Disclaimer: Not mine. CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and its characters are property of CBS Productions, Alliance Atlantis ® and Jerry Bruckheimer Television. Just borrowing.

Author's Notes: This fic idea came about after watching Groundhog Day nearly a year ago. So, yes, if you were wondering, it's based loosely on that movie. I also ship Greg with a lot of people. This fic gave me the freedom to explore them all in various fashions, both realistically and idealistically. laughs Anyway, I do eventually settle on one ship. Enjoy.

Category: Humor, Romance, Angst and a bit of Action

Summary: Greg Sanders finds himself repeating the same 24 hour period over and over again.


by e-dog

Chapter One

1:00 p.m.

The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song filters into your consciousness softly, yet boldly.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

The lyrics continue to play as you open your eyes to a brand new day. You find yourself subconsciously bobbing your head to the slow beat coming out of the radio. You reluctantly crawl out of your bed and lurch toward the bathroom.

Leaving the door open to hear the rest of the song, you crank on the water and splash the cold liquid on your face. You blink your eyes several times listening to your favorite show hit the airwaves next.

"Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"

"Morning, Dan," you grin into the mirror, inspecting the emergence of new zits on that precious forehead of yours. Drat! Foiled by acne! Your next quest is for pimple cream because unsightly zits will not help when trying to hit on chicks. You, Warrick and Nick plan on bar crawling early after shift and well, it wouldn't hurt to try your luck. Someone out there finds you attractive, you hope. You wish. You pray. Anyway, those zits have to go.

"That was Coldplay with "Fix You". Up next, more hits, but first we're gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?"

"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"

"Will do, Bobby," you say, continuing to converse with your radio as you throw open your closet door, searching for a fresh set of clothes. It's times like this you're grateful for your independent bachelor life. A girlfriend might find it a bit odd that your closest friend happens to be Dan the Man from KMRK radio. A person you have neither met nor talked to in person, but happily speak to on a daily basis over FM radio waves.

Foregoing the shower, you throw on a ratty t-shirt and some jeans. A quick assessment of your loft's kitchenette quickly concludes that you are out of milk, bread and coffee. