Fic: Burn On Big River
*deep breath* So ever since Christmas when myriad69's Dad was tehEvOL and hooked me on another kind of fandom crack put NCIS on the telly and piqued my interest, K and I have been noodling around with the idea of how great it would be if Greg from CSI met Abby from NCIS.
We kept hoping someone would write it; turns out, that someone was me.
Dedicated to Ron; while it would squick me immensely to know that you have read porn I've written, and I know you'll never ever read this, you did introduce me to Abby. Guess what, I get a kick out of her too. *much love*
Fandom: CSI/NCIS X-over
Pairing: Greg/Abby
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Cleveland: city of light, city of magic, at least for Greg.
Disclaimer: Yeah, right. Not mine, never were.
Thanks are owed to eshadlow and annebelle_ca for the speedy beta work, any and all errors that remain are mine alone. The joke is curtesy of monanotlisa by way of Hepcat who forwarded it to me. And a big fat "merci" to K who never stopped bugging me to write this, despite the mountain of WIP's I have going on.
Greg had been excited when he had found out it was his turn to go. Warrick had been; Catherine had been; Sara had gone twice, once with Nick and they still yakked about it; even Grissom had been wooed away from the lab a time or two to deliver a keynote paper at the annual Forensic Science Association of America conference. This year the fates had seemed to smile on him because it was going to be held in sunny exotic Hawaii for the first time ever.
And it was his turn to go. Can I get a big fat aloha, brothers and sisters? Hell yeah!
Ever since he’d found out he was being considered as a possible attendee, Greg had been dropping subtle hints about his suitability as a representative of the LVPD Crime Lab over that of his co-workers-most notably Hodges.
Well if you could call casually mentioning one time, “Did you know, Mia told me she considered me a double threat because I was trained in both lab forensics and fieldwork…double threat, you know like an actor that can also sing. Cool huh?,” rather loudly to Sara when Ecklie was in earshot. Mia had said no such thing; anyway, like anyone could check and dammit he really wanted to go. Okay, maybe it had been mentioned more than once; maybe enough that Nick had started calling him Doublethreat as a joke and worse still, Sara had found the nickname irresistible and immediately picked up on it too. But this wasn’t a time to be worried about his pride; this was a time to gain an advantage over King Suckup himself, Hodges. And how else could he do that apart from a few well placed “nuanced impressions”?
Greg never knew if it was his machinations or more probably, just plain dumb luck that had influenced the powers-that-be to offer the spot to him. As if he’d say no? Anyone could see that would make a guy do a little in-your-face victory dance, well anyone human-Hodges didn’t count-he was going to Hawaii!
Then Tropical Storm Wendell had come along and ruined everything. It had spared most of the island chain, just coming on shore long enough to cause sufficient damage to the hotel the conference was booked at so that the organizers had no choice but to rebook at the last minute-in Cleveland.
“Cleveland….city of light, city of maaaaagic….” Hodges sang when he gleefully broke the news to Greg in the locker room.
Greg stood there in his recently purchased “authentic” Hawaiian shirt and tried to think of a good reason not to punch Hodges in the nose. He had ample cause, not the least of which was for singing a Randy Newman song.
Sara’s chummy shoulder hug and philosophical, “Well, it’s not like you get to do much sightseeing at these things anyway. You’re so busy attending all the panels and lectures,” had helped. If only because it confirmed that Sara was an even bigger nerd than he had previously suspected.
“Of course you do! It’s all about proper panel management….working the schedule…” Finding time to get in some heavy duty surfing...he thought.
“Skipping out on the really boring stuff,” Catherine chimed in to Sara’s shock.
“You can’t skip out, that’s like…reneging on-”
“What? The sacred conference bond?” Nick interrupted playfully, “look Sar’ we all do it.”
“I don’t” she said hotly, banging her locker shut.
“Which makes you a nerd” Greg said.
“I am not a nerd. I just like attending lectures and contributing to panel discussions and…other things like that” she trailed off, aware of their looks. “C’mon guys, conferences can be exciting! All that knowledge…”
Greg wasn’t all that convinced and from all the awkward floating around neither was anyone else. Sara gamely pressed on,
“We’re scientists. We love to learn. If that makes me a nerd, fine, but you’re all nerds then too.”
“Not me,” Catherine laughed, “I may be a scientist but I’m no nerd.”
“Me either,” said Nick, “even I’ve skipped a few panels in my time. I’m with Doublethreat on this one that is kinda nerdy, Sara.”
“Cleveland…even now I can remember…’cause the Cuyahoga River goes smoking through my dreams…” Hodges sang as he swanned out of the locker room in his lab coat shooting an evil look of triumph at Greg as he did so.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
“Now that-that’s nerdy,” said Catherine.
“Yeah...” Sara agreed. “Guys, you’d let me know if I ever got that bad wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t worry, Hodges sets the bar pretty high. I think you’re safe,” Catherine replied as they filed out of the locker room. Distracted, Greg smoothed the pineapple print fabric of his shirt and thought to himself, Cleveland; it can’t be all that bad-can it?
***
So Cleveland.
Yeah.
Greg slumped in his chair and was almost sorry that he was about 30 years too late to see the Cuyahoga River actually burning. If he couldn’t have sun, sand, and surf at the very least he should be able to see a fucking river on fire.
Maybe he should set himself on fire. Maybe that would distract from the mind-numbing festival of dullness this panel was turning out to be.
Greg grinned to himself thinking of a joke Jackie had told him just before he’d left. He’d made it a habit to try and top her endless supply of off-color wisecracks every time he’d dropped by fingerprint analysis. So far she’d always managed to make him laugh before she did. Her latest:
“Build a man a fire and he’ll be warm for one night…but set a man on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.”
He chuckled, causing the man seated next to him to scowl and clear his throat pointedly.
Greg made with the apology face; he guessed giggling during a panel about volatile fatty acid levels in cadaver purge fluids was guaranteed to get him some strange looks; not that he shouldn’t be used to that by now.
Working in an environment like Vegas had insulated him somewhat from the clip-on tie, white shirt, Sans-a-Belt slacks reality of the rest of the forensics world. His attire; his most conservative rock band shirt-he’d left the Hawaiian ones back home, too bummed to think of wearing them-jeans with only one ripped knee and his favourite Chuck Taylor’s had drawn him all kinds of looks. Several times he had been approached by conference organizers to inquire if he “was lost” only to be deterred by the official conference pass hanging round his neck. He’d taken to warding them off with it, brandishing it like a crucifix as if they were some kind of strange overly polite, poorly dressed vampires. It passed the time-some.
Passing the time had become his latest obsession. Greg had already charged more than one big expensive room service meal on the expense account; he’d tried the hotel pool, the hotel gym and had even toured the gift shop for lack of anything else to do. On his first day here he’d hit the North Shore tourist district hard, intending to wring every last drop of fun out of Cleveland-if such a thing were even possible. But doing the tourist thing by yourself was kind of lame. He’d semi attached himself to a Red Hat tour group from Kenosha, Wisconsin but the mistrustful looks from little old ladies coupled with the fact he wasn’t over 60, b) clad entirely in red and purple and c) lacking sequins had made him stick out like a sore thumb. He’d visited the Warehouse district and charged more expensive meals on the expense account and checked out the statue of Moses Cleaveland in Public Square, which was about as thrilling as looking as a statue of an old dead guy can be, even if you factor in the five minutes of his life he’d never get back wondering what happened to the extra “a” in Cleveland.. He thought he wasn’t quite desperate enough to hang out in the Cleveland Arcade. It wasn’t like Cleveland had anything on Vegas merchandise-wise and the prospect of being seen as a creepy mall slacker by gangs of giggling ‘tweens made his blood run cold. Even if it was the first indoor mall in America and “a stunning example of 19th century period architecture” he did have some dignity thankyouverymuch.
So he was forced to actually do conference stuff for lack of anything else to do-Sara would’ve been proud of him. He’d hit all of his morning panels and the conference organizers’ sad attempt to bring Hawaii to Ohio by having an “all you can eat luau buffet and mixer!” at lunch had only depressed him so he’d attended a lunchtime discussion too. This had also served the purpose of preventing him from having to make forced small talk with guys named Barry and Duane from places like Sioux City and Racine, who had only wanted to subtly or not so subtly inquire about their chances of getting hired in a “happening place” like Vegas. What they didn’t realize was that their use of the phrase “happening” had only served to immediately disqualify them in Greg’s mind. The only remotely interesting people at the panel discussion-the illustrious boys and girls of the Eff-Bee-Eye had taken one look at Greg and his boy band hair and dismissed him as a lightweight. All his attempts to “network” had been politely but firmly rebuffed. Well, fuck them! Lousy government suits, thinking they were better than him, whatever. None of them gave off the slightest Mulder or Scully vibe anyway, therefore: tres uncool.
Greg was reluctantly coming to the realization that this might just be the worst trip he’d ever taken, maybe even topping that unfortunate Mexican backpacking trip when he’d OD’ed on the local-and very spicy-cuisine and then discovered the true meaning of “intestinal distress” (also the incredible ability of habanera peppers to retain their heat despite a trip through the digestive tract). Hodges would have had more fun. Cleveland and Hodges were made for each other; a boring match made in Dull Heaven.
He debated with himself for a moment, continue on and attend the final panel of the day or book and maybe see what was on Pay-Per-View; he thought he might have seen a promo for Naughty Nurses 13 and brushing up on some basic healthcare techniques couldn’t hurt…
No. Watching porno alone in his room was just too sad. He’d at least stick his head in and check it out then if it sucked maybe he’d hit the town. A styling single guy like him must be able get some action at one of the local hotspots and if not, there were always the caring nurses of St. Dildos to offer some comfort.
Greg checked his schedule some chick from the Navy Criminal Investigation Service was supposed to be leading a panel on recent advances in blood and tissue analysis. Sounded like it was going to be as much fun as a barrel of monkeys…boring comatose monkeys. He sighed and slipped into the conference room.
For a moment, he thought he was in the wrong place. The room was packed and erupted into a pleased rumble of laughter as he entered. He wondered if they were laughing at him but the attention of everyone in the room was focused up front. Curious, he shouldered his way through the crowd along one side until he could see what all the fuss was about. The fuss apparently, was wearing black patent knee high platform boots, fishnet tights, a school girl skirt and Emily Strange baby tee, topped with a lab coat, raven pigtails, a spider-web tattoo on her neck (her neck!) and enough chains, spiked belts and dog collars that she jingled when she walked. Greg blinked. If the conference organizers were always accosting him because of his outfit how on Earth had they let this Gothic Lolita slip past them?
