Beware of Geeks Bearing Presents

Summary: A sequel to Poetic Injustice. A bit of fluff – Sara and Grissom want to repair their friendship. Greg wants Sara. Ecklie wants the Red Creeper. Catherine wants a night off. And a mystery man from Sara's past is back.

Rating: PG to be on the safe side.

A/N: Probably a good idea to read Poetic Injustice first, but I think you can follow this story if you don't. Spoilers for Unfriendly Skies. Thanks to Burked for being my erudite beta.

Disclaimer: If I had even a fraction of a percent of the rights to CSI would I be writing fan fiction? Well, yeah, probably, but that doesn't change the fact I own nothing to do with the show.

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Chapter 1

Greg slowly rose from his stool, peering cautiously over the top of his monitor. A quick scan revealed his quarry wasn't in sight. Yet. He sank down with a resolute sigh. Today was going to be the day.

Well, technically, tonight was going to be the night. Among other things, working the graveyard shift wreaked havoc on common platitudes.

In any case, the moment for action had arrived. Things had been left hanging for too long. It was time to settle this situation once and for all.

Sara Sidle was going to be his.

The only drawback was she seemed stubbornly resistant to this fact.

Telling her could be problematic. She had an independent streak exceeded only by her temper. If he came right out and told her, she might get offended. Who was he kidding – she would be offended.

Sara would probably demand a pound of flesh as punishment. Greg winced. It didn't take a brilliant and witty lab tech to figure out where she'd go to get it. He shifted himself unconsciously.

He was very attached to Roscoe and the twins. That wasn't how he wanted Sara to be introduced to them. She could lay claim to them as often as she wanted, as long as she didn't actually detach them.

No, it would be better – not to mention safer – for Sara to realize they were a perfect match on her own.

Who would have thought a scientist as brilliant as Sara could have overlooked such an obvious fact? He even had done a Mendelian and non-Mendelian analyses of the joining of their DNA, complete with a statistical analysis of the probable outcomes in four children.

Greg sighed wistfully. Sara had beautiful epithelials.

Getting her to draw the conclusion they were meant to be together would take a bit of effort, but he was a master chess player, after all. It was all in the strategy. That had been his problem in the past. He'd been too passive. This was Sara – she was direct. He needed to be direct.

But not too direct. She had access to sharp instruments.

Greg swallowed nervously and looked over his monitor again. He raised an eyebrow triumphantly as he grabbed a printout and bolted out the door.

"Sara!"

"What's up?" she replied, not pausing as she made her way down the corridor.

"I solved your Collins case," he said, smiling smugly.

Sara looked up from her folder, turning slowly as one eyebrow rose questioningly.

"With the DNA evidence you expertly collected," he added quickly. "Got a hit from CODIS."

"You got workable DNA from that stuff?"

"Well, it wasn't easy," he said dramatically, "but I knew this case was important to you. This guy is a real creep. I pulled a double to process the clothing. Found some epithelials that hadn't been contaminated."

"Good job."

Greg beamed under the obvious praise in her voice.

"Well, you could always thank me personally," he said, turning his head slightly and patting his cheek. "Go ahead. You know you want to."

His smile disappeared as Sara gave his cheek a pinch that put even Grandma Olga to shame.

"Yow-owowowowowow."

"Sara!"

Hearing her name, she turned to see Grissom hobbling up the hallway behind them. She couldn't stop the amused smile that formed. He was still getting used to being on crutches since he broke his ankle last week. Graceful wasn't a term anyone would use to describe him currently.

"Let go of Greg! That noise he's making is painful. He sounds like a demented cat in heat."

"Sure," she said, walking back to join Grissom. "Want me to get you some coffee?"

"Please," he growled, shambling off to his office in a huff.

Sara smiled as she headed to the break room, knowing Grissom hated not being able to manage something as simple as carrying a mug to his office. Even worse, his injury kept him confined to the lab. Things had been slow all week, and he'd had no excuse to avoid paperwork.

She didn't take his short temper personally. Although he hadn't said anything, she suspected using the crutches was aggravating his knee. On top of everything else, it was making him testy.

Besides, once he got settled, he'd apologize. He was actually getting good at it. Over the past few days, they'd shared a handful of meals together, talking about all that had happened. Their friendship was getting back on track, even though neither was certain where it was heading.

"Sara!"

She closed her eyes at the sound of her name. It was hard to imagine she'd ever hear him use that much emotion when calling out to her at work. The sweetness in his tone was incredible. Sara smiled broadly as she turned around; this could be fun.

"Hello, Ecklie."

"It's Conrad," the day shift supervisor insisted, giving her a sugary smile. "How are you this evening?"

"Fine," she said, returning his smile with one equally cloying. "You're here late."

"Had a break in one of our cases. Don't tell me Grissom is making you fetch his coffee!" he said in annoyance.

"I offered."

