s lawyer brokered a deal.
“Thanks for waiting it out, Dr. Grissom,” the young lawyer said as he patted the older man on the back. “Just think, it’s 4:30. You can go home a half hour early.”
“I work nights,” Grissom said, offering a half-hearted smile and subverting the “moron” comment on the tip of his tongue. Grissom picked up his things. Sara started her shift about a half hour ago; maybe they could catch a break together.
But first, he had to cross 92 tiles. “That wrinkled single in my wallet better work,” Grissom thought.
It didn’t. He struggled for five minutes and listened to that stupid “rejection whirring” of the dollar taker. His predicament caught the attention of Officer Philip Beck who took a double take when he passed by. Was that Dr. Grissom cursing under his breath at a candy machine?
Beck approached Grissom who did his own double take when he noticed someone behind him. “Oh, hello, officer.”
“Here, let me get that for you, doc.” Beck took out a fresh bill from his wallet and snapped in between his two hands. “You’re lucky it’s payday.”
Grissom simply nodded and offered a smile. “Thank you, Beck.” Grissom went to give the officer his mangled bill but was only met with laughter.
“It’s on me, doc. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks, you too.”
Grissom might have… might have believed his day was turning, but then he pressed B-3 and saw his selection get stuck against the glass. A couple of pushes of the machine did nothing to wedge it. He looked in his wallet again, only to find a couple of 20s. He searched his pockets, the change return, even under the machine for a stray coin or bill but to no avail. He even tried that stupid, wrinkled single. After three tries, he couldn’t handle another rejection.
Grissom sighed and went to leave the building. There were four different exits to the courthouse. He choose door No. 3.
Just as he exited, Grissom felt a stream of spray hit his face and the top of his head. As he tried to wipe off the offending spray, a slew of wasps became pissed and stung the entomologist right under his eye and on his cheek. Grissom, dressed in his suit, looked anything but dignified as he backed away, twisting and turning, as quickly as possible. He bumped into the two maintenance workers who took refuge a few feet away from the live wasps nest they were spraying.
“CHRIST! What the hell are you two doing?!” Grissom yelled.
“So sorry, sir. We had to get rid of the nest. You OK?”
Grissom looked at the can in the janitor’s hand - Raid Ant and Roach Spray. The janitor looked at the can himself. “Yeah, I know. But spray poison is spray poison, right?”
Grissom cringed and went back into the courthouse (this time using door No. 4) and headed for the bathroom. Standing at the mirror, he grimaced as he looked at his left cheek and quickly took out a credit card to try and scrape out the stingers.
“Great. Just great.” Grissom thought. “Well, maybe I can get sympathy sex for this.”
When he got to the lab, Sara had already left for the field. “Of course,” Grissom thought. He had a quick internal debate about whether to return home for a couple of hours, but that idea was almost immediately squashed when he remembered one word - evaluations. If he waited one more day, Catherine would most likely string him up by his balls. And that is on a day she wasn’t encountered a certain “said period of time.” (no pun intended … OK, well, maybe this time.)
Holed up in his office, he was surprised when, after an hour, Conrad Ecklie knocked on his door. “I hope those are evaluations.”
“Yes, I thought I would finish them tonight.”
“Really? Because they were due four days ago.”
“And that’s why I would like to finish them tonight, so if you’ll excuse me…” The statement was meant to shoo Ecklie away, but instead he took a seat.
“What happened to your eye? Bees finally turn on you?” Conrad thought it was hilarious. Grissom simply offered a sarcastic grin.
“Yes, well, I should finish these in a few more hours and I will have them papers on your desk so you can check them out in the morning,” Grissom said.
“Tell you what,” Ecklie said. “I’m going to be here for a few more hours myself. So, that gives me a perfect opportunity to make sure these evaluations are on my desk in a couple of hours.”
With a perplexed, annoyed look, Grissom asked. “Why are you going to be here, Conrad? That might not be until 8 or 9 p.m.”
“Yeah, well, you remember the Jefferson case?”
“High profile case,” Grissom said. “I heard they were trailing a suspect.”
“Right.”
And then it dawned on Grissom. “And you want to be around if a suspect comes to PD.”
“Like you said, it’s a high profile case,” Ecklie said as he stood from his chair. “I said I would personally make sure nothing was screwed up when a suspect was brought in. So, I guess I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
--
It was 10 p.m. before Grissom finished. Certain Ecklie had left, Grissom showered and changed in the locker room, wearing one of his trademark jackets. But when he made his way to his supervisor’s office, he was surprised to find Ecklie at his desk.
“Conrad, I can’t believe you’re still here. You do know it’s 10:30 p.m., not a.m., right?”