Gradually it dawned on him the woman was the center of attention not for what she was wearing but for what she was saying; she wasn’t lost, she was presenting. Greg shut his mouth, realizing it had dropped open a little bit. The woman looked over and saw him and smiled, but didn’t stop talking. Greg fumbled open his program: who was this person? Abigail (Abby) Sciuto: NCIS.
NCIS? What’s NCIS?
Greg nudged the older blonde woman beside him, “What’s NCIS?”
She didn’t turn her attention from Abigail (Abby) Sciuto, just muttered “Navy Criminal Investigation Service,” out of the corner of her mouth.
Huh. Somehow he hadn’t pictured the United States Navy as being quite so welcoming of…free spirits like this Abby person must be.
Free spirit was maybe not the right phrase; blackly cheerful force of nature might be more appropriate. The more she spoke, the more Greg noticed just how cute, eager and smart she was. And he wasn’t the only one. Soon she held the room full of scientists in the palm of one her black and red striped, fingerless glove wearing hands. He was swept along with the rest of them, aware of nothing but Abby and the morbid slides of murder victims and blood splatter she was so joyfully and enthusiastically sharing her ideas about until she started to wind it up. He checked his watch and was shocked to learn two hours had passed. Greg joined in with the brief but heartfelt burst of applause while she blushed and held up her hands.
“Thank you so much. But you must have questions… seriously any questions? C’mon guys don’t be shy.”
A rabbity looking man with an aborted attempt at a moustache and an adoring look held up his hand.
“I just wanted to tell you that was the most informative, thorough talk about blood droplet analysis I’ve ever attended.”
Abby beamed, “Aww thank you so much, that’s so sweet of you to say!” Then she jingled forward and swept the surprised and delighted man into a firm hug. She hugs people? Strangers? Greg scrambled to think of a question, but a dozen other hands shot into the air ahead of him.
Greg never felt like such a nerd in his whole life; during the Q & A he hung around and racked his brains trying to think of the ultimate question, the question that would top all of the other scientific minds who were struggling to do the exact same thing. The debate was lively and inspiring and he realized Sara was right; learning new things was exciting! Greg was pumped by the whole exchange, more than pumped, kind of turned on actually. Sexy little ripples of excitement were thrumming in his belly and that could only be the reason why he was approaching Ms. “Oh please, call me Abby” Sciuto right now.
She disengaged from her last admirer, turned to him and leaned in to read his nametag. Greg caught the faintest whiff of gunpowder and a silly grin spread over his face; she even smelled like excitement and danger.
“Greg Sanders, how do you do, I’m Abby.”
They shook and Greg held on a minute longer than he should have. She didn’t seem to mind and his smile grew even wider.
“Ohmigod! The Voidoids! I love them!” Abby pointed to his shirt and they were off, chatting about bands they’d seen, bands they wished they’d seen and Greg could practically feel the electric sizzle of interest beaming out of his eyes into hers. She was so easy to flirt with, laughing at all of his jokes and touching his arm just so now and then. He let the reckless crazy feelings roll through him. Bouncing up and down on his toes he went for it.
“Say, I know it might be kind of lame but I haven’t checked out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet, wanna come with?”
Of course he had, heading straight for the rooms with The Clash and The Ramones exhibits in them, but where else was cool in Cleveland? Abby “hmmm”-ed, looking at her watch and the sexy engine in Greg’s stomach faltered and missed a gear. This wasn’t a good sign.
“Isn’t it closed now?”
Stupid stupid stupid. “Well, yeah but we could go tomorrow afternoon, if you want…” his grin stretched, becoming slightly forced and desperate.
“Oh I can’t. I have another panel.” Abby seemed disappointed but that didn’t stop the engine from seizing up with a shudder and Greg prepared to get shot down. “Tell you what, why don’t we meet for breakfast and we’ll go in the morning, okay?”
“That’s alright I understand-what? I mean, great! Cool, breakfast then the Hall of Fame. I can do that, looking forward to it.” He started backing away before he jinxed things.
“What time?” Abby asked.
“Oh right-uhh I don’t know, 10 am good for you?”
“Perfect.”
He nodded and turned, trying for a casual mosey for the exit.
“Greg?” She called; amusement on her face.
“Yeah?”
“Where?”
Where? Where? What did she mean where; they were in Cleveland weren’t they?
She rescued him. “Where should we meet up, it’s a big hotel…”
Oh right. Wow, he was being so uncool right now. She was going to think he never asked girls out if he kept acting like such a spaz. His mind went blank, where could they meet? He didn’t know!
“Where would you like to meet?” Trying for roguish and mysterious and ending up just to the left of lame. He was sure, back in Vegas, right at this moment, Hodges was suddenly filled with an enormous sense of well-being.
“How about the lobby?” She said patiently. Lobby! So obvious! Hotels always have lobbies.
“Sounds good, I’ll see you there at ten.” Get out now before she changes her mind! He made himself try for a fast saunter, because a mosey was a bit beyond his capabilities just then, to the exit and restrained his self destructive urge to shoot her a wink and a finger gun salute and offered a little half wave instead. The silly grin, he was sure, remained plastered on his face for the rest of the night.
The next morning he was fifteen minutes early, even after changing into all his shirts three times in an attempt to find the one with the highest coolness factor. Should he go with another logo shirt? He thought the Vans’ Warped Tour shirt might seem like he was trying too hard but the “Greedo Shot First” one could make him look like an ubergeek. Desperate, he had picked them all up and threw them over his shoulders onto the bed, closed his eyes and picked one at random. Nervously, he plucked at the wide lapel of the lucky winner; a vintage seventies polyester number with a swirling pattern Hodges once called “nausea-inducing”. Greg figured he’d take that sentiment as a benediction, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he still had time to go change…
The elevator doors slid open and Abby strolled out yawning hugely. She caught sight of him and waved, hurrying over, drawing stares from people lingering in the lobby. Today’s outfit had made a concession to the walking about a trip to the museum entailed, no platform boots but rather black Mary Jane’s with spikes on the strap. The stripes must be a recurring motif with her, Greg decided, because rather than gloves, she had on purple and black striped stockings, another jailbaity skirt, complete with tattered lace trim, and a black top with a very evil looking teddy bear on it. She still made jingling noises when she moved caused this time by the chain belt and necklaces she was wearing. Greg thought if the Wicked Witch of the West had a younger sexy cousin who was into bondage, Abby might be her.
“You look great” he said as she loped over to him. She smiled and did a little pirouette for him.
“Thank you! Cool shirt. I love the pattern.” She reached out and stroked the fabric over his chest leaving a pleasant little tingle behind. Greg silently thanked Hodges for his sartorial clueless-ness. After debating the merits of healthy versus greasefest, they settled on loading up on carbs “for stamina”. The only place Greg could think of was IHOP not the greatest place to go. If they were back in Vegas, Greg knew exactly what funky little café he’d take her too, but he was off home turf and at the mercy of chain restaurants. Abby solved the problem by dragging him over to the concierge and asking him where the best breakfast in town was.
After a few wrong turns in the rental car, they wound up at the Galaxie Diner, a tiny hole in the wall kind of place that was perfect. They sat in a booth and the first thing Abby did after plunking her metal lunchbox “purse” down was ask the waitress for a pot of coffee, not a cup, the whole pot.
“I’m not really a morning person,” she explained.
“Me either. I usually work third shift.”
“We don’t really have a third, it’s just I’m naturally a night person.” Greg thought he probably could have guessed that all by himself. She was pale, not in the unhealthy way, just in the way Greg knew everyone on third with him usually only saw the sun rise and set and missed out on all the shining parts in between.
They didn’t offer pots of coffee at the Galaxie, the waitress told them, but she brought Greg and Abby the biggest cups she had and promised to keep them topped up often. She was good on her word, both on the coffee and her assertion that the blueberry pancakes were the best thing on the menu. Greg found he was mostly nodding and eating as Abby filled him in on life in the employ of the feds. Greg learned a little something about the people she worked with: a Tony, a Ziva, a McGee, a Gibbs and a “Ducky” person Greg was pretty sure was the NCIS version of Doc Robbins. He couldn’t keep it all quite straight but was reluctant to interrupt her happy flow of words; her affection for her co-workers was obvious. Greg found himself feeling a little envious; would Sara or Catherine gush so enthusiastically about him?
“So this Gibbs guy? Is he a scientist?” Greg was trying for context, Gibbs equals Grissom.
“Jethro? No, he’s ex-military. God, he isn’t even computer savvy, he just smacks stuff until it works, or breaks, which is more likely.”
Okay then, Greg revised his mental image, he couldn’t imagine Grissom whaling on a compound microscope, also the dude’s name was Jethro? Greg pictured a balding, by-the-book, dumb as a bag of hammers, drill sergeant type of guy.
“Gibbs also likes to smack Tony on occasion too…” Abby admitted.
Check that, a mean balding ex-military despot. Poor girl, she must really hate working for a tinhat like this Gibbs guy must be.
They’d long ago stopped eating and just talked instead, while Abby powered up on an enormous quantity of coffee. They covered the waterfront of conversational ideas, but like professionals everywhere they kept returning to work; worst case, toughest case, dumbest criminal, funniest lab accident. Greg checked the time,
“Hey, we better motor if we’re going to hit the Hall of Fame and still get you back in time for your next panel.”
After a brief struggle over who was going to pay the bill, Greg conceded to Abby’s “I was the one who asked you to breakfast,” argument only after extracting a promise from her that he would cover the cost of their admission at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
He found they were both of a similar mind when it came to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; just surrender to the cheese and embrace it. They bounced from exhibit to exhibit, trying everything interactive, sometimes more than once. Greg decided he’d never had so much fun at a museum, especially when he made Abby laugh with his asides and snarky comments. He shared his musical likes and dislikes and learned hers. They were of a similar mind; Bowie was a genius and it would be a sure sign of the apocalypse if Celine Dion made it into the Hall of Fame. She loved The Smiths just like him, but thought Morrissey could stand to lighten up a bit. His Morrissey impression: a dirge-like yodelling of “I am Human and I need to be loved…just like everybody else does…” complete with affected angsty sneer was the topper, she was laughing so hard she had to grab onto him for support. He felt very fine indeed as they headed hand in hand through the parking lot back to the rental. He was sorry to have to take her back to the hotel and end the fun. She must have thought so too.
“I’ve got some time to kill yet, let’s go for a drive.” She said when he climbed in after putting all her gift shop booty-gifts for the gang at work-in the trunk.
So they did. Greg changed his mind, just tooling around the North Coast District in a rented Chevrolet, listening to music, holding onto Abby’s hand was maybe the most fine he’d felt in a long time. They were heading for the river when Abby straightened.
“Ooo! Quick, pull over!” She demanded, pointing to a convenience store. Greg did and she hopped out, coming back a few minutes later with two big-ass takeout cups.
“What’s this?” Greg asked when she handed one to him.
“Only the best drink ever invented, Caff-Pow. Try it, you’ll love it!”
He did, mimicking Abby’s hearty slurp.
“So? Isn’t it great?”
Greg coughed, he didn’t know about great but the super sweet liquid had almost certainly given him the power to observe the motion of atomic particles firsthand now.
“Wow. That really has a kick.” He said, half waiting for his heart to start thrumming like a hummingbird’s as he carefully set the drink aside.
She looked disappointed, “You don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it…it’s just that I could probably get out and push the car after just one sip and I’d much rather stay in here with you.”
Abby smiled and shrugged, “Suit yourself. I’ll drink it, if you don’t want it.”
“How do you sleep at night, I mean seriously?” Greg opened his eyes wide, “I’ve had just a taste and I’m all…vibratey.”
“In a coffin, usually.” Abby said, and laughed at his expression.
They wound up in a slightly shabby parking lot in the Flats, in an industrial area overlooking the Cuyahoga. Greg parked the car and they climbed out and sat on the hood in the warm spring sunshine, watching the barges bull their way upstream as the gulls circled and screamed raucous complaints.
“You know, way back in ‘69 the river caught on fire” Greg said.
“Really?” Abby looked out at the river, sun diamonds flashing on the water making her squint. “How, it’s water? Not great smelling water, but water all the same.”
“Well I guess it was so polluted. I mean we’re talking years and years of industrial dumping. One day, for some reason it caught fire and kept burning because of all the oil and toxic sludge in the river. Can you imagine what that would have looked like-at night?”
They looked out at the river, each imagining the burning river, smoke and flames rippling and twisting, orange firelight reflecting on the black water.
“Cool! Well, except for the polluted part. Still…” she said.
“I know.” Greg nodded, knowing that if they’d both been here then, they’d have been irresistibly drawn to watch the spectacle. It was then he decided to kiss her.
He leaned over touching his lips to her slightly sticky ones, tasting a hint of Caff-Pow. She opened her mouth to him and Greg wondered if it was the traces of the drink that were making his heart beat so hard. He slid his hand up her sun-warmed back and pulled her closer, he smiled against her mouth when she scooted over with a small ching-a-ling noise. She pulled back.
“What?”
Greg hooked a finger through the ring on one of the chokers she wore, “Nothing, I’ll tell you later…C’mere.” And he pulled her to him again.
It was the loud “Crump” sound the hood made when it gave underneath her elbow that finally pulled them apart. Shaky and a little breathless they sat up. Greg shot Abby a sheepish look, half-guilty about making out in public with her on the hood of a rental car long enough to bend it out of true but she only slid down and grabbed his hand.
“Backseat. Let’s go!”
Papa Olaf told him to never argue with a lady, so, Greg hopped down and held the door open for her. Abby climbed in and pulled him after her, giggling.
Greg had forgotten the contortions required to properly see to a girl in the backseat of a car. His knee was jammed down on the hump where the drivetrain was and his leg was beginning to send faint warning twinges of an impending cramp to his brain. He decided he could tough it out when Abby revealed yet another tattoo and he found himself kissing that one too.
She took pity on him and manoeuvred them both into a sitting position with her straddling his lap; she tilted her head sidewise to keep her head from banging on the roof of the car. Greg didn’t mind because his tongue could finally trace each line of that spider-web tat she had and from the happy purr Abby made, it didn’t seem like she minded either.
Greg was stymied by the stripey tights though. Her skirt was so short they couldn’t be thigh-highs and her skirt was so short his hands couldn’t help finding their way up her thighs to cup her ass. She ground against him, pressing the hot wet spot that had darkened the crotch of her tights against the firm bulge of his cock. He longed to accommodate her and help her out of them, but that would mean taking his hands off her. He matched her impatient groan with one of his own.
“I know, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.” She growled, nipping at his earlobe.
“Ow. Sorry.”
He wasn’t really, that little bite had done amazing things to his cock.
“Abigail, was it?”
Another bite, this time on his neck.
“Abby? Oh-jesus-yes!”
Abby’s clever little teeth had found the sweet spot where his neck met his shoulder.
“Good boy…” She breathed into his ear. They grinned at each other, Greg never minded letting a woman have her own way, especially when it involved her having her own way with him.
Abby proved she was not only cute and smart but very, very supple when she slipped out of her shoes, drew her leg up and somehow shimmied out of one leg of the tights. Greg was amazed and only too happy to reward her flexibility by stroking her right where her urgent hands were guiding him.
Greg would have been more than satisfied to make Abby come right there by the Cuyahoga but after a few moments of watching her take her pleasure from his efforts, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Oh god I need to be fucked. Right. Now.” She sounded slightly dazed but very sure of herself.
“Abby, I’d love to…trust me I’d love nothing more…” Greg trailed off as she rocked hard, moaning, as his fingers found her sweet spot.
“But…?” She managed.
“I don’t have anything,” he kissed her pouting mouth and slowed his movements, fingers gently circling her clit, “and you have a panel discussion to get to.”
Abby sat very still. Startled, Greg stopped what he’d been doing too. He had thought they could fool around for a few minutes more at least.
“Do you take a long time?”
Greg was flustered; that wasn’t really the kind of thing you admitted to a girl during heavy petting. Abby scrunched up her nose and waved her hands, mentally erasing what she’d just said.
“I mean, can you be quick, if you had to?”
“I guess…if I had to.” Could he have a quickie in the backseat of a car with an incredibly sexy and more than willing chick? Almost certainly!
“Hand me my purse!”
Greg leaned forward with Abby on his lap and groped around in the front seat. She giggled then gasped as Greg lurched around looking for her purse.
“Just a sec…” His fingers brushed against the cool metal surface.
“Take your time” she whimpered hotly. Greg grinned and scooted
forward to grab it, feeling Abby’s fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Here.” He leaned back and offered the purse to her.
Abby looked up from where she’d buried her face in his shoulder, her eyes dark with need, Greg was a little surprised at how close she was. Good, because he might just break his “Is that it?” record, something he hadn’t worried about since high school.
“Inside. I have condoms…” Abby was panting slightly, hips unconsciously rocking as she tried to hold off her orgasm. He didn’t need to be told twice; he fumbled around with the catch and pawed through the mess of girly contents until he felt the sharp rippled edge of a plastic packet. Praying it wasn’t a tampon, Greg lifted it out. God must’ve wanted him to get laid almost as much as he wanted to get laid because he lucked out on the first try. Using his teeth he ripped it open while Abby fought with zippers and wrestled with his pants and boxers until his cock was freed.
She leaned down to kiss him, the wet heat of her mouth on his cock almost made him lose control and let her finish what she’d started. He took hold of one pigtail and lightly tugged to get her attention. She looked up at him, and it was only by the slimmest of margins Greg didn’t come right then. Abby Sciuto with a mouthful of his cock, looking up at him with that “fuck-me” look in her eyes, was probably the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He decided fighting dirty was acceptable at this point.
“Oh Abby, I want be inside you, fuck you, make you come so hard…but if you keep doing that…well. We won’t have time, sweetheart.”
Either “sweetheart” was on the acceptable endearments list or she was too far gone to notice, whatever, it didn’t matter. She sat up and reached for the condom, somehow managing to slip it onto him while treating him to sloppy, wet kisses. Then she rose up and guided him into her with a little cry of animal satisfaction,
“So lovely…”
That was a new one. Lovely. Greg arched up, filling her as deep as he could. Oh, she was right, it was lovely. Lovely and hot and wet and tight.
He may have broken his old record, but Abby didn’t seem to care. Two strokes and she was bucking and yelping. She filled his happy ear with “Oh God!’s” and “Oh yes!’s” and his favourite, “Holy Fuck yes please God yes now Fuck!” as she pulled him close to her and came. He joined her a thrust or two later, groaning ecstatically while she kissed his face and laughed with delight.
After, she lay cuddled against his chest while he enjoyed the sensation of having a woman in his arms again, too blissed out to do more than stroke her back. The only other move he made was to crack the window a bit, just to air the musky “just had sex” smell out of the car and maybe defog the steamed up windows before any patrolling cops noticed and decided to check them out.
“Well…” he said.
“Yeah?”
“This definitely makes up for not going to Hawaii.”
Abby snorted, “Happy to help out with that.”
“Still, you and Hawaii would have been fucking unbelievable…”
“Well Smartiepants, I wouldn’t have gone if the conference was in Hawaii, I only signed up as a last minute speaker when they moved it to Cleveland.”
“Really? You wanted to come here…to Cleveland?” She nodded, “Any reason you have something against Hawaii?”
“Not really, it’s not so much Hawaii as it is all the sun and beaches and stuff. Not really my thing.”
“Ah, but that’s because you’ve never been surfing…”
“Sure I have.”
“Crowd surfing doesn’t count.”
“Oh. Well then, no.”
“You totally should, you’re very flexible and you have great balance.” He leered. “I only wish we had more time for me to observe your technique, you know-one scientist to another.”
Abby laughed, then groaned when she looked at her watch. “That’s right. We gotta go. If we leave now, I’ll only be a tiny bit late.” She kissed him softly. “But your proposal sounds interesting; I suggest we reconvene to conduct this experiment in private.”
“After dinner, which I’m buying because I totally called it first?”
“Yes. I’d love to.”
Abby managed to straighten up most of her clothes on the drive over.
“So do I look like I’ve just had amazing backseat car sex?” she asked at a stoplight.
“Yep,” Greg answered, flattered she’d consider his performance amazing. She was still mussed in a very adorable way. He, on the other hand, was looking rather seedy; a shower was a definite must.
“Great. How on earth am I going to pull this off?”
“Go in there and charm the pants of them like you did yesterday.
Trust me, the word’s been spread and I’ll bet you have a roomful of eager geeks just waiting for you to be you, Ms. Abby Sciuto, NCIS Agent Extraordinaire.”
Touched, she leaned over and gave him a rib cracking bear-hug, long enough that the light changed and the person behind them tapped their horn impatiently.
Greg used all of his creative rush hour skills to screech to a halt in front of the hotel only eight minutes past the time Abby was due to present. She dropped a quick kiss on his mouth then leaped out and ran inside.
