Disclaimer: These guys don't belong to me.
Author's Note: I work a rotating shift so I totally understand exhaustion.
I also only date enough to keep people from thinking I'm weird. I love
men. I just don't want one around all the time.
Summary: What would make Grissom react so to the crime scene in Butterflied other than Sara? Where does he go when he knows he won't sleep and needs to talk?
Rating: R (for later)
Pairing(s): GC friendship, probably more later, and maybe NS
Spoiler(s): Butterflied
Gil Grissom was frustrated and completely exhausted. Weariness permeated every bone and muscle in his body. The dull throb of headache that had been his constant companion for the past twenty-four hours made him squint. When he blinked he was certain some unfriendly sprite had shoved cotton balls under his eyelids. He was slightly hoarse. His mouth was dry; he was shaky and a little nauseous from too much caffeine and not enough solid food. It was painful to move his head and he figured if he moved it too fast or too far in one direction, it would snap right off at the shoulders. The thought of his head rolling around on the interrogation room floor sent a perverse jolt of humor through his numb mind.
He and Brass sat in silence in the interrogation room, completely unaware they were being observed. Brass sighed heavily and settled his gaze on his companion. Grissom had finally stirred from his gnomic reverie at the end of the interrogation, insinuating he and the doctor had something in common. Brass knew Grissom was convinced of the doctor's guilt but had no way to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.
"I think we ought to call it a night, Gris. I'd say let's go have a drink but I don't think you need to be in any worse shape than you already are." Brass flatly stated.
"Yeah, I've had enough." Grissom replied.
The two men made their way out of the police station and into the glaring morning light. They paused in front of Grissom's Denali. Grissom fished his sunglasses out of his pocket; he put them on and stared into the distance. Brass studied him for a moment.
"You think you'll find anything else?" He queried.
Grissom shrugged in response. He got in the Denali and drove away. He was waiting at the second stoplight when he decided he did not want to be alone at present. Instead of turning left toward his townhouse, he proceeded through the intersection and turned right at the next light.
Summary: What would make Grissom react so to the crime scene in Butterflied other than Sara? Where does he go when he knows he won't sleep and needs to talk?
Rating: R (for later)
Pairing(s): GC friendship, probably more later, and maybe NS
Spoiler(s): Butterflied
Gil Grissom was frustrated and completely exhausted. Weariness permeated every bone and muscle in his body. The dull throb of headache that had been his constant companion for the past twenty-four hours made him squint. When he blinked he was certain some unfriendly sprite had shoved cotton balls under his eyelids. He was slightly hoarse. His mouth was dry; he was shaky and a little nauseous from too much caffeine and not enough solid food. It was painful to move his head and he figured if he moved it too fast or too far in one direction, it would snap right off at the shoulders. The thought of his head rolling around on the interrogation room floor sent a perverse jolt of humor through his numb mind.
He and Brass sat in silence in the interrogation room, completely unaware they were being observed. Brass sighed heavily and settled his gaze on his companion. Grissom had finally stirred from his gnomic reverie at the end of the interrogation, insinuating he and the doctor had something in common. Brass knew Grissom was convinced of the doctor's guilt but had no way to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.
"I think we ought to call it a night, Gris. I'd say let's go have a drink but I don't think you need to be in any worse shape than you already are." Brass flatly stated.
"Yeah, I've had enough." Grissom replied.
The two men made their way out of the police station and into the glaring morning light. They paused in front of Grissom's Denali. Grissom fished his sunglasses out of his pocket; he put them on and stared into the distance. Brass studied him for a moment.
"You think you'll find anything else?" He queried.
Grissom shrugged in response. He got in the Denali and drove away. He was waiting at the second stoplight when he decided he did not want to be alone at present. Instead of turning left toward his townhouse, he proceeded through the intersection and turned right at the next light.