One Step at a Time

A/N: This began as a Greg/OC fic, but once I invited Warrick in as a minor character, he took over as a main character, and it became a Greg/OC/Warrick fic. I guess sometimes fresh blood is needed to help them resolve their issues. The song “He’s No Good For You” and its lyrics belong to New Blood Revival, no harm intended.
DISCLAIMER: With the exception of my original characters, those appearing in this story are not mine, no harm intended, no profit made.

One Step at a Time


The only thought on Greg’s mind as he drove home was that he had three days of freedom to look forward to--three days in which he was not allowed to step one foot near the lab. He’d even been told to turn off his phone and pager--which he wouldn’t, just in case a war broke out in Vegas--but it was nice to know he had that option. It had been six weeks since he’d had a day off. Six exhausting weeks of incessant work and overtime out the ass before someone finally noticed and told him to get the hell home.

And now he was free.

“WAHOO!” he shouted out the window, oblivious to the strange looks he was receiving from the early morning rush hour traffic. He never thought he’d be so happy to be told to go home and not feel like he was disappointing someone, but he knew he was reaching the end of all his energy reserves. Even a gallon of coffee did nothing for him anymore. He’d been working on autopilot for days, but they’d been so swamped, no one realized that their newest CSI was constantly being called to lend a hand on all shifts.

Until he’d practically keeled over right in the middle of listening to one of Grissom’s theories. It was only then that his boss had thought to ask when he’d last gotten a full night’s sleep, and he couldn’t answer.

“Greg, I understand that you’re trying to impress us, but working yourself to death isn’t part of the job description. You need to be more assertive. Learn to say ‘no’.”

“Yeah, right. Because saying no has ever been an option.”

“Working every day for six weeks gives you that option. Go home, Greg. I don’t want to see your face in this lab for the next three days. I’m going to inform all other shifts that you are not to be called under any circumstances.”

“But Gris--”

“I’ll see you in three days.”

It was amazing what the chance for a bit of leave could do to revive a person. Greg practically ran out of the lab in his enthusiasm to get home and hit the hay. Once he did finally reach his house, however, all the sleep he’d planned on getting wouldn’t come. He tossed and he turned. He counted sheep. He put on soothing music. He drank warm milk. He drank a couple shots of vodka.

And then he screamed, pounding his pillow with frustration.

All right, so no sleep. He could do chores--he was already beyond exhaustion. He could work his way back around again. So, what needed to be done?

The question was what didn’t need to be done.

The house was a mess, clean dishes were a thing of the past, the dirty laundry piled in the corner of the room had started a colony, and the yard--of course, the yard! That’s where he would start! He could cut the grass, trim the bushes, all while working on his absent tan. And then he could collapse into a blissful sleep and not wake up for three days. Perfect!

But first, he needed music. Something perky, upbeat, something he could work to. Greg flipped through his CDs and pulled one out with a grin. A friend from New York had just sent it to him--New Blood Revival. Again, perfect!

He positioned his speakers in the front window, set the CD player on repeat, discarded his shirt, threw on a pair of shorts, and headed out to confront his lawn.

Good thing his neighbors worked during the day, or so he hoped as the windows rattled with the pounding beat. Singing at the top of his lungs, Greg pushed the lawnmower out onto the driveway.

“Step one: Attack when you know he's asleep; Aim for the heart and drive the blade deep.”

With one foot on the machine, he yanked on the cord and waited for the engine to start.

Nothing.

“Step two,” he sang as he yanked the cord again, “cut off his fingers to work this effectively; Bury the head and the body separately.”

There was a slight sputtering, but the engine still didn’t start.

Greg frowned. Admittedly, he hadn’t used the lawnmower in quite some time. Months, in fact, but then he didn’t have a lot of live grass to really require any serious mowing. It was just that the recent rains meant actual growth to his lawn and he finally saw the need to cut it.

“Step three: Remember never open your mouth; Then the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out.”

He yanked the cord one more time, then gave the mower a kick.

“Perhaps if you sang something sweeter to it, offered to rub it till it shined, maybe it would cooperate.”

Jumping, Greg whirled around to find standing on the sidewalk with a bemused expression a young man about his age, his height, and with a face that would bring him happy dreams for many nights to come. Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, he prepared to astound the man with his verbal wit, and failed.

“What?”

“Your lawnmower. Have you tried asking it nicely to start?”

He was a little faster with his answer this time. “It doesn’t respond to sweet talk. It likes it rough.”

“I see. So,” the man said, a sparkle in his velvet brown eyes, “have you tried talking rough to it?”

“I don’t think I’m its type. Maybe you could try for me?” You’re certainly my type, he added to himself, and I can’t say I’d object to hearing you talk rough to the lawnmower. Or me, but right now, I’ll take what I can get.

“I’m afraid it isn’t my type. However, I do have an idea of what will get its motor going.”

“I’m open--you know, to suggestions,” he grinned.

The man his handed Greg a leash belonging to the dog he’d somehow managed to completely miss seeing, he was so obsessed with the dog’s owner. “Here, hold Parker for me.”

Greg looked down at the dog who’d taken a seat next to his feet, a black lab who stared up at him with big brown eyes very much like those of his master. “Hi there.”

The dog sniffed his hand then shook his head before giving his attention to the young man rooting through Greg’s garage.

“I guess that means we’re not going to be friends.”

The dog snuffled but otherwise did not reply.

“Here we are,” the stranger said, emerging with an old red gas can. He unscrewed the lid to the mower’s gas tank and filled it up. Setting the can to the side, he then pulled on the cord and the lawnmower started.

Greg stared at the machine, knowing this was somehow all part of a conspiracy to make him look like an idiot in front of the man of his dreams, and promised himself he’d beat the living daylights out of it when they were alone. “Oh. Well, don’t I feel foolish.”