Greg showered and changed in record time. He knew the Greedo Shot First shirt would pass muster now and he wasn’t planning on wearing it all that long anyway. He hurried back downstairs to catch the last of Abby’s talk. She saw him walk in and paused, the spark of sexual heat in her gaze was noticeable to some of the other attendees. They turned to see what she was looking at and Greg pretended like he was looking around too. Hiding the ruddy flush that had crept up his neck, thankful he was wearing a shirt that was long enough to hide the fact he was semi-hard and all she’d had to do was look at him for Christ’s sake. She winked at him and he coughed to cover his foolish smile.
Eons passed. Civilizations rose and fell. And finally every last question was answered, every last business card was exchanged and every hanger-on was cleared from the room. Greg couldn’t resist an impromptu kiss once he was standing in front of her again.
“I thought I was going to have to forcibly eject people,” he grumped.
“Jealous?” she teased.
“Damn straight!”
“So about dinner?” Abby moved closer, close enough that Greg could look down her top and see that he’d given her a bit of a red mark on her cleavage from his stubble.
“Yeah?” Guiltily, he lifted his eyes up and saw her, head tilted and a speculative look on her face.
“Feel like room service?” She asked as she hooked her fingers into his belt loops and pulled him close.
They managed a fairly sedate walk through the lobby, not slow enough to be a stroll but not a flat out run either. The elevator was problematic: the car was full and he and Abby were shoved to the back where she stood innocently in front of him, lightly running her nails up and down his thighs the whole time. By the sixth floor the last person, a slightly drunken businessman only too happy to chat with them, had staggered off and Greg spun Abby around before the doors had slid all the way shut. He pressed her into the corner, catching her evil giggles with his mouth and he kept it up until the eleventh floor where Abby’s room was. By then the giggles had turned to moans.
They stumbled out into the hall; half walking, half hugging as they stopped every few steps to kiss and loosen clothing. They reached her door and Abby dug around in her purse for her keycard, taking so long that finally Greg pushed her back against the door and helped himself to her beautiful mouth and fantastic breasts. Abby’d just hooked her leg around his hip and a distant part of Greg wondered if they were actually going to do it right there in the hotel corridor when Abby’s door opened suddenly and they went crashing to the floor.
Abby yelped, trapped under Greg. Greg, however, was struck dumb at the sight of the large, angry, very-capable-of-inflicting-bodily-harm looking man glaring down at them.
“Abby, why haven’t you been answering your cell?” he barked.
Abby peeked her head out from under Greg’s arm.
“Gibbs! What are you doing here?”
Gibbs? This was Gibbs. Greg felt all the spit in his mouth dry up when he saw Jethro Gibbs take in their state of undress and narrow his eyes at Greg. There wouldn’t be any smack on the head for Greg, no, he recognized that look, it promised a slow and painful death.
Greg scrambled to his feet and helped Abby up, somehow managing to zip his fly while he did so. He didn’t have to worry about hiding any tell-tale bulge in his pants, any erection he’d had had long shrivelled up under Gibb’s laser scrutiny. Abby was slightly less with the terrified and instead going more with the pissed/embarrassed, she tugged her shirt down and confronted him.
“What are you doing in my room!”
“Waiting for you. I kept trying you on your cell and you didn’t show up for your last scheduled talk-”
“I was late...we were-.”
“Visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame” Greg blurted.
Again those cold steely eyes swung Greg’s way and he clearly saw the epigraph on his tombstone written in them.
“How do you do sir, Greg Sanders…” He held out his hand and Gibbs stared at it like it was covered in six kinds of dog shit. Greg’s outstretched hand wavered then dropped.
“Oh don’t be so rude” Abby snapped at Gibbs. “And you still haven’t explained how you got into my room-oh never mind, you broke in, didn’t you?”
Then, the most amazing thing happened; Gibbs backed down and started sounding apologetic. It was like watching a grizzly bear being trounced by a kitten. A very angry goth kitten.
“I was worried about you…something big has come up and we need you back at headquarters.”
“Well get someone else to handle it. I have plans.” Abby gamely looped her arm through Greg’s. “I’m on a date.”
Dead he was dead he was so dead. Greg recognized the slightly proprietary glint that came into Gibbs’ eyes, the hardening of the mouth. Grissom looked the same way when he flirted too openly with Sara. The thing was Grissom wouldn’t feed him his own elbow for doing so; this Gibbs guy looked like he’d be only too happy to help out with that.
Well, Abby was worth it, no doubt about that.
“I don’t care, Abby I need you back at work now. Pack your things; I’ve got a Black Hawk waiting on the roof. We lift-off in five.”
This dude flew around in Black Hawk helicopters? He was able to use military jargon like “lift off in five” without sounding like a complete tool? Greg had to grudgingly admit, Jethro Gibbs was pretty cool. Frightening, but cool.
Abby glared at Gibbs and he glared right back. Greg studied the seascape on the wall over the bed very intently during this Mexican standoff. Nice use of color; pleasedontkillme he thought. At last, Abby huffed out an angry “Fine! But you owe me!” and Greg was surprised at how disappointed he felt. Assured of his continued existence on the planet, yeah, but disappointed all the same.
“Can you give me a couple minutes?” She nodded towards Greg and Gibbs held up one finger. “One minute. Then I’m coming back…and everyone’s clothes better be on.” He looked hard at Greg but he needn’t have worried. Greg was pretty sure he’d be showering fully dressed for the next little while.
“Sorry about that, Gibbs can be kind of-”
“Incredibly scary?”
“Yeah, that.”
Abby looked so woeful and apologetic, he took her hand.
“Hey, these things happen, I’m in the same line of work, remember?”
“It’s so unfair. I’m still really…” she leaned in and whispered, “aroused, you know?”
Greg goggled at her; after all of that she was still ready to go?
As usual his mouth was way ahead of his brain. “Well, I may be fast but I’m not that fast. Plus, I kinda enjoy breathing on my own…”
Abby laughed and hugged him. “I’m so glad I met you, Greg” she sighed into his ear.
“Me too” he answered and kissed her cheek.
They started walking towards the door, “If you ever get out to Vegas…” Greg offered. He doubted it; girls like Abby were a one shot deal most of the time.
“I’d love to.” She said it like she meant it; he appreciated the kind gesture anyway.
They stood awkwardly, holding hands, only too aware of the forbidding presence just outside the door.
“Have a safe trip, flying around in a Black Hawk helicopter, that’s cool!”
“Mostly they’re just noisy.”
“I guess…”
There was a knock at the door and Abby sighed theatrically,
“Yes Jethro! I know!” She yanked open the door. “He was just leaving.” Gibbs merely grunted and kept slouching against the wall.
“Do you have a pen?” She asked Greg.
Greg dug around in his pockets and came up with one. Abby scrawled her email and work and home numbers on the back of his hand.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back to Vegas,” he promised.
Gibbs snorted his disbelief at that, thinking he knew a line when he heard one. Abby shot him a pissed look and grabbed Greg by the front of his tee shirt and pulled him in for a toe-curling goodbye kiss.
Greg couldn’t help the slightly smug expression but he was smart enough to not try to antagonize Gibbs any further so he left; only stopping to wave one last time to Abby from the end of the hall.
Vegas was definitely lacking something when he got back. Sure, it was good to see the team again, but there were no red and black stripes, no platform boots, no jingling chains and bone cracking bear hugs, in short, no Abby. His life was seriously deficient in the daily recommended allowance of Abbyness. Talking on the phone the odd time, exchanging a few emails, it just wasn’t the same. Greg started listening to Randy Newman on his iPod a lot more than he’d ever dreamed he would. He began to face facts, whatever it was, it was over. He’d think, ‘we’ll always have Cleveland…’ and loathe himself for being so emo. Even a notorious wet-blanket like Hodges had started to avoid him, and that was a definite bad sign.
He was moping in the lab, playing catch-up by running backlogged PCR’s for nightshift and trying to avoid Sara, who had taken it upon herself to “cheer him up” which she did with a determined aggressiveness that was a little bit scary When there was a chime and the PA system announced, “CSI Sanders to the front desk, Greg Sanders to the front desk please.” By the time he got there he’d run a gauntlet of knowing looks and whispers. What the hell was going on?
What was going on, were Nick, Warrick, and even Catherine hanging about the desk with expectant looks. They broke into pleased grins when the receptionist made him sign for a delivery then handed over a large box, clearly meant for flowers.
“Who’s sending you flowers, Greg? A special someone you’ve met recently?” Catherine asked innocently.
“Yeah, Greggo, care to share?” Nick added.
“Hey, be cool man. A gentleman never kisses and tells” Warrick said, nudging Greg. “Right?”
Ignoring them all, Greg took the box into the one place he was guaranteed some privacy, the washrooms. He headed for the last stall and locked the door sitting down awkwardly as the box took up most of the room in the tiny cubicle. Opening it, he found a dozen long-stemmed roses, every one of them pitch black. He just knew he was grinning like an idiot. Where on earth did she find black roses? Tucked in with the roses was a note:Finally able to collect on that debt Gibbs owed me, and seeing as I found a black swimsuit I could consider wearing somewhere tropical, I was wondering if you might be available to help me conduct some experiments about balance and flexibility as it pertains to “surfing”?
The note was signed with a scrawling Abby and included a confirmation for a two-week hotel reservation in Hawaii three weeks from now. Greg hastily jammed the lid back on the flowers and left the bathroom. He had the vacation request form filled out and sitting on Grissom’s desk ten minutes later. As he left Grissom’s office he couldn’t help whistling a little as he strutted down the hall. As he passed Hodges and Brass, Hodges caught a snatch of the tune and stopped mid-lecture about the trace he’d found.
The Lord can make you tumble, the Lord can make you turn, the Lord can make you overflow…But the Lord can’t make you burn. Burn on, big river burn on…
Hodges turned to the captain, “Sanders is singing Randy Newman songs at work now? What a nerd…shoot me if I ever get that lame.”
“Don’t worry, I have a bullet with your name on it all picked out” Brass said.
“You’re kidding right?” Hodges laughed nervously.
“Sure thing, buddy. Now about that trace…”
FIN
A/N: The Cuyahoga actually did catch on fire in 1969 and a number of times before that. Time magazine covered the fire including such damming quotes as: "the Cuyahoga doesn't flow, it oozes" and "If you fall in the Cuyahoga you don't drown, you decay" public outcry led to legislation of the Clean Water Act. Ironically, the Cuyahoga is still considered a Great Lakes Area of Concern and clean-up is continuing.
