Profiler-- Dirt Don't Hurt
Title: Dirt Don’t Hurt
Author: kosmickway
Rating: PG for coarse language
Pairing: None
Summary: John gets down and dirty at the latest crime scene.
A/N: This is for kajivar and fleta who need some cheering up. They wanted Dirty John Smut. Well, ladies, the smut will come later (my inner Smut Writer is exhausted) but, as requested, here's a Dirty John drabble. Hope this makes you laugh!
“Well, fuck me,” John Grant thought as he toppled forward. “Grace is never going to let me live this down.”
With a squelching thud, he tumbled head over heels, hoping like hell his gun and his phone were well protected by his coat pockets. He fell onto his back, eyes tight shut against the mud and god knew what else that was coating his face, and briefly entertained a fantasy that if he lay still long enough he would just disappear.
No such luck. He could already hear Grace howling with laughter. “Bitch,” he thought half-heartedly, though he couldn’t really muster up anger. He was sure he really did look a sight, enough of one that had it been George or Bailey in his position, he’d have been doubled over with a stitch in his side, too.
He didn’t hear Rachel laughing, thank god, but when he finally sat up and wiped the mud from his face, he could see her lips quirking as she tried not to burst into fits of giggles.
“Are you-um-“ She had to stop, pressing her lips together to control the laughter threatening to bubble over. “Are you okay?”
“Do I LOOK okay?” he snapped.
“Actually,” Grace managed to gulp out, “You look great. I always thought brown was your color.” She dodged the glob of mud he flung at her and got serious long enough to really take a good look at him, sitting there in the middle of a pig wallow. “That suit can never be saved.”
“Thanks for rubbing that in,” he grumbled. Why the HELL had he leaned so far over to examine that bone? Why hadn’t he waited for CSI to retrieve it so he could look at it in the evidence bag like everyone else? Now he was head over heels in mud, shit, and probably decomposing human flesh, his favorite suit ruined, with two women giggling and smirking in a way that he REALLY hated.
“So, um, while you’re in there,” Grace said, trying to calm down, “would you mind feeling around for a dead body?”
John shot her a sour look. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
Rachel was still trying to stifle snickers. “Come on, let me help you.” She pulled off her suit jacket, handed it to Grace, and offered him a latex encased hand. He took it, debated for a few long seconds about whether or not to pull her in with him, then finally took the proffered hand and pulled himself up to a standing position.
Oh god. What a filthy, fucking mess. Mud was dripping off of him in large clumps, falling back into the wallow with sticky sounding plops. He smelled disgusting- like mud, pig manure, and, yes, that was definitely decomposing flesh- and felt even worse. Had he actually LIKED playing football in the mud when he was a kid? He had never remembered it feeling this gross.
One of the CSI’s who happened to have seen John’s mishap stepped forward with a set of flat plastic sheets and several bags.
“Detective Grant, I’m really sorry to do this but your clothes are evidence now. We’re going to need you to strip and turn your suit over to us.”
Insult to injury. Brilliant. As if this day couldn’t get any better. Without a word he stripped off his jacket, bidding it a mental farewell as he dropped it into the bag the tech held out. He followed the Hugo Boss jacket with his mud-filled shoes and his once-white Hugo Boss shirt. His wallet and badge weren’t so bad. Neither was his gun, though he’d have to spend a few hours cleaning it with Hops Solvent if he really wanted to make sure it was fully serviceable. With a scowl he passed his personals to Grace to clean off, just to wipe the smirk off of her face, and found himself staring at the waiting CSI, Rachel, and Grace, all waiting for him to take off his trousers.
“Anyone got a jump suit I can put on or am I just supposed to walk around in the nude?”
Rachel looked like she wanted to reply to that but refrained, biting her lip and exchanging impish glances with Grace.
The squeaky-clean CSI tech, whom John was starting to hate on principle, radioed a colleague who brought over a jump suit and a spare pair of boots.
“Any place I can wash off?”
“There’s a hose around back,” Rachel replied. “Other side of the barn.”
“I’ll get these back to you in a minute,” he told the tech and started to walk off.
“I’m sorry, sir, but those are evidence. I can’t let you walk off still wearing them. You’ll have to turn those over to me now.”
Stifling a groan, he gritted his teeth and snarled, “Fine. Turn around, all of you.”
And when everyone’s backs were turned, he stripped off his trousers and socks, jammed his feet into the boots, and stomped off across the bare strip of ground toward the stables in his boxer briefs, wishing at any moment that lightning would strike him dead, especially when he heard Grace and Rachel howling with laughter as he walked away.