“Oh, that’s very funny, Gil. What? I can’t be dedicated like you?”
“I never said that, it’s just not usual for you to be here this late. Are you waiting for Diane to pick you up because your car’s in the shop?”
“You know what, Gil? It’s comments like that, which prove …” It was fortunate for Grissom that Ecklie’s diatribe was interrupted by a phone call.
When Ecklie finished the call, he was noticeably fidgety. “Grissom, they have the suspect of the Jefferson case at PD.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” Grissom made a beeline, but was stopped.
“You can’t go, Grissom. You and I are going to PD.”
“Conrad,” Grissom said, the day’s events clearly making his voice edgy, “that’s not grave’s case. There’s no reason for me to be there. I have shift soon. I’ll see you.”
“Gil, you’re coming with me, and that’s final.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have a car, and you have to drive me.”
So less than two hours before shift Grissom was driving Ecklie to PD.
Brass greeted the men and was surprised to see Grissom. “What are you a chauffeur, now? Where’s your cap, yankee doodle?”
“I just came to drop off Ecklie.”
“Well, that’s just dandy,” Brass said with a smile. “By the way, nice face there, Rocky. Listen, why don’t you stay and observe. See if you can help catch him in a lie.”
“OK. Sure,” Grissom said, taking a copy of the case file from Brass.
Carl Davidson made sure everyone knew when he entered Las Vegas PD with a couple of his buddies. “What the fuck! You fucking assholes! You can’t hold me here like a fucking animal!”
Brass approached him and asked the officers to take the buddies to separate rooms for questioning and Mr. Davidson would come with him. “We’re just going to have a friendly conversation, Davidson.”
The interrogation turned into a cursing fest as Davidson continued to brutalize the atmosphere of the small room with his foul mouth. While Brass would nudge him in the direction of the Jefferson case and get a nugget or two of information, Ecklie would simply piss off the guy.
“So, you’re telling me you were in the vicinity of FireStone Nightclub on July 12, you remember buying junk from Jefferson, but you can’t remember what happened after you gave him a bundle of cash?”
Before Davidson could even offer an excuse, Ecklie piped in, trying to play bad cop. “This is a waste of time, Jim. This kid doesn’t know shit. Just a stupid-ass junkie.”
Davidson kept himself in check, but couldn’t help spilling out some rage. “Shut up, old man. You think you’re some bad ass. You wouldn’t last a second with me outside.”
“I do just fine, with a punk like you, Davidson.”
“OK, you two. That’s enough,” Brass said, taking control once again.
The interrogation continued for another 10 minutes, and fortunately Ecklie kept his mouth shut. Jim convinced Davidson to have a soda, courtesy of the LVPD.
Once outside Brass talked with Grissom. “You know, Dirty Harry in there is really not much help. Any chance you can convince him to switch places with you, Popeye?”
The comment was lost on Grissom who seemed to be deep in thought. “I think Davidson slipped up there.” Grissom explained his theory to Brass. “If we could keep Davidson here for one shift, I think we could find the evidence we need.”
Jim sighed. “Makes sense, but we don’t have anything to hold him on…”
Before Jim could finish, Davidson gave them a reason to hold him. Brass and Grissom witnessed the suspect lunge at Ecklie. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR SHIT, OLD MAN!” Davidson took a swing at Ecklie and knocked him in the mouth. When Ecklie tried to get out of the room, Davidson took a hold of his shirt and as Ecklie moved to get out of his grasp, Davidson ripped it completely off.
Brass and Grissom ran in the room, where they grabbed Davidson off Ecklie. A couple of officers entered the room to help Brass cuff Davidson. When Grissom stepped aside for the officers, he felt someone nudge his arm. “Give me your jacket,” Ecklie demanded.
“What?” Grissom said. He couldn’t believe this guy.
“Jesus, Gil, I don’t have a shirt on. Give me your jacket.”
Reluctantly and with an eye roll, Gill took off his jacket and jammed it in Ecklie’s chest. He quickly put it on and zipped it up.
As the officers took Davidson away, with Ecklie at right there at his side, the young man resumed his threats. “You fucking piece of shit,” he spat at Ecklie. “Low life scum bag!”
Everyone in the hall heard the outburst, including Davidson’s buddies who left their own interrogation rooms moments before and had witnessed the showdown.
“You’re fucking done, dude! Fucking done!” Davidson said.
Ecklie couldn’t help himself. Machismo is a hard thing to fight when you are standing in a police station with a bruised cheek and wearing a clearly oversized jacket. “Son, you need to shut up before you get in more trouble. You’re going to be booked for assault, and I would expect more, if I were you, punk.”
While standing just outside the interrogation room, Brass holstered his gun and looked at his friend with a smile. “He’s so cute when he wears your clothes. Where are you two registered?”