A/N The Second: As far as I'm concerned Randy Newman kicks ass. That is all.
We kept hoping someone would write it; turns out, that someone was me.
Dedicated to Ron; while it would squick me immensely to know that you have read porn I've written, and I know you'll never ever read this, you did introduce me to Abby. Guess what, I get a kick out of her too. *much love*
Fandom: CSI/NCIS X-over
Pairing: Greg/Abby
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Cleveland: city of light, city of magic, at least for Greg.
Disclaimer: Yeah, right. Not mine, never were.
Thanks are owed to eshadlow and annebelle_ca for the speedy beta work, any and all errors that remain are mine alone. The joke is curtesy of monanotlisa by way of Hepcat who forwarded it to me. And a big fat "merci" to K who never stopped bugging me to write this, despite the mountain of WIP's I have going on.
Greg had been excited when he had found out it was his turn to go. Warrick had been; Catherine had been; Sara had gone twice, once with Nick and they still yakked about it; even Grissom had been wooed away from the lab a time or two to deliver a keynote paper at the annual Forensic Science Association of America conference. This year the fates had seemed to smile on him because it was going to be held in sunny exotic Hawaii for the first time ever.
And it was his turn to go. Can I get a big fat aloha, brothers and sisters? Hell yeah!
Ever since he’d found out he was being considered as a possible attendee, Greg had been dropping subtle hints about his suitability as a representative of the LVPD Crime Lab over that of his co-workers-most notably Hodges.
Well if you could call casually mentioning one time, “Did you know, Mia told me she considered me a double threat because I was trained in both lab forensics and fieldwork…double threat, you know like an actor that can also sing. Cool huh?,” rather loudly to Sara when Ecklie was in earshot. Mia had said no such thing; anyway, like anyone could check and dammit he really wanted to go. Okay, maybe it had been mentioned more than once; maybe enough that Nick had started calling him Doublethreat as a joke and worse still, Sara had found the nickname irresistible and immediately picked up on it too. But this wasn’t a time to be worried about his pride; this was a time to gain an advantage over King Suckup himself, Hodges. And how else could he do that apart from a few well placed “nuanced impressions”?
Greg never knew if it was his machinations or more probably, just plain dumb luck that had influenced the powers-that-be to offer the spot to him. As if he’d say no? Anyone could see that would make a guy do a little in-your-face victory dance, well anyone human-Hodges didn’t count-he was going to Hawaii!
Then Tropical Storm Wendell had come along and ruined everything. It had spared most of the island chain, just coming on shore long enough to cause sufficient damage to the hotel the conference was booked at so that the organizers had no choice but to rebook at the last minute-in Cleveland.
“Cleveland….city of light, city of maaaaagic….” Hodges sang when he gleefully broke the news to Greg in the locker room.
Greg stood there in his recently purchased “authentic” Hawaiian shirt and tried to think of a good reason not to punch Hodges in the nose. He had ample cause, not the least of which was for singing a Randy Newman song.
Sara’s chummy shoulder hug and philosophical, “Well, it’s not like you get to do much sightseeing at these things anyway. You’re so busy attending all the panels and lectures,” had helped. If only because it confirmed that Sara was an even bigger nerd than he had previously suspected.
“Of course you do! It’s all about proper panel management….working the schedule…” Finding time to get in some heavy duty surfing...he thought.
“Skipping out on the really boring stuff,” Catherine chimed in to Sara’s shock.
“You can’t skip out, that’s like…reneging on-”
“What? The sacred conference bond?” Nick interrupted playfully, “look Sar’ we all do it.”
“I don’t” she said hotly, banging her locker shut.
“Which makes you a nerd” Greg said.
“I am not a nerd. I just like attending lectures and contributing to panel discussions and…other things like that” she trailed off, aware of their looks. “C’mon guys, conferences can be exciting! All that knowledge…”
Greg wasn’t all that convinced and from all the awkward floating around neither was anyone else. Sara gamely pressed on,
“We’re scientists. We love to learn. If that makes me a nerd, fine, but you’re all nerds then too.”
“Not me,” Catherine laughed, “I may be a scientist but I’m no nerd.”
“Me either,” said Nick, “even I’ve skipped a few panels in my time. I’m with Doublethreat on this one that is kinda nerdy, Sara.”
“Cleveland…even now I can remember…’cause the Cuyahoga River goes smoking through my dreams…” Hodges sang as he swanned out of the locker room in his lab coat shooting an evil look of triumph at Greg as he did so.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
“Now that-that’s nerdy,” said Catherine.
“Yeah...” Sara agreed. “Guys, you’d let me know if I ever got that bad wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t worry, Hodges sets the bar pretty high. I think you’re safe,” Catherine replied as they filed out of the locker room. Distracted, Greg smoothed the pineapple print fabric of his shirt and thought to himself, Cleveland; it can’t be all that bad-can it?
***
So Cleveland.
Yeah.
Greg slumped in his chair and was almost sorry that he was about 30 years too late to see the Cuyahoga River actually burning. If he couldn’t have sun, sand, and surf at the very least he should be able to see a fucking river on fire.
Maybe he should set himself on fire. Maybe that would distract from the mind-numbing festival of dullness this panel was turning out to be.
Greg grinned to himself thinking of a joke Jackie had told him just before he’d left. He’d made it a habit to try and top her endless supply of off-color wisecracks every time he’d dropped by fingerprint analysis. So far she’d always managed to make him laugh before she did. Her latest:
“Build a man a fire and he’ll be warm for one night…but set a man on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.”
He chuckled, causing the man seated next to him to scowl and clear his throat pointedly.
Greg made with the apology face; he guessed giggling during a panel about volatile fatty acid levels in cadaver purge fluids was guaranteed to get him some strange looks; not that he shouldn’t be used to that by now.
Working in an environment like Vegas had insulated him somewhat from the clip-on tie, white shirt, Sans-a-Belt slacks reality of the rest of the forensics world. His attire; his most conservative rock band shirt-he’d left the Hawaiian ones back home, too bummed to think of wearing them-jeans with only one ripped knee and his favourite Chuck Taylor’s had drawn him all kinds of looks. Several times he had been approached by conference organizers to inquire if he “was lost” only to be deterred by the official conference pass hanging round his neck. He’d taken to warding them off with it, brandishing it like a crucifix as if they were some kind of strange overly polite, poorly dressed vampires. It passed the time-some.
Passing the time had become his latest obsession. Greg had already charged more than one big expensive room service meal on the expense account; he’d tried the hotel pool, the hotel gym and had even toured the gift shop for lack of anything else to do. On his first day here he’d hit the North Shore tourist district hard, intending to wring every last drop of fun out of Cleveland-if such a thing were even possible. But doing the tourist thing by yourself was kind of lame. He’d semi attached himself to a Red Hat tour group from Kenosha, Wisconsin but the mistrustful looks from little old ladies coupled with the fact he wasn’t over 60, b) clad entirely in red and purple and c) lacking sequins had made him stick out like a sore thumb. He’d visited the Warehouse district and charged more expensive meals on the expense account and checked out the statue of Moses Cleaveland in Public Square, which was about as thrilling as looking as a statue of an old dead guy can be, even if you factor in the five minutes of his life he’d never get back wondering what happened to the extra “a” in Cleveland.. He thought he wasn’t quite desperate enough to hang out in the Cleveland Arcade. It wasn’t like Cleveland had anything on Vegas merchandise-wise and the prospect of being seen as a creepy mall slacker by gangs of giggling ‘tweens made his blood run cold. Even if it was the first indoor mall in America and “a stunning example of 19th century period architecture” he did have some dignity thankyouverymuch.
So he was forced to actually do conference stuff for lack of anything else to do-Sara would’ve been proud of him. He’d hit all of his morning panels and the conference organizers’ sad attempt to bring Hawaii to Ohio by having an “all you can eat luau buffet and mixer!” at lunch had only depressed him so he’d attended a lunchtime discussion too. This had also served the purpose of preventing him from having to make forced small talk with guys named Barry and Duane from places like Sioux City and Racine, who had only wanted to subtly or not so subtly inquire about their chances of getting hired in a “happening place” like Vegas. What they didn’t realize was that their use of the phrase “happening” had only served to immediately disqualify them in Greg’s mind. The only remotely interesting people at the panel discussion-the illustrious boys and girls of the Eff-Bee-Eye had taken one look at Greg and his boy band hair and dismissed him as a lightweight. All his attempts to “network” had been politely but firmly rebuffed. Well, fuck them! Lousy government suits, thinking they were better than him, whatever. None of them gave off the slightest Mulder or Scully vibe anyway, therefore: tres uncool.
Greg was reluctantly coming to the realization that this might just be the worst trip he’d ever taken, maybe even topping that unfortunate Mexican backpacking trip when he’d OD’ed on the local-and very spicy-cuisine and then discovered the true meaning of “intestinal distress” (also the incredible ability of habanera peppers to retain their heat despite a trip through the digestive tract). Hodges would have had more fun. Cleveland and Hodges were made for each other; a boring match made in Dull Heaven.
He debated with himself for a moment, continue on and attend the final panel of the day or book and maybe see what was on Pay-Per-View; he thought he might have seen a promo for Naughty Nurses 13 and brushing up on some basic healthcare techniques couldn’t hurt…
No. Watching porno alone in his room was just too sad. He’d at least stick his head in and check it out then if it sucked maybe he’d hit the town. A styling single guy like him must be able get some action at one of the local hotspots and if not, there were always the caring nurses of St. Dildos to offer some comfort.
Greg checked his schedule some chick from the Navy Criminal Investigation Service was supposed to be leading a panel on recent advances in blood and tissue analysis. Sounded like it was going to be as much fun as a barrel of monkeys…boring comatose monkeys. He sighed and slipped into the conference room.
For a moment, he thought he was in the wrong place. The room was packed and erupted into a pleased rumble of laughter as he entered. He wondered if they were laughing at him but the attention of everyone in the room was focused up front. Curious, he shouldered his way through the crowd along one side until he could see what all the fuss was about. The fuss apparently, was wearing black patent knee high platform boots, fishnet tights, a school girl skirt and Emily Strange baby tee, topped with a lab coat, raven pigtails, a spider-web tattoo on her neck (her neck!) and enough chains, spiked belts and dog collars that she jingled when she walked. Greg blinked. If the conference organizers were always accosting him because of his outfit how on Earth had they let this Gothic Lolita slip past them?