END.
Author: kosmickway
Rating: PG for coarse language
Pairing: None
Summary: John gets down and dirty at the latest crime scene.
A/N: This is for kajivar and fleta who need some cheering up. They wanted Dirty John Smut. Well, ladies, the smut will come later (my inner Smut Writer is exhausted) but, as requested, here's a Dirty John drabble. Hope this makes you laugh!
“Well, fuck me,” John Grant thought as he toppled forward. “Grace is never going to let me live this down.”
With a squelching thud, he tumbled head over heels, hoping like hell his gun and his phone were well protected by his coat pockets. He fell onto his back, eyes tight shut against the mud and god knew what else that was coating his face, and briefly entertained a fantasy that if he lay still long enough he would just disappear.
No such luck. He could already hear Grace howling with laughter. “Bitch,” he thought half-heartedly, though he couldn’t really muster up anger. He was sure he really did look a sight, enough of one that had it been George or Bailey in his position, he’d have been doubled over with a stitch in his side, too.
He didn’t hear Rachel laughing, thank god, but when he finally sat up and wiped the mud from his face, he could see her lips quirking as she tried not to burst into fits of giggles.
“Are you-um-“ She had to stop, pressing her lips together to control the laughter threatening to bubble over. “Are you okay?”
“Do I LOOK okay?” he snapped.
“Actually,” Grace managed to gulp out, “You look great. I always thought brown was your color.” She dodged the glob of mud he flung at her and got serious long enough to really take a good look at him, sitting there in the middle of a pig wallow. “That suit can never be saved.”
“Thanks for rubbing that in,” he grumbled. Why the HELL had he leaned so far over to examine that bone? Why hadn’t he waited for CSI to retrieve it so he could look at it in the evidence bag like everyone else? Now he was head over heels in mud, shit, and probably decomposing human flesh, his favorite suit ruined, with two women giggling and smirking in a way that he REALLY hated.
“So, um, while you’re in there,” Grace said, trying to calm down, “would you mind feeling around for a dead body?”
John shot her a sour look. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
Rachel was still trying to stifle snickers. “Come on, let me help you.” She pulled off her suit jacket, handed it to Grace, and offered him a latex encased hand. He took it, debated for a few long seconds about whether or not to pull her in with him, then finally took the proffered hand and pulled himself up to a standing position.
Oh god. What a filthy, fucking mess. Mud was dripping off of him in large clumps, falling back into the wallow with sticky sounding plops. He smelled disgusting- like mud, pig manure, and, yes, that was definitely decomposing flesh- and felt even worse. Had he actually LIKED playing football in the mud when he was a kid? He had never remembered it feeling this gross.
One of the CSI’s who happened to have seen John’s mishap stepped forward with a set of flat plastic sheets and several bags.
“Detective Grant, I’m really sorry to do this but your clothes are evidence now. We’re going to need you to strip and turn your suit over to us.”
Insult to injury. Brilliant. As if this day couldn’t get any better. Without a word he stripped off his jacket, bidding it a mental farewell as he dropped it into the bag the tech held out. He followed the Hugo Boss jacket with his mud-filled shoes and his once-white Hugo Boss shirt. His wallet and badge weren’t so bad. Neither was his gun, though he’d have to spend a few hours cleaning it with Hops Solvent if he really wanted to make sure it was fully serviceable. With a scowl he passed his personals to Grace to clean off, just to wipe the smirk off of her face, and found himself staring at the waiting CSI, Rachel, and Grace, all waiting for him to take off his trousers.
“Anyone got a jump suit I can put on or am I just supposed to walk around in the nude?”
Rachel looked like she wanted to reply to that but refrained, biting her lip and exchanging impish glances with Grace.
The squeaky-clean CSI tech, whom John was starting to hate on principle, radioed a colleague who brought over a jump suit and a spare pair of boots.
“Any place I can wash off?”
“There’s a hose around back,” Rachel replied. “Other side of the barn.”
“I’ll get these back to you in a minute,” he told the tech and started to walk off.
“I’m sorry, sir, but those are evidence. I can’t let you walk off still wearing them. You’ll have to turn those over to me now.”
Stifling a groan, he gritted his teeth and snarled, “Fine. Turn around, all of you.”
And when everyone’s backs were turned, he stripped off his trousers and socks, jammed his feet into the boots, and stomped off across the bare strip of ground toward the stables in his boxer briefs, wishing at any moment that lightning would strike him dead, especially when he heard Grace and Rachel howling with laughter as he walked away.
END.