lvpd_sidle | Las Vegas: September 10, 2006

Current Location: Las Vegas Crime Lab
Current Music: The Who, "Who Are You?"

Entry tags:

Las Vegas: September 10, 2006

It might be September, but there is little danger of getting cold in Las Vegas.

The city never sleeps, and neither do the various branches of law enforcement.

The lab is busy when Sara and Mark walk in through the door--Swing shift is leaving and Night shift is about to begin.

Music is playing, an old song by The Who. The atmosphere isn't tense, indicating that there are no pressing cases.

Just another night in Vegas.

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Eying him a bit, Ecklie turns his attention to Sara. "Miss Sidle, you really need to learn to control your guests to the lab. We can't have people running around and crashing into everything. This is a crime lab, not a tourist attraction."

"Considering that he has yet to crash into anything or interrupt anything pertinent, I believe there is little cause for concern," she says levelly.

"There is always cause for concern, Miss Sidle. You should know that by now." He looks at her with an expression that most people would call a glare. "This might be Vegas, but it's not a brothel, Sidle. Keep that in mind."

Mark bites his lip, clinging to his bag strap until his knuckles go white. He keeps his mouth shut, however, for fear of swearing at the idiot in front of him.

She only raises an eyebrow, refusing to let him goad her. "This isn't a brothel? Good to know--I'll be sure to let all of my disappointed friends know about the mix-up. If you will excuse us," she neatly ducks around him and into the lab, Mark following after her.

Only when he is out of earshot does she sigh. "Jackass."

Mark mutters a few choice words in Yiddish under his breath, shaking his head. "People wonder why I hate the mainstream and the Establishment. That man is a prime example of it. Bastard."

"Asskissers like him are a dime a dozen," Mia, the DNA tech mutters, bending over some samples. "Unfortunately, he hasn't done anything that'd get him fired."

"Believe it or not, that wasn't as bad as it could have been," Sara says darkly. "He's not someone I miss when I go home after shift."

"Don't let him drive you out, Sara. We like you."

"Thanks, Mia. What've you got there?"

Mark cracks a smile, shaking his head. "He wouldn't last two minutes in New York. We'd have his ass handed to him on a platter before he could open his mouth." And really, Adam would probably kick his ass to the curb before he had a chance to even get on anyone's nerves. Shaking his head, he goes back to his tried-and-true method of leaning against the wall, and watches Sara work.

Mia and Sara descend in to rapid lab-speak for ten minutes, conjectures and theories flying between them before Sara gets an odd look in her eyes. "Did you check the--"

"Yes...I saw the same thing..."

"Son of a bitch. Thanks." She takes the printouts and rushes from the lab, telling Mark to follow.

CSI on a hot trail. Look out.

Most of it goes over Mark's head, but he thinks he caught a phrase or a word here and there that he actually understands. In a way, he's seeing what some people feel like when he starts babbling at them about film. Whoops. Waving at Mia, he sets off after Sara, curious and amused. Well, he's certainly getting his excersise today.

"Grissom," Sara calls ahead of her, seeing him in ballistics. "I think we have something--a serial."

And the lab-speak begins again.

Poor Mark.

Er, right. Mark almost wishes he'd brought along one of Jon's new scripts, but that would be rude. He leans against the wall yet again, watching everything. Hell, he's used to this. When Roger gets babbling about chords and chord progressions, he's practically unstoppable. What he does do, though, is watch carefully how everyone goes about their business, and how they interact with each other. It could be useful sometime.

".....and so this individual's pattern is to kill approximately every eight months...."

"It fits the John Doe you have up on the fishboard."

"Good work, Sara." Grissom glances at Mark, giving him a wry look. "I think you forgot to bring the translator."

Sara looks at him sheepishly. "Sorry."

Mark smiles. "Don't worry about it. I did it to you back in Santa Fe, when I went off and babbled with Jon about camera stuff. Turnabout's fair play and all." He shrugs. "It's what you do. You shouldn't have to step back from your train of thought to explain."

"Why not? We do it for each other all the time," Sara says with a shrug. "I'm a physicist, Grissom's an entomologist, Greg is our true authority on DNA, Warrick with fingerprints, Nick with trace, and Catherine with blood. We translate all the time."

"Well, true. We do it back home too. All the department heads know whatever they do about fiftythousand times better than anyone else. Although, Jon and I keep bickering about who knows cameras better." He grins cheerfully, waving a hand idly. "Go about your business. I just love watching it." And getting ideas, frankly.

"I've actually done all I can up to this point--unless your timeline's finished."

"It isn't quite finished however..." And Grissom gets a thoughtful look on his face.

Sara sighs. "No experiments, Griss. Not this time."

Mark raises an eyebrow. "Oh, come on, Sara. If it's because of me, I think I should see everything that goes on around here. Don't miss something just 'cause of me." Besides. Mark's just an overgrown teenager. That's his curious face.

Sara raises an eyebrow.

Grissom smirks.

Ten minutes later, Mark is lying twisted on a table.

"Hold your leg right there--"

"Grissom, he doesn't have multiple joints."

"Ow. Geeze, Grissom. If you'd wanted someone bendy, I would have brought Mimi. She bends for a living, or, at least bends because she likes to. Just tell me next time." Mark winces, but really he's amused by the entire thing. He winces again as his leg's pulled in another way.

"I warned you," Sara says cheerfully. Two minutes later--"Ha! I was right. Grissom, go buy the team coffees. I'll help Mark get unknotted."

"Yeah, because I think my leg's stuck that way." He'd facepalm, but his arms are slightly tied-up at the moment. "I think I need painkillers."

"No--just muscle rub and I'll take care of that later. Here--" And he's gradually put back in a far more comfortable position.

"Thanks for being a good sport." She's trying not to laugh. And she did warn him.

Oh, he was warned alright. And really, he's been tied up before. He doesn't really mind. At the moment, though, he just stretches, lying flat on the table, shaking his head. "Well, I hope that helped somehow."

"It did but that case can't be discussed--the trial's about to start." He earns a (brief) kiss for his troubles.

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