Gradually it dawned on him the woman was the center of attention not for what she was wearing but for what she was saying; she wasn’t lost, she was presenting. Greg shut his mouth, realizing it had dropped open a little bit. The woman looked over and saw him and smiled, but didn’t stop talking. Greg fumbled open his program: who was this person? Abigail (Abby) Sciuto: NCIS.
NCIS? What’s NCIS?
Greg nudged the older blonde woman beside him, “What’s NCIS?”
She didn’t turn her attention from Abigail (Abby) Sciuto, just muttered “Navy Criminal Investigation Service,” out of the corner of her mouth.
Huh. Somehow he hadn’t pictured the United States Navy as being quite so welcoming of…free spirits like this Abby person must be.
Free spirit was maybe not the right phrase; blackly cheerful force of nature might be more appropriate. The more she spoke, the more Greg noticed just how cute, eager and smart she was. And he wasn’t the only one. Soon she held the room full of scientists in the palm of one her black and red striped, fingerless glove wearing hands. He was swept along with the rest of them, aware of nothing but Abby and the morbid slides of murder victims and blood splatter she was so joyfully and enthusiastically sharing her ideas about until she started to wind it up. He checked his watch and was shocked to learn two hours had passed. Greg joined in with the brief but heartfelt burst of applause while she blushed and held up her hands.
“Thank you so much. But you must have questions… seriously any questions? C’mon guys don’t be shy.”
A rabbity looking man with an aborted attempt at a moustache and an adoring look held up his hand.
“I just wanted to tell you that was the most informative, thorough talk about blood droplet analysis I’ve ever attended.”
Abby beamed, “Aww thank you so much, that’s so sweet of you to say!” Then she jingled forward and swept the surprised and delighted man into a firm hug. She hugs people? Strangers? Greg scrambled to think of a question, but a dozen other hands shot into the air ahead of him.
Greg never felt like such a nerd in his whole life; during the Q & A he hung around and racked his brains trying to think of the ultimate question, the question that would top all of the other scientific minds who were struggling to do the exact same thing. The debate was lively and inspiring and he realized Sara was right; learning new things was exciting! Greg was pumped by the whole exchange, more than pumped, kind of turned on actually. Sexy little ripples of excitement were thrumming in his belly and that could only be the reason why he was approaching Ms. “Oh please, call me Abby” Sciuto right now.
She disengaged from her last admirer, turned to him and leaned in to read his nametag. Greg caught the faintest whiff of gunpowder and a silly grin spread over his face; she even smelled like excitement and danger.
“Greg Sanders, how do you do, I’m Abby.”
They shook and Greg held on a minute longer than he should have. She didn’t seem to mind and his smile grew even wider.
“Ohmigod! The Voidoids! I love them!” Abby pointed to his shirt and they were off, chatting about bands they’d seen, bands they wished they’d seen and Greg could practically feel the electric sizzle of interest beaming out of his eyes into hers. She was so easy to flirt with, laughing at all of his jokes and touching his arm just so now and then. He let the reckless crazy feelings roll through him. Bouncing up and down on his toes he went for it.
“Say, I know it might be kind of lame but I haven’t checked out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet, wanna come with?”
Of course he had, heading straight for the rooms with The Clash and The Ramones exhibits in them, but where else was cool in Cleveland? Abby “hmmm”-ed, looking at her watch and the sexy engine in Greg’s stomach faltered and missed a gear. This wasn’t a good sign.
“Isn’t it closed now?”
Stupid stupid stupid. “Well, yeah but we could go tomorrow afternoon, if you want…” his grin stretched, becoming slightly forced and desperate.
“Oh I can’t. I have another panel.” Abby seemed disappointed but that didn’t stop the engine from seizing up with a shudder and Greg prepared to get shot down. “Tell you what, why don’t we meet for breakfast and we’ll go in the morning, okay?”
“That’s alright I understand-what? I mean, great! Cool, breakfast then the Hall of Fame. I can do that, looking forward to it.” He started backing away before he jinxed things.
“What time?” Abby asked.
“Oh right-uhh I don’t know, 10 am good for you?”
“Perfect.”
He nodded and turned, trying for a casual mosey for the exit.
“Greg?” She called; amusement on her face.
“Yeah?”
“Where?”
Where? Where? What did she mean where; they were in Cleveland weren’t they?
She rescued him. “Where should we meet up, it’s a big hotel…”
Oh right. Wow, he was being so uncool right now. She was going to think he never asked girls out if he kept acting like such a spaz. His mind went blank, where could they meet? He didn’t know!
“Where would you like to meet?” Trying for roguish and mysterious and ending up just to the left of lame. He was sure, back in Vegas, right at this moment, Hodges was suddenly filled with an enormous sense of well-being.
“How about the lobby?” She said patiently. Lobby! So obvious! Hotels always have lobbies.
“Sounds good, I’ll see you there at ten.” Get out now before she changes her mind! He made himself try for a fast saunter, because a mosey was a bit beyond his capabilities just then, to the exit and restrained his self destructive urge to shoot her a wink and a finger gun salute and offered a little half wave instead. The silly grin, he was sure, remained plastered on his face for the rest of the night.
The next morning he was fifteen minutes early, even after changing into all his shirts three times in an attempt to find the one with the highest coolness factor. Should he go with another logo shirt? He thought the Vans’ Warped Tour shirt might seem like he was trying too hard but the “Greedo Shot First” one could make him look like an ubergeek. Desperate, he had picked them all up and threw them over his shoulders onto the bed, closed his eyes and picked one at random. Nervously, he plucked at the wide lapel of the lucky winner; a vintage seventies polyester number with a swirling pattern Hodges once called “nausea-inducing”. Greg figured he’d take that sentiment as a benediction, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he still had time to go change…
The elevator doors slid open and Abby strolled out yawning hugely. She caught sight of him and waved, hurrying over, drawing stares from people lingering in the lobby. Today’s outfit had made a concession to the walking about a trip to the museum entailed, no platform boots but rather black Mary Jane’s with spikes on the strap. The stripes must be a recurring motif with her, Greg decided, because rather than gloves, she had on purple and black striped stockings, another jailbaity skirt, complete with tattered lace trim, and a black top with a very evil looking teddy bear on it. She still made jingling noises when she moved caused this time by the chain belt and necklaces she was wearing. Greg thought if the Wicked Witch of the West had a younger sexy cousin who was into bondage, Abby might be her.
“You look great” he said as she loped over to him. She smiled and did a little pirouette for him.
“Thank you! Cool shirt. I love the pattern.” She reached out and stroked the fabric over his chest leaving a pleasant little tingle behind. Greg silently thanked Hodges for his sartorial clueless-ness. After debating the merits of healthy versus greasefest, they settled on loading up on carbs “for stamina”. The only place Greg could think of was IHOP not the greatest place to go. If they were back in Vegas, Greg knew exactly what funky little café he’d take her too, but he was off home turf and at the mercy of chain restaurants. Abby solved the problem by dragging him over to the concierge and asking him where the best breakfast in town was.
After a few wrong turns in the rental car, they wound up at the Galaxie Diner, a tiny hole in the wall kind of place that was perfect. They sat in a booth and the first thing Abby did after plunking her metal lunchbox “purse” down was ask the waitress for a pot of coffee, not a cup, the whole pot.
“I’m not really a morning person,” she explained.
“Me either. I usually work third shift.”
“We don’t really have a third, it’s just I’m naturally a night person.” Greg thought he probably could have guessed that all by himself. She was pale, not in the unhealthy way, just in the way Greg knew everyone on third with him usually only saw the sun rise and set and missed out on all the shining parts in between.
They didn’t offer pots of coffee at the Galaxie, the waitress told them, but she brought Greg and Abby the biggest cups she had and promised to keep them topped up often. She was good on her word, both on the coffee and her assertion that the blueberry pancakes were the best thing on the menu. Greg found he was mostly nodding and eating as Abby filled him in on life in the employ of the feds. Greg learned a little something about the people she worked with: a Tony, a Ziva, a McGee, a Gibbs and a “Ducky” person Greg was pretty sure was the NCIS version of Doc Robbins. He couldn’t keep it all quite straight but was reluctant to interrupt her happy flow of words; her affection for her co-workers was obvious. Greg found himself feeling a little envious; would Sara or Catherine gush so enthusiastically about him?
“So this Gibbs guy? Is he a scientist?” Greg was trying for context, Gibbs equals Grissom.
“Jethro? No, he’s ex-military. God, he isn’t even computer savvy, he just smacks stuff until it works, or breaks, which is more likely.”
Okay then, Greg revised his mental image, he couldn’t imagine Grissom whaling on a compound microscope, also the dude’s name was Jethro? Greg pictured a balding, by-the-book, dumb as a bag of hammers, drill sergeant type of guy.
“Gibbs also likes to smack Tony on occasion too…” Abby admitted.
Check that, a mean balding ex-military despot. Poor girl, she must really hate working for a tinhat like this Gibbs guy must be.
They’d long ago stopped eating and just talked instead, while Abby powered up on an enormous quantity of coffee. They covered the waterfront of conversational ideas, but like professionals everywhere they kept returning to work; worst case, toughest case, dumbest criminal, funniest lab accident. Greg checked the time,
“Hey, we better motor if we’re going to hit the Hall of Fame and still get you back in time for your next panel.”
After a brief struggle over who was going to pay the bill, Greg conceded to Abby’s “I was the one who asked you to breakfast,” argument only after extracting a promise from her that he would cover the cost of their admission at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
He found they were both of a similar mind when it came to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; just surrender to the cheese and embrace it. They bounced from exhibit to exhibit, trying everything interactive, sometimes more than once. Greg decided he’d never had so much fun at a museum, especially when he made Abby laugh with his asides and snarky comments. He shared his musical likes and dislikes and learned hers. They were of a similar mind; Bowie was a genius and it would be a sure sign of the apocalypse if Celine Dion made it into the Hall of Fame. She loved The Smiths just like him, but thought Morrissey could stand to lighten up a bit. His Morrissey impression: a dirge-like yodelling of “I am Human and I need to be loved…just like everybody else does…” complete with affected angsty sneer was the topper, she was laughing so hard she had to grab onto him for support. He felt very fine indeed as they headed hand in hand through the parking lot back to the rental. He was sorry to have to take her back to the hotel and end the fun. She must have thought so too.
“I’ve got some time to kill yet, let’s go for a drive.” She said when he climbed in after putting all her gift shop booty-gifts for the gang at work-in the trunk.
So they did. Greg changed his mind, just tooling around the North Coast District in a rented Chevrolet, listening to music, holding onto Abby’s hand was maybe the most fine he’d felt in a long time. They were heading for the river when Abby straightened.
