Grey With Envy

“These aren’t assignments.” Greg said, as the team turned their pieces of paper over and over in their hands, reading furiously. “These almost look like...”

“Scripts?” Grissom offered, raising an eyebrow. “That’s because they are.”

“But why?” Catherine looked at her paper, and then to their supervisor, and back again. “This says that I go to a bar with Nick and then... Grissom! What is this?”

He took a seat, holding up a hand as if to silence his team. “Lately, there have been some changes around here, and I think it’s time we... adjust.”

Warrick glared at him incredulously. “What changes? The new vending machine? Look, I know it only has regular and vanilla flavored coffee, but if we want hazelnut, we’re just going to have to go to the Starbucks across the street, it’s fine.”

“Actually, Warrick, that’s not the kind of change that I meant.” Grissom pursed his lips, as if in deep thought. “Hmm, why don’t I just use an analogy-filled metaphor to confuse you further?”

Nick leaned forward, puzzled. “What?”

“As I was saying,” Grissom continued, ignoring Nick (but really, what else was new?). “There have been some changes around here. You can’t necessarily see them, or hear them... it’s more of a feeling, do you know what I’m saying? Like wind, or love, or indigestion.”

“Ahh.” Sara placated, not really seeing where he was going. But she could pretend, seeing as how the concept of make-believe had always been one of her strong suits.

Greg was furious. “And I’m supposed to, and I quote, ‘get the living hell beat out of me’ to adjust to the changes around here? And what about Sara? Her script is the worst!”

Grissom frowned. “I don’t see how hers is the worst. She gets tons of hot, hot old-man sex with me on numerous occasions.”

“God, Grissom!” Sara exclaimed, shocked. “I thought that was a secret.”

Greg leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Sara, if he drugged you in any way, say ‘banana’.” And then he sat back up in his chair, never taking his eyes off of Grissom.

Nick cut in. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, Grissom, what is this? I leave Catherine at a bar and she gets...” He lowered his voice, noticing the brand-new giant Lindsay in the corner of the room, texting her friends on her cell phone. “Raped?”

“No, no, Nick. Not raped. Rufied. Roo-feed.” Grissom corrected, accentuating the word by curling his lips comically.

Everyone began to talk at once, until Warrick finally slammed his hand down on the table. “I’m not working like this. I have a wife at home, and I’m late for dinner.”

“Warrick... how can I put this gently?” Greg said, turning his paper over, sighing softly. “Your whore of a wife is doing the nasty with her ex.”

“Greg!” Catherine cut in, sitting on Warrick to keep him from lunging at Greg.

“Cath.” Warrick cleared his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “Cath, I’m not gonna jump Greg. I was just getting up to get a tissue. I know Tina’s cheating on me. I just don’t show any outward signs of anger or resentment, in an effort to confuse and annoy our fanba... co-workers.”

Catherine awkwardly dismounted from his lap, taking her seat. “Anybody could’ve made that mistake.” She offered, and Sara cut in.

“What is this?” She shook her paper for Grissom to see, and began to read an excerpt from it.

“October Twelfth: Gregory Sanders saves the life of a convenience store shopper, inadvertently risking his own life in the process, and is beaten to a bloody pulp. Sara Sanders receives a call from-“

“Sidle.” Nick corrected, and she looked at him with confusion. “Your last name. You said ‘Sanders’.”

Sara scoffed nervously. “No, I did not. I said ‘Sidle’.” Shooting him an angry glare (her specialty), she continued on. “Anyway, it says that I race to the hospital to comfort him and collect samples from him, and then I ‘feed Grissom pizza rolls while he breeds his cockroaches’? No. No, no, no. Who writes this shit?”

“Hey!” Came the voices of the writing staff from the ominous dark clouds forming above them.

In the break room.

Yes.

Nick cowered in fear, grabbing hold of Warrick’s arm. “What’s going on, man?”

Warrick shook his head. “Like I know. Where do you think I’ve been these past few days, out on cases? TPTB had locked me up in that damn janitor’s closet. Something about screen time.”

“Warrick? TPTB?” Nick asked in a hushed tone, the clouds still swirling above them, everyone ominously still. Ominously.

“I didn’t say that. I said ‘sick leave’. I’ve been sick. Dude, you need to watch a little less Discovery Channel and get yourself some chicks. Hot chicks. But be careful. Make sure they ain’t some troublesome hooker who fights with her pimp.” Everyone stared at Warrick. “Oh, sorry. Ominous clouds. Continue.”