“You should,” he grinned, turning it back off. “So you’re the person who owns this place. I’ve lived five houses down from you for a year now and I’ve never seen you around.”

“That’s because I work nights. This is the first day off I’ve had in a long time. I’m a criminalist with the Las Vegas crime lab and you know what they say--crime doesn’t pay, but it also doesn’t sleep, so I don’t get a lot of time off and I feel like I spend more time at the office than I do here, but I don’t mind it. I couldn’t ask for a better job, no matter how much I feel like a vampire and miss seeing daylight.”

As the young man’s smile grew, Greg slammed his mouth shut and ceased his babbling before he could sound any more like a loser.

“You. . . ah. . . live down the street?”

“Yep, but I’m always taking Parker here for a walk, so I know almost everyone--just not you. I’m also something of a night owl, so maybe that’s why our paths haven’t crossed more.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a musician. I play cello for the symphony and bass with a jazz band at one of the clubs on the strip.”

“So this must be like hell on your ears,” Greg said, nodding towards the speakers in the window and the man laughed.

“No, really, it’s fine. Kind of catchy. Morbid, but catchy.”

“Sounds like a good summary of my life,” he grinned and held out his hand. “Greg Sanders.”

“Jack Bradford, and you’ve met Parker, named after the great Charlie Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack, Parker.” Greg gave the dog a friendly look but was thoroughly ignored.

“Nice to meet you too, Greg,” Jack smiled. “And don’t worry about him. He’s a little judgmental when it comes to music. He’ll warm to you eventually.”

“If you say so,” he said, not at all sure what to think of a dog who had opinions on music. “You play cello and bass? I thought Charlie Parker played sax?”

“That’s right,” Jack said, eyes filled with admiration. “So you do know something about jazz.”

“I know a few things,” Greg said, feeling no need to inform Jack that he’d recognized the name from an old Muppet skit.

“That’s more than most people know. I inherited Parker from an ex-boyfriend. He moved into an apartment that didn’t allow dogs, so I agreed to keep him. Between you and me, I think Parker always liked me better.”

“He certainly likes you better than he likes me,” the CSI grinned, trying to contain his excitement at hearing the word ‘boyfriend’.

“He’s a good judge of character, but so am I, so I know the two of you will get to be friends.”

“That’s if I see him again.”

“You will if I have anything to say about it,” Jack said, and his face immediately took on a crimson cast. “I said that out loud, didn’t I? I should let you get back to your yard work.”

“If you’re sure,” Greg said with a wary look at the lawnmower. “Unless you think you should stick around, instruct me how to use the hedge clippers without taking my hand off.”

He laughed. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a rehearsal I need to get to, so maybe you should just save the hedges for later. Still, if you ever need anything, feel free to knock on my door. Or better yet, stop by The Blue Note. Their website lists the nights my band plays. Just look for the Kinsey Quintet.”

“I might do that. I’ve got a friend who’s into jazz. He can tell me if you’re any good or not,” Greg teased, and Jack winked at him.

“You won’t believe how good I am. See you around, Greg.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he said, watching as Jack and Parker walked down the street. He looked from the lawnmower and back over to Jack, and sighed. “Fuck me,” he whispered, knowing that every time he closed his eyes from now on, he’d see dark brown curls hanging over him, laughing brown eyes winking at him, and swaths of olive skin reaching for him. Taking a deep breath, Greg whispered “fuck me” one last time, then dedicated all his thoughts to the lawn, hoping it would be enough to distract him.


“Hey, Warrick, can I ask you something non-work related?”

Frowning, Warrick looked up at the young man shifting nervously from foot to foot in the doorway to the break room. He and Greg were friends, but never what he’d categorize as close, certainly not close enough to discuss things outside the work spectrum. Not that he’d ever deny the kid anything, but the question was more than a little unexpected.

“Depends. What do you want?”

“Well, you know jazz, right?” Greg said, sitting down in a chair across the table from him.

Warrick’s eyes widened with astonishment and he set down the file he’d been reading. “You’re interested in jazz?”

“Sort of,” he said, staring determinedly down at the table and a suspicion crossed Warrick’s mind, but he didn’t voice it. “Have you ever heard of the Kinsey Quintet?”

“Yeah, they’re a local group. I’ve had friends who’ve heard them and say they’re pretty good. Why do you want to know?”

“So you like them?” he said, sidestepping the question. “You like them enough that you might recommend them to a friend who’s looking to hear jazz, perhaps even go out of your way to see them yourself if you had some time off?”

“That sounds about right.”

Greg’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Good. Thanks, Warrick, you’ve been a big help.”

“Hey,” he said as Greg stood up, “you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Nah,” the former lab rat grinned and took off down the hall.

Warrick sighed, shaking his head. Typical Greg. Question was, did he want to find out more about what the kid was up to, or just let it slide?

“Nicky,” he asked as his friend walked into the room, “do you know if Greg’s seeing anyone?”

“When would he have the time?” Nick said. “When do any of us?”

“Yeah, I know, but he just gave me the third degree about a jazz band and I was wondering who he’s trying to impress.”

“Our Greg? Asking about jazz?” The Texan pretended to stumble, grabbing the back of a chair for support. “I think I need to sit down.”

“That was pretty much my reaction,” he chuckled.

“No, I don’t think he’s seeing anyone, but clearly he’s got his eye on someone. Maybe it’s you,” Nick grinned, and Warrick felt a rush of fear wondering what he’d missed before he realized his friend was just kidding.

“Yeah, sure it is,” he countered. “That’s why he’s been checking out your ass lately.”

“He’s what?”

At the dumbfounded look on Nick’s face, Warrick had to laugh. “Man, you’re too easy,” he said, ducking as Nick threw a paper cup at his head.