Grissom rubbed the side of his face not inflicted with wasp stings. “Excuse me Jim, I have to take Dirty Harry back to the office.”
“Oh yeah? Feeling lucky?”
Grissom laughed. Jim had no idea.
Brass watched his friend leave to retrieve Ecklie. “Unlucky bastard.”
--
Grissom passed out assignments, performed supervisor duties and checked on analysis in ballistics and A/V. Things were going smoothly, he thought. Ecklie even returned his jacket without incident or comment before leaving the lab in a cab.
At 2 a.m., while sitting in his office, Grissom heard a knock of his door from Warrick.
“Hey, Grissom. Catherine called me. She wanted some backup at her scene. Busy?”
“No, I’ll join you,” Grissom got up and put on his jacket.
“Tell you what, I have to log in some evidence with Wendy. Since you’re having a crappy day, I’ll let you drive,” Warrick said with a smile.
“Thanks. Meet me at the truck in the garage.”
Grissom fiddled with his keys as he walked to the garage, which had a handful of cars and was devoid of people at 2 a.m. He was almost made it to the truck, when a couple of men popped out from behind a parked van.
In a matter of seconds, dozens of shots rang out in the garage. As bullets whizzed past Grissom’s body, including a couple that ripped his jacket sleeve, Grissom dove to the ground, the right side of his face making painful contact with a reflector light and concrete. He also felt a bad sting in his rear end.
“Oh shit,” he thought. “Please let that be another wasp.”
His fall caused blood to trickle from his temple and Grissom felt a little woozy. But he heard the shots stop and two sets of footsteps coming toward him.
“Did we hit him?” Grissom heard one shooter said. “Look, I think we got him in the head!”
“Oh, fuck! Daniel! This dude ain’t bald?” the other shooter said.
“Bald? Why the hell should I be bald,” Grissom thought.
“We fucking shot the wrong dude!” The second shooter said hysterically.
The first shooter was equally hysterical. “No! OH SHIT! But the dude was wearing the jacket! … FUCK!”
With that, they both ran off and Grissom sat up. Behind him, he heard Warrick’s voice. Warrick was at Grissom’s side as they watched a white van squeal out of the parking lot.
“You OK, Grissom?” Seeing his boss nod in the affirmative, Warrick called dispatch. “APB for white Ford Econoline cargo van with damage to the rear passenger side, license number…”
“4-6-1-5-Victor-Charley,” Grissom said, which Warrick repeated. “How many in the van, Griss?”
“Two white males. They were brought into PD tonight with Carl Davidson.”
Again Warrick repeated what his boss said, and was going to ask for an ambulance, but hesitated. “If I were Grissom, there’d be no way I’d want anyone to see me,” Warrick thought. So, he ended the call and stooped down to look at Grissom and survey the surroundings. There were bullet holes within walls, cars and some that seemed to ricochet off the cement floor. “Jesus, Griss, what the hell happened?”
“They thought I was fucking Ecklie!” Grissom said, wincing. “Ecklie was wearing my jacket earlier when he was yelling at their friend at PD. I guess they wanted to exact their revenge on the guy in the brown jacket.”
Warrick took a deep breath. “Well, you’re lucky they were shitty shots, but it looks like they got one good shot, boss. I could call for an ambulance or take you myself to the hospital.”
“Shot in the ass,” Grissom said with defeat. The last thing he wanted was more attention for that. “Mind taking me?”
Warrick smiled. “Let’s get you to the truck, but take off your jacket. You’re going to need something as a cushion. How’s your head?”
“Hurts. I have a handkerchief in my right rear pocket,” Grissom said. Warrick retrieved it and gave it to Grissom to put on his temple. The younger CSI helped his boss up and led him to the truck. A squad car arrived as Warrick put Grissom in the cab.
“I’ll make some calls to secure this.” Warrick said.
Nick was called to process the scene. When Warrick sat down in the driver’s side, he was just getting off the phone with Brass. “Looks like those two were as good of drivers as they were shots. They got in a fender bender about a block from here,” he said. “They actually apologized for shooting you … dude.”
Grissom chuckled. “Yeah? I just thank God I’m not the ‘bald dude.’”
Warrick let off one of his low laughs. “Amen to that.” Warrick turned on the engine and went to exit the garage. “I’m going to call Sara and tell her to meet us at the hospital. Want me to tell her to bring you anything?”
“Yeah,” Grissom said as he painfully adjusted himself in the seat. “A Milky Way bar.”
Warrick hated to have a laugh at his boss’ expense, but that comment was too funny. Of all things to ask for. He’d bet a c-note Sara was on her period.
END
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Thanks so much for reading.