“We are the writing staff.” The voices chimed in unison. “You will not question our authority.”

Sara stood up, pulling Greg up with her. The rest of the team followed suit, except for Grissom, who decided to put his feet up and take a load off.

Hey, all that old-man sex can be tiring. (Ah, but what old man is being referenced?)

“And why the hell can’t we question your authority? These are our lives you’re messing with!” Catherine shouted at the dark and swirly clouds.

A God-like laugh penetrated the still air in the room. “Catherine, Catherine... what can we say? You’ve been good to us for six years. Abusive husband, single mother, sinking car... all very well and good. Lots of high ratings. And Warrick... your marriage was almost good enough to win back some of our viewers.”

Warrick laughed. “Well, I don’t really understand what you’re saying, but thank y-“

“We said almost.” The voice cut in, laughing. “Ah, where was I? Oh, yes. Greg. Dear, sweet Greg. You see, we sort of made a mistake with you.”

“Oh, you did?” He asked brightly. “So I get more cases? A romance? Maybe a promotion in the near future?”

More laughter. “No, no. I mean, we’ve run out of storylines for you. After the brutal beating, that is.”

“But, but what I am I supposed to do? Where will I work? And what the hell is a storyline?”

“Shh, shh, go play with your X-Box.”

Greg pouted. “But I already beat Call Of Duty.”

They ignored him. (But what else is new?) “Now, Sara, what can we say? We gave you everything you could ever ask for. Emotional trauma. Stress. Depression. Alcoholism. You, my dear, were our ratings-whore for at least three seasons. But you see, your time has come and past. You’ve got what you want, and now you’re boring.”

“I am not boring! Grissom, tell them I’m not boring! I have chess tournaments every Friday, and I almost always win! Well, unless I’ve got the sniffles, then I stay in and drink. I mean, play Scrabble. I play Scrabble.” She quickly stuffed a handful of coughdrops into her pocket.

“And Nick.” The voice continued, becoming angrier by the minute. Or second. Whichever is more plausible in the fanfiction timeline of events. “Guns. Hookers. More guns. Stalking. Kidnapping. Ants, Nick! We gave you ants! You were our go-to guy. A dip in the ratings one week? Well, let’s give Nicky some more emotional trauma or hair issues! Every time, without fail, you delivered ratings. But it’s time we retired our Let’s-Traumatize-Nick plot.” The voice faltered, and the team waited on the edges of their cold, metal seats. In the break room. Because that’s where everything important happens. Always. “Despite the fact that we love to beat dead horses with a stick, and then shoot them, and then run them down with Denalis and Tahoes, and then taser them with taser guns, and then spit on them, and then tell them that they spent too much money on their car insurance, and then-“

“I think they get it.” Grissom broke in, calm and collected. As always. Even when people are about to die. Behind giant windows.

Or almost get shot in the face.

Or get buried in a plexiglass box.

Or has their ex-husband die.

Or... (actually, I’m a little tired, could you fill in the next one?)

“Like we were saying...” The voice said, annoyed. “Despite the fact that we overuse certain plots... gunshot residue plots... we needed to give you a break, Nick. So you can see why we’re in a bind here. Now, everyone needs to take one for the team this season since Nick isn’t our human pincushion anymore, and get a little bit raped and killed and stuff. Mmkay?”

“Why?” Sara asked, nearly in tears. “Who says we have to listen to you? I’m not doing any of this!”

The clouds swirled faster, and became darker and more ominous. A lot more ominous. “Miss Sidle. Until you can perform brain surgery in an elevator or get a cool nickname (can we suggest McBitchy? McPouty is also fine) you cannot go walking around all fast in a dark blue hallway and expect ratings. Now, either move to Seattle and get your medical degree, or pick up that script and start memorizing those lines! Stat!”

The clouds vanished, leaving everyone stunned.

Grissom rose from his seat, and pushed in his chair. “Anyone up for Chinese? I know a great place that serves chicken. And cats. Scaredy cats. Ooh, and rats. I could go for some rat.”

As they exited the office, Warrick wrapped his arm around Catherine’s waste, shooting a glance over his shoulder. “Is that Doc? With an electric guitar?”

She shook her head. “I don’t even want to know.”