(no subject)
Another day, another dollar. The remaining latex glove snaps off with an annoying pinch to his tanned flesh, leaving a small mark on his wrist. Looking down at the rather tiny blemish he smirks, 'The perfect ending to a perfect day.' He quips silently to himself as he steps out of the Trace-Analysis Lab, flicking off the lights.
Some might describe him as, scruffy, maybe even unkempt. But those are the people that don't understand his unique gift of wardrobe. His somewhat trimmed mop of black hair curls just a bit at the end. Sideburns are neatly trimmed but the most noticeable feature would be his 8 o'clock shadow. Dark, intelligent eyes are barely visible since he usually appears to be squinting. Today he's wearing a slightly over-sized pale grey colored, buttoned-down, silk shirt, with the first two buttons open, exposing his throat. Cuffs are also unbuttoned and rolled up a few ticks exposing thick tufts of black hair on his lower arms. His pants are made of a soft, breathable fabric the color of charcoal and they flow easily over his black 'beatle boots'. Nothing fancy, just his regular wardrobe.
Skulking down the dimly lit hallway of the Las Vegas Crime Lab he grunts to just about everyone that offers a cheerful 'Hello Speed' or he just nods in their general direction. His last case in particular was draining and even though they did end up catching the bad guy in this situation he had still managed to kill at least eight women. Eight that we know of, damn it. Let's just say his faith in humanity isn't what it used to be.
He can see the relaxing amber hues of another gorgeous Vegas sunset peering through the Crime-Lab double-doors. He's so close to freedom, the exit ..only a few feet away. Already perspiration breaks out across his forehead, his body is so accustomed to the intense humidity.
Reaching out, his hand grasps the large metal bar, ready to push open the door, the gateway to light, warmth, sunshine, the door to life. Then something tickles in the back of his mind. A nagging feeling.. annoying. At that moment, seconds away from catching the first lungful of the stifling, exhaust-clogged air his pager vibrates in silent desperation from his belt-loop. Pausing he gazes at the fast-paced outside world, tilting his head, the heavy glass door just barely cracked as a smile plays at the corner of his lips. Again the pager vibrates now demanding his attention. He knows. He turns back from where he came, without even a second thought. Another murder, another body. He has a job to do.
Work work work. It was nearing the end of his late night shift. In Miami, Timothy worked the day hours, and the switch to night took a little bit of adjusting but he managed quite well. Though he looked like shit at the moment. Bags under his eyes, overall exhausted. His cheeks were showing that telltale sign of stubble already.
He held a small file in his hands, a quick open and shut case that was already handled by himself and another day shift CSI earlier. The day shifters here were.. okay. Nothin' to write home about though. Night shifters seem to be better trained. More alert. He wondered if it was because of their supervisor.
The hallway was dimly lit but Timmy knew exactly where to go. Soon he was at Gil Grissom's office and without even knocking he just twists the knob and enters, shutting the door with a light slamming sound behind him. Not angry just.. excited to get home.
Whatever Gil was doing, Tim didn't much care and he slaps the folder down on his desktop, giving him a small smile. "Sign this so I can get the hell outta here." He was anxious to leave. And maybe he didn't finish all of his paperwork.. but he didn't really care either. Over the months he had gotten quite attached to his new Supervisor. At first maybe it was a little strained, Tim was horrible with authority but he had learned to accept the mans' strange habits. Maybe even learned to like them. Gil intrigued him and Timmy liked to annoy the poor man.
Leaning over he begins to taptaptap against the cage of that damnned ugly spider.
Some might describe him as, scruffy, maybe even unkempt. But those are the people that don't understand his unique gift of wardrobe. His somewhat trimmed mop of black hair curls just a bit at the end. Sideburns are neatly trimmed but the most noticeable feature would be his 8 o'clock shadow. Dark, intelligent eyes are barely visible since he usually appears to be squinting. Today he's wearing a slightly over-sized pale grey colored, buttoned-down, silk shirt, with the first two buttons open, exposing his throat. Cuffs are also unbuttoned and rolled up a few ticks exposing thick tufts of black hair on his lower arms. His pants are made of a soft, breathable fabric the color of charcoal and they flow easily over his black 'beatle boots'. Nothing fancy, just his regular wardrobe.
Skulking down the dimly lit hallway of the Las Vegas Crime Lab he grunts to just about everyone that offers a cheerful 'Hello Speed' or he just nods in their general direction. His last case in particular was draining and even though they did end up catching the bad guy in this situation he had still managed to kill at least eight women. Eight that we know of, damn it. Let's just say his faith in humanity isn't what it used to be.
He can see the relaxing amber hues of another gorgeous Vegas sunset peering through the Crime-Lab double-doors. He's so close to freedom, the exit ..only a few feet away. Already perspiration breaks out across his forehead, his body is so accustomed to the intense humidity.
Reaching out, his hand grasps the large metal bar, ready to push open the door, the gateway to light, warmth, sunshine, the door to life. Then something tickles in the back of his mind. A nagging feeling.. annoying. At that moment, seconds away from catching the first lungful of the stifling, exhaust-clogged air his pager vibrates in silent desperation from his belt-loop. Pausing he gazes at the fast-paced outside world, tilting his head, the heavy glass door just barely cracked as a smile plays at the corner of his lips. Again the pager vibrates now demanding his attention. He knows. He turns back from where he came, without even a second thought. Another murder, another body. He has a job to do.
Work work work. It was nearing the end of his late night shift. In Miami, Timothy worked the day hours, and the switch to night took a little bit of adjusting but he managed quite well. Though he looked like shit at the moment. Bags under his eyes, overall exhausted. His cheeks were showing that telltale sign of stubble already.
He held a small file in his hands, a quick open and shut case that was already handled by himself and another day shift CSI earlier. The day shifters here were.. okay. Nothin' to write home about though. Night shifters seem to be better trained. More alert. He wondered if it was because of their supervisor.
The hallway was dimly lit but Timmy knew exactly where to go. Soon he was at Gil Grissom's office and without even knocking he just twists the knob and enters, shutting the door with a light slamming sound behind him. Not angry just.. excited to get home.
Whatever Gil was doing, Tim didn't much care and he slaps the folder down on his desktop, giving him a small smile. "Sign this so I can get the hell outta here." He was anxious to leave. And maybe he didn't finish all of his paperwork.. but he didn't really care either. Over the months he had gotten quite attached to his new Supervisor. At first maybe it was a little strained, Tim was horrible with authority but he had learned to accept the mans' strange habits. Maybe even learned to like them. Gil intrigued him and Timmy liked to annoy the poor man.
Leaning over he begins to taptaptap against the cage of that damnned ugly spider.