Disclaimer: The show CSI and its characters belong to CBS, and the show's creators; no copyright infringement is intended

Note to Anyone Reading: This story is written in a sort of stacatto mode. It looks like a poem, but isn't. I strongly recommend reading it slowly, especially towards the end, like.

Thank you to beaujolais, for a once-over and review.

Going Home

Long hallway. Fluorescent lights. Polished floors.

Blue scrubs; white coats.

A hospital room.

Gil Grissom steps in. Door swings shut.

A Starbucks cup; handed to Brass.

Accepted left-handed.

Americano. Creamy. No sugar.

A sip. A pause. A scowl. "Decaf." Accusation.

Grissom's eyes flicker. "Yes." Admission.

"What's yours?"

"Same as you."

"Liar."

A raised eyebrow. "It's only coffee, Jim."

"Add it to the list."

A beat.

"I've had it with this place."

"Good thing your doctor likes me."

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

"We discussed your release."

Two raised eyebrows.

"He'll release you tomorrow under contingencies."

Guarded enthusiasm. "What contingencies?"

"Someone to help you."

"Easy. They're lining up a nurse."

"Besides a nurse."

Frustration. "Why?"

"You can't do this alone."

"Bull."

"How's your shoulder. And your arm?"

"Great, see? A raised cup."

A scowl. "The right one."

"Taped to my chest."

"You left-handed?"

Grinding teeth. A head-shake.

"Lot of stuff to be done when you're on your own."

"You enjoying this?"

A twitching mouth; a slight nod. "A little."

Silence.

"Jim, I told him I'd take care of it."

"It?"

"You."

"Me."

"Yes."

"How?"

"You'll have a houseguest."

"A houseguest."

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Me."

"You."

"Yes."

"Really?"

A nod.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Another sip of coffee. Eyes closed. A smile. "Thanks, Gil."