Title: Untitled Evil Brass Plot Bunny Drabble

Author: kyrdwyn

Fandom: Crime Scene Invesitiation

Pairing: Brass/Warrick

Rating: G

Archive: Yes to Peja/WWOMB. All others please ask first

Feedback: to toxicrev@yahoo.com or onlist. Tell me if I'm just going crazy or not...

Summary/Author's Notes: I am firmly placing the blame (praise?) for this plot bunny on Em. Her mailing list recently had a discussion involving Brass, and I had a plot bunny come out of nowhere and smack me upside the head and gnaw on my wrists until I started writing this. This is the second time Brass has done this to me. Grrr... (if you want to see the (het) results of the first Brass bunny it's at http://www.geocities.com/toxicrev/roses.html - Rated NC-17).

It's a nice bar, as far as out of the way bars go. A good place to get a couple of J&B doubles after a hard day at work and watch the girls dance on the stage. Typical Vegas. The people around me are night shift workers or guys on the Social Security paycheck. Must be nice, not to have to work for a living. Of course, if I didn't work, I'd be like them - sitting here, drinking J&B at 9 in the morning, watching some brunette with unreal tits jiggle around a pole. Oh hell, I am like them.

What the hell am I doing here?

I know what I'm doing here. Maintaining the image, as a friend would say. Yeah, image of a bitter, cynical, divorced cop. One who's been despised by his own force and moved to another state because of it. Then managed to be hated on this job too, and get a girl killed her first night on the job. I moved out of that division, back onto the street. I went from being hated to tolerated. Maybe even respected by some. There are two that I can really call friends out here. And one who is more than that, now.

That's why I maintain this image, even though I'd rather be somewhere else now. The damage to me, I can handle. The damage to that other friend - I can't do that.

I glance at my watch. Good - I can leave. I've spent enough time and money here this morning, psuedo-ogling the brunette. I toss a twenty on the table to cover drinks and tip and head to my car. The route I take has become as familiar as the route to my house over the past six months. More familiar, because it leads to a place more comfortable than my house, a place I prefer to be.

Taking note of the car in the parking lot of the complex, I smile. Locking my car, I head up the stairs and use my key on the door. No point in knocking - I know I'm expected after the night we had at work. Long, boring, and a few moments of sheer terror with a psychotic ex-husband with a gun accusing his ex-wife of killing their daughter.

I sit on a stool at the bar that separates kitchen from living room. A fresh drink - plain orange juice - slides across the counter. A long kiss between the two of us follows. Enough to set my skin tingling in anticipation of what will come after breakfast.

"I'm glad you're here, Jim," he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.

"Anytime, Warrick," I whisper back. "Anytime."

END