“Ooo! Quick, pull over!” She demanded, pointing to a convenience store. Greg did and she hopped out, coming back a few minutes later with two big-ass takeout cups.
“What’s this?” Greg asked when she handed one to him.
“Only the best drink ever invented, Caff-Pow. Try it, you’ll love it!”
He did, mimicking Abby’s hearty slurp.
“So? Isn’t it great?”
Greg coughed, he didn’t know about great but the super sweet liquid had almost certainly given him the power to observe the motion of atomic particles firsthand now.
“Wow. That really has a kick.” He said, half waiting for his heart to start thrumming like a hummingbird’s as he carefully set the drink aside.
She looked disappointed, “You don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it…it’s just that I could probably get out and push the car after just one sip and I’d much rather stay in here with you.”
Abby smiled and shrugged, “Suit yourself. I’ll drink it, if you don’t want it.”
“How do you sleep at night, I mean seriously?” Greg opened his eyes wide, “I’ve had just a taste and I’m all…vibratey.”
“In a coffin, usually.” Abby said, and laughed at his expression.
They wound up in a slightly shabby parking lot in the Flats, in an industrial area overlooking the Cuyahoga. Greg parked the car and they climbed out and sat on the hood in the warm spring sunshine, watching the barges bull their way upstream as the gulls circled and screamed raucous complaints.
“You know, way back in ‘69 the river caught on fire” Greg said.
“Really?” Abby looked out at the river, sun diamonds flashing on the water making her squint. “How, it’s water? Not great smelling water, but water all the same.”
“Well I guess it was so polluted. I mean we’re talking years and years of industrial dumping. One day, for some reason it caught fire and kept burning because of all the oil and toxic sludge in the river. Can you imagine what that would have looked like-at night?”
They looked out at the river, each imagining the burning river, smoke and flames rippling and twisting, orange firelight reflecting on the black water.
“Cool! Well, except for the polluted part. Still…” she said.
“I know.” Greg nodded, knowing that if they’d both been here then, they’d have been irresistibly drawn to watch the spectacle. It was then he decided to kiss her.
He leaned over touching his lips to her slightly sticky ones, tasting a hint of Caff-Pow. She opened her mouth to him and Greg wondered if it was the traces of the drink that were making his heart beat so hard. He slid his hand up her sun-warmed back and pulled her closer, he smiled against her mouth when she scooted over with a small ching-a-ling noise. She pulled back.
“What?”
Greg hooked a finger through the ring on one of the chokers she wore, “Nothing, I’ll tell you later…C’mere.” And he pulled her to him again.
It was the loud “Crump” sound the hood made when it gave underneath her elbow that finally pulled them apart. Shaky and a little breathless they sat up. Greg shot Abby a sheepish look, half-guilty about making out in public with her on the hood of a rental car long enough to bend it out of true but she only slid down and grabbed his hand.
“Backseat. Let’s go!”
Papa Olaf told him to never argue with a lady, so, Greg hopped down and held the door open for her. Abby climbed in and pulled him after her, giggling.
Greg had forgotten the contortions required to properly see to a girl in the backseat of a car. His knee was jammed down on the hump where the drivetrain was and his leg was beginning to send faint warning twinges of an impending cramp to his brain. He decided he could tough it out when Abby revealed yet another tattoo and he found himself kissing that one too.
She took pity on him and manoeuvred them both into a sitting position with her straddling his lap; she tilted her head sidewise to keep her head from banging on the roof of the car. Greg didn’t mind because his tongue could finally trace each line of that spider-web tat she had and from the happy purr Abby made, it didn’t seem like she minded either.
Greg was stymied by the stripey tights though. Her skirt was so short they couldn’t be thigh-highs and her skirt was so short his hands couldn’t help finding their way up her thighs to cup her ass. She ground against him, pressing the hot wet spot that had darkened the crotch of her tights against the firm bulge of his cock. He longed to accommodate her and help her out of them, but that would mean taking his hands off her. He matched her impatient groan with one of his own.
“I know, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.” She growled, nipping at his earlobe.
“Ow. Sorry.”
He wasn’t really, that little bite had done amazing things to his cock.
“Abigail, was it?”
Another bite, this time on his neck.
“Abby? Oh-jesus-yes!”
Abby’s clever little teeth had found the sweet spot where his neck met his shoulder.
“Good boy…” She breathed into his ear. They grinned at each other, Greg never minded letting a woman have her own way, especially when it involved her having her own way with him.
Abby proved she was not only cute and smart but very, very supple when she slipped out of her shoes, drew her leg up and somehow shimmied out of one leg of the tights. Greg was amazed and only too happy to reward her flexibility by stroking her right where her urgent hands were guiding him.
Greg would have been more than satisfied to make Abby come right there by the Cuyahoga but after a few moments of watching her take her pleasure from his efforts, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Oh god I need to be fucked. Right. Now.” She sounded slightly dazed but very sure of herself.
“Abby, I’d love to…trust me I’d love nothing more…” Greg trailed off as she rocked hard, moaning, as his fingers found her sweet spot.
“But…?” She managed.
“I don’t have anything,” he kissed her pouting mouth and slowed his movements, fingers gently circling her clit, “and you have a panel discussion to get to.”
Abby sat very still. Startled, Greg stopped what he’d been doing too. He had thought they could fool around for a few minutes more at least.
“Do you take a long time?”
Greg was flustered; that wasn’t really the kind of thing you admitted to a girl during heavy petting. Abby scrunched up her nose and waved her hands, mentally erasing what she’d just said.
“I mean, can you be quick, if you had to?”
“I guess…if I had to.” Could he have a quickie in the backseat of a car with an incredibly sexy and more than willing chick? Almost certainly!
“Hand me my purse!”
Greg leaned forward with Abby on his lap and groped around in the front seat. She giggled then gasped as Greg lurched around looking for her purse.
“Just a sec…” His fingers brushed against the cool metal surface.
“Take your time” she whimpered hotly. Greg grinned and scooted
forward to grab it, feeling Abby’s fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Here.” He leaned back and offered the purse to her.
Abby looked up from where she’d buried her face in his shoulder, her eyes dark with need, Greg was a little surprised at how close she was. Good, because he might just break his “Is that it?” record, something he hadn’t worried about since high school.
“Inside. I have condoms…” Abby was panting slightly, hips unconsciously rocking as she tried to hold off her orgasm. He didn’t need to be told twice; he fumbled around with the catch and pawed through the mess of girly contents until he felt the sharp rippled edge of a plastic packet. Praying it wasn’t a tampon, Greg lifted it out. God must’ve wanted him to get laid almost as much as he wanted to get laid because he lucked out on the first try. Using his teeth he ripped it open while Abby fought with zippers and wrestled with his pants and boxers until his cock was freed.
She leaned down to kiss him, the wet heat of her mouth on his cock almost made him lose control and let her finish what she’d started. He took hold of one pigtail and lightly tugged to get her attention. She looked up at him, and it was only by the slimmest of margins Greg didn’t come right then. Abby Sciuto with a mouthful of his cock, looking up at him with that “fuck-me” look in her eyes, was probably the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He decided fighting dirty was acceptable at this point.
“Oh Abby, I want be inside you, fuck you, make you come so hard…but if you keep doing that…well. We won’t have time, sweetheart.”
Either “sweetheart” was on the acceptable endearments list or she was too far gone to notice, whatever, it didn’t matter. She sat up and reached for the condom, somehow managing to slip it onto him while treating him to sloppy, wet kisses. Then she rose up and guided him into her with a little cry of animal satisfaction,
“So lovely…”
That was a new one. Lovely. Greg arched up, filling her as deep as he could. Oh, she was right, it was lovely. Lovely and hot and wet and tight.
He may have broken his old record, but Abby didn’t seem to care. Two strokes and she was bucking and yelping. She filled his happy ear with “Oh God!’s” and “Oh yes!’s” and his favourite, “Holy Fuck yes please God yes now Fuck!” as she pulled him close to her and came. He joined her a thrust or two later, groaning ecstatically while she kissed his face and laughed with delight.
After, she lay cuddled against his chest while he enjoyed the sensation of having a woman in his arms again, too blissed out to do more than stroke her back. The only other move he made was to crack the window a bit, just to air the musky “just had sex” smell out of the car and maybe defog the steamed up windows before any patrolling cops noticed and decided to check them out.
“Well…” he said.
“Yeah?”
“This definitely makes up for not going to Hawaii.”
Abby snorted, “Happy to help out with that.”
“Still, you and Hawaii would have been fucking unbelievable…”
“Well Smartiepants, I wouldn’t have gone if the conference was in Hawaii, I only signed up as a last minute speaker when they moved it to Cleveland.”
“Really? You wanted to come here…to Cleveland?” She nodded, “Any reason you have something against Hawaii?”
“Not really, it’s not so much Hawaii as it is all the sun and beaches and stuff. Not really my thing.”
“Ah, but that’s because you’ve never been surfing…”
“Sure I have.”
“Crowd surfing doesn’t count.”
“Oh. Well then, no.”
“You totally should, you’re very flexible and you have great balance.” He leered. “I only wish we had more time for me to observe your technique, you know-one scientist to another.”
Abby laughed, then groaned when she looked at her watch. “That’s right. We gotta go. If we leave now, I’ll only be a tiny bit late.” She kissed him softly. “But your proposal sounds interesting; I suggest we reconvene to conduct this experiment in private.”
“After dinner, which I’m buying because I totally called it first?”
“Yes. I’d love to.”
Abby managed to straighten up most of her clothes on the drive over.
“So do I look like I’ve just had amazing backseat car sex?” she asked at a stoplight.
“Yep,” Greg answered, flattered she’d consider his performance amazing. She was still mussed in a very adorable way. He, on the other hand, was looking rather seedy; a shower was a definite must.
“Great. How on earth am I going to pull this off?”
“Go in there and charm the pants of them like you did yesterday.
Trust me, the word’s been spread and I’ll bet you have a roomful of eager geeks just waiting for you to be you, Ms. Abby Sciuto, NCIS Agent Extraordinaire.”
Touched, she leaned over and gave him a rib cracking bear-hug, long enough that the light changed and the person behind them tapped their horn impatiently.
Greg used all of his creative rush hour skills to screech to a halt in front of the hotel only eight minutes past the time Abby was due to present. She dropped a quick kiss on his mouth then leaped out and ran inside.