"That's one of the many things I like about you, Sara. You're a team player. You don't let personal things interfere with your work. Very professional."

"Thanks, Conrad," she said, wondering if it was possible to have an insulin reaction to such saccharine-loaded talk.

"Did you hear that Barb is planning on taking an early retirement?"

"No," Sara said, honestly surprised, dumping sugar in her mug.

"Next March," he said, moving in conspiratorially.

"You shouldn't have any problems finding a replacement," Sara said, giving him a dirty look as he violated her personal space.

"I'd rather fill the vacancy in-house. If you switch to my team, that'll make you the senior CSI on day shift. That, and a supervisor who values his employees, can do wonders for your career."

She stirred the coffee absentmindedly. Since word got out that Grissom had given her his secret recipe for Red Creeper, she'd been plied with a variety of compliments and presents from other CSIs. The dusting powder had that type of reputation.

But enough for her to be offered a fast track to promotion?

"Look, the word is out you aren't happy on nights any more. You're a great CSI. The lab doesn't want to lose you. Cavallo has already approved you moving to another shift if it'll keep you here."

Sara gave him a startled look. Ecklie rolled his eyes, pointing to a large potted plant still sitting in the corner of the room. It was a make-up present from Grissom; she hadn't bothered to take it home yet. The guys were having too much fun leaving faked bug suicides in it.

"Between the two of us, I can't see how any of you can stand to work with Grissom. Oh, he's the best CSI I've ever met. There's no question about that. But he doesn't respect his employees. You won't have that problem on days. Think about it."

"Yeah," she said softly, staring as Ecklie walked out of the break room. Giving her head a shake, Sara grabbed her file and the coffee mugs. On the way to Grissom's office, she paused at Greg's lab door.

She smiled when she saw the tech rubbing his cheek morosely.

"Thanks, Greggo. You're right. I've wanted to do that for the longest time."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

With considerable effort, Catherine forced her mouth shut. After more than a decade as a CSI in Las Vegas, she thought she was unshakable. The spectacle in front of her was bringing that conclusion into question.

"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked softly.

"We were assaulted."

"We were violated."

"We demand action."

"Who's in charge here?"

"Yes, yes, we want the top person."

"Okay," she said, planting what she hoped was a professional look on her face and turning to the first speaker. "And you are?"

"I'm Dweedle Dee," replied the very short, very rotund, purple man dressed in orange Lycra.

"I'm Dweedle Dum," answered what presumably was his twin, albeit he was more maroon chromatically and dressed in pea-green.

"Your real names?" O'Riley demanded.

"Those are!" the purple man exclaimed, pulling out a wallet from his silvery boot, his companion mimicking his action.

"Okay, why are you here?" she asked, not bothering to take the proffered drivers licenses.

"We were assaulted!"

"We were violated!"

"We were molested!"

"We were accosted!"

"We were robbed!"

"Pilfered!"

"Despoiled!"

"We demand action!"

"We demand justice!"

Catherine swung her head back and forth rapidly as each twin angrily pumped tiny chartreuse-gloved fists, their responses flowing together seamlessly.

"We want our Pooka!"

"Who's Pooka?" O'Riley interrupted, not bothering to hide his mirth.

"Pooka is our pride."

"Pooka is our joy."

Catherine collapsed into one of the chairs in the interrogation room. "Look, er, Mr.…"

"Call me Dee."

She turned to look at his cohort expectantly.

"Call me Dwe."

"Yeah. Right. Look, Dee, Dwe, before we can help you, you have to tell us what happened. What's Pooka? And, please, a useful description. It's hard to put 'pride and joy' on an APB."

"Pooka is the centerpiece of our act," replied the reddish Dwe, pulling out a picture from his wallet. It showed what looked to be a real stuffed llama that had been dyed bright pink.

"A group of thugs knocked us down as we were packing up after our performance this evening. They stole Pooka."

"There were at least a dozen of them. A gang!"

"They were brutes."

"Fiends."

"Barbarians."

"Hellions."

"Were you injured?" O'Riley injected quickly, not flinching under the indignant look the duo gave him.

"They ripped my livery!" Dee exclaimed, hopping up in his chair. He pointed to a very hairy knee showing through a tear in his outfit. "Do you know how much custom-made Lycra suits cost?"

"Who cares about that?" Dwe hissed. "They have Pooka. We can't work without Pooka."

"So, I'm guessing you two have a show at one of the clubs?" Catherine ventured.

"Please! We're performance artistes! We'd never debase ourselves working in a tacky club!"

"We perform only for the public."

"What kind of performance?" O'Riley asked hesitantly.

"It's hard to describe."

"It's a visual treat."

"It's something we can show you."

"It's not the same without Pooka."

Before Catherine could stop them, the men climbed on top of the table. They began to gyrate in what could only be described as the Ompah Lompah mating dance choreographed by a deranged Ricky Martin.

She closed her eyes against the visual assault. It was going to be a very long night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

TBC