Tiptoe through the tulips; Grissom/Sara (CSI)bsafemydeersJune 4 2007, 02:46:30 UTC
"I'm dying. This is it. Grissom, you were an awesome boss, when you weren't painting mildew on my feet. Sara, my only regret is that I never got to see your completely bangin' body outside of work."
Greg slumped down in his seat, and Grissom thought it a credit to his performance that there was real sweat beading on his forhead.
"It's just music, Greg. We're waiting until the guy's done with his set, then we'll get our chance to talk to him," he tried, but was rewarded with a groan.
"Sara, help me out here," Greg pleaded. "Grissom's of a certain age, he doesn't know this stuff is poisonous to our generation."
Sara looked between the two of them. "...I'm not getting caught in the middle of this."
The singer crooned on, tiptoe through the tulips, and Greg began to beat his head against the table.
An hour or two later, when Greg had been released back to the lab and the safety of loud music, Sara looked up from the file she was reading. "Greg keeps his job, right?"
Grissom snorted. "My aging heart couldn't take the stress of firing him."
She rolled her eyes. "You're not old."
One Grissom-brow went up. "I don't think I'm old. Do you?"
"No, which is why I said you weren't. I know that it was confusingly straight-forward of me, wasn't it?"
Grissom smiled a little, and picked up a picture, examining it in the light.
When she couldn't take it anymore, she had to set the file down completely. "Okay, I give. How come you're taking this so well? Three months ago, I'd be helping Greg find a nice box to live in out on the Strip."
He stepped up behind her, fingers curling over her hips. "It's pretty hard to feel old when we had a quickie in my car before we got here."
Greg slumped down in his seat, and Grissom thought it a credit to his performance that there was real sweat beading on his forhead.
"It's just music, Greg. We're waiting until the guy's done with his set, then we'll get our chance to talk to him," he tried, but was rewarded with a groan.
"Sara, help me out here," Greg pleaded. "Grissom's of a certain age, he doesn't know this stuff is poisonous to our generation."
Sara looked between the two of them. "...I'm not getting caught in the middle of this."
The singer crooned on, tiptoe through the tulips, and Greg began to beat his head against the table.
An hour or two later, when Greg had been released back to the lab and the safety of loud music, Sara looked up from the file she was reading. "Greg keeps his job, right?"
Grissom snorted. "My aging heart couldn't take the stress of firing him."
She rolled her eyes. "You're not old."
One Grissom-brow went up. "I don't think I'm old. Do you?"
"No, which is why I said you weren't. I know that it was confusingly straight-forward of me, wasn't it?"
Grissom smiled a little, and picked up a picture, examining it in the light.
When she couldn't take it anymore, she had to set the file down completely. "Okay, I give. How come you're taking this so well? Three months ago, I'd be helping Greg find a nice box to live in out on the Strip."
He stepped up behind her, fingers curling over her hips. "It's pretty hard to feel old when we had a quickie in my car before we got here."
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