Greg showered and changed in record time. He knew the Greedo Shot First shirt would pass muster now and he wasn’t planning on wearing it all that long anyway. He hurried back downstairs to catch the last of Abby’s talk. She saw him walk in and paused, the spark of sexual heat in her gaze was noticeable to some of the other attendees. They turned to see what she was looking at and Greg pretended like he was looking around too. Hiding the ruddy flush that had crept up his neck, thankful he was wearing a shirt that was long enough to hide the fact he was semi-hard and all she’d had to do was look at him for Christ’s sake. She winked at him and he coughed to cover his foolish smile.
Eons passed. Civilizations rose and fell. And finally every last question was answered, every last business card was exchanged and every hanger-on was cleared from the room. Greg couldn’t resist an impromptu kiss once he was standing in front of her again.
“I thought I was going to have to forcibly eject people,” he grumped.
“Jealous?” she teased.
“Damn straight!”
“So about dinner?” Abby moved closer, close enough that Greg could look down her top and see that he’d given her a bit of a red mark on her cleavage from his stubble.
“Yeah?” Guiltily, he lifted his eyes up and saw her, head tilted and a speculative look on her face.
“Feel like room service?” She asked as she hooked her fingers into his belt loops and pulled him close.
They managed a fairly sedate walk through the lobby, not slow enough to be a stroll but not a flat out run either. The elevator was problematic: the car was full and he and Abby were shoved to the back where she stood innocently in front of him, lightly running her nails up and down his thighs the whole time. By the sixth floor the last person, a slightly drunken businessman only too happy to chat with them, had staggered off and Greg spun Abby around before the doors had slid all the way shut. He pressed her into the corner, catching her evil giggles with his mouth and he kept it up until the eleventh floor where Abby’s room was. By then the giggles had turned to moans.
They stumbled out into the hall; half walking, half hugging as they stopped every few steps to kiss and loosen clothing. They reached her door and Abby dug around in her purse for her keycard, taking so long that finally Greg pushed her back against the door and helped himself to her beautiful mouth and fantastic breasts. Abby’d just hooked her leg around his hip and a distant part of Greg wondered if they were actually going to do it right there in the hotel corridor when Abby’s door opened suddenly and they went crashing to the floor.
Abby yelped, trapped under Greg. Greg, however, was struck dumb at the sight of the large, angry, very-capable-of-inflicting-bodily-harm looking man glaring down at them.
“Abby, why haven’t you been answering your cell?” he barked.
Abby peeked her head out from under Greg’s arm.
“Gibbs! What are you doing here?”
Gibbs? This was Gibbs. Greg felt all the spit in his mouth dry up when he saw Jethro Gibbs take in their state of undress and narrow his eyes at Greg. There wouldn’t be any smack on the head for Greg, no, he recognized that look, it promised a slow and painful death.
Greg scrambled to his feet and helped Abby up, somehow managing to zip his fly while he did so. He didn’t have to worry about hiding any tell-tale bulge in his pants, any erection he’d had had long shrivelled up under Gibb’s laser scrutiny. Abby was slightly less with the terrified and instead going more with the pissed/embarrassed, she tugged her shirt down and confronted him.
“What are you doing in my room!”
“Waiting for you. I kept trying you on your cell and you didn’t show up for your last scheduled talk-”
“I was late...we were-.”
“Visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame” Greg blurted.
Again those cold steely eyes swung Greg’s way and he clearly saw the epigraph on his tombstone written in them.
“How do you do sir, Greg Sanders…” He held out his hand and Gibbs stared at it like it was covered in six kinds of dog shit. Greg’s outstretched hand wavered then dropped.
“Oh don’t be so rude” Abby snapped at Gibbs. “And you still haven’t explained how you got into my room-oh never mind, you broke in, didn’t you?”
Then, the most amazing thing happened; Gibbs backed down and started sounding apologetic. It was like watching a grizzly bear being trounced by a kitten. A very angry goth kitten.
“I was worried about you…something big has come up and we need you back at headquarters.”
“Well get someone else to handle it. I have plans.” Abby gamely looped her arm through Greg’s. “I’m on a date.”
Dead he was dead he was so dead. Greg recognized the slightly proprietary glint that came into Gibbs’ eyes, the hardening of the mouth. Grissom looked the same way when he flirted too openly with Sara. The thing was Grissom wouldn’t feed him his own elbow for doing so; this Gibbs guy looked like he’d be only too happy to help out with that.
Well, Abby was worth it, no doubt about that.
“I don’t care, Abby I need you back at work now. Pack your things; I’ve got a Black Hawk waiting on the roof. We lift-off in five.”
This dude flew around in Black Hawk helicopters? He was able to use military jargon like “lift off in five” without sounding like a complete tool? Greg had to grudgingly admit, Jethro Gibbs was pretty cool. Frightening, but cool.
Abby glared at Gibbs and he glared right back. Greg studied the seascape on the wall over the bed very intently during this Mexican standoff. Nice use of color; pleasedontkillme he thought. At last, Abby huffed out an angry “Fine! But you owe me!” and Greg was surprised at how disappointed he felt. Assured of his continued existence on the planet, yeah, but disappointed all the same.
“Can you give me a couple minutes?” She nodded towards Greg and Gibbs held up one finger. “One minute. Then I’m coming back…and everyone’s clothes better be on.” He looked hard at Greg but he needn’t have worried. Greg was pretty sure he’d be showering fully dressed for the next little while.
“Sorry about that, Gibbs can be kind of-”
“Incredibly scary?”
“Yeah, that.”
Abby looked so woeful and apologetic, he took her hand.
“Hey, these things happen, I’m in the same line of work, remember?”
“It’s so unfair. I’m still really…” she leaned in and whispered, “aroused, you know?”
Greg goggled at her; after all of that she was still ready to go?
As usual his mouth was way ahead of his brain. “Well, I may be fast but I’m not that fast. Plus, I kinda enjoy breathing on my own…”
Abby laughed and hugged him. “I’m so glad I met you, Greg” she sighed into his ear.
“Me too” he answered and kissed her cheek.
They started walking towards the door, “If you ever get out to Vegas…” Greg offered. He doubted it; girls like Abby were a one shot deal most of the time.
“I’d love to.” She said it like she meant it; he appreciated the kind gesture anyway.
They stood awkwardly, holding hands, only too aware of the forbidding presence just outside the door.
“Have a safe trip, flying around in a Black Hawk helicopter, that’s cool!”
“Mostly they’re just noisy.”
“I guess…”
There was a knock at the door and Abby sighed theatrically,
“Yes Jethro! I know!” She yanked open the door. “He was just leaving.” Gibbs merely grunted and kept slouching against the wall.
“Do you have a pen?” She asked Greg.
Greg dug around in his pockets and came up with one. Abby scrawled her email and work and home numbers on the back of his hand.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back to Vegas,” he promised.
Gibbs snorted his disbelief at that, thinking he knew a line when he heard one. Abby shot him a pissed look and grabbed Greg by the front of his tee shirt and pulled him in for a toe-curling goodbye kiss.
Greg couldn’t help the slightly smug expression but he was smart enough to not try to antagonize Gibbs any further so he left; only stopping to wave one last time to Abby from the end of the hall.
Vegas was definitely lacking something when he got back. Sure, it was good to see the team again, but there were no red and black stripes, no platform boots, no jingling chains and bone cracking bear hugs, in short, no Abby. His life was seriously deficient in the daily recommended allowance of Abbyness. Talking on the phone the odd time, exchanging a few emails, it just wasn’t the same. Greg started listening to Randy Newman on his iPod a lot more than he’d ever dreamed he would. He began to face facts, whatever it was, it was over. He’d think, ‘we’ll always have Cleveland…’ and loathe himself for being so emo. Even a notorious wet-blanket like Hodges had started to avoid him, and that was a definite bad sign.
He was moping in the lab, playing catch-up by running backlogged PCR’s for nightshift and trying to avoid Sara, who had taken it upon herself to “cheer him up” which she did with a determined aggressiveness that was a little bit scary When there was a chime and the PA system announced, “CSI Sanders to the front desk, Greg Sanders to the front desk please.” By the time he got there he’d run a gauntlet of knowing looks and whispers. What the hell was going on?
What was going on, were Nick, Warrick, and even Catherine hanging about the desk with expectant looks. They broke into pleased grins when the receptionist made him sign for a delivery then handed over a large box, clearly meant for flowers.
“Who’s sending you flowers, Greg? A special someone you’ve met recently?” Catherine asked innocently.
“Yeah, Greggo, care to share?” Nick added.
“Hey, be cool man. A gentleman never kisses and tells” Warrick said, nudging Greg. “Right?”
Ignoring them all, Greg took the box into the one place he was guaranteed some privacy, the washrooms. He headed for the last stall and locked the door sitting down awkwardly as the box took up most of the room in the tiny cubicle. Opening it, he found a dozen long-stemmed roses, every one of them pitch black. He just knew he was grinning like an idiot. Where on earth did she find black roses? Tucked in with the roses was a note:Finally able to collect on that debt Gibbs owed me, and seeing as I found a black swimsuit I could consider wearing somewhere tropical, I was wondering if you might be available to help me conduct some experiments about balance and flexibility as it pertains to “surfing”?
The note was signed with a scrawling Abby and included a confirmation for a two-week hotel reservation in Hawaii three weeks from now. Greg hastily jammed the lid back on the flowers and left the bathroom. He had the vacation request form filled out and sitting on Grissom’s desk ten minutes later. As he left Grissom’s office he couldn’t help whistling a little as he strutted down the hall. As he passed Hodges and Brass, Hodges caught a snatch of the tune and stopped mid-lecture about the trace he’d found.
The Lord can make you tumble, the Lord can make you turn, the Lord can make you overflow…But the Lord can’t make you burn. Burn on, big river burn on…
Hodges turned to the captain, “Sanders is singing Randy Newman songs at work now? What a nerd…shoot me if I ever get that lame.”
“Don’t worry, I have a bullet with your name on it all picked out” Brass said.
“You’re kidding right?” Hodges laughed nervously.
“Sure thing, buddy. Now about that trace…”
FIN
A/N: The Cuyahoga actually did catch on fire in 1969 and a number of times before that. Time magazine covered the fire including such damming quotes as: "the Cuyahoga doesn't flow, it oozes" and "If you fall in the Cuyahoga you don't drown, you decay" public outcry led to legislation of the Clean Water Act. Ironically, the Cuyahoga is still considered a Great Lakes Area of Concern and clean-up is continuing.
A/N The Second: As far as I'm concerned Randy Newman kicks ass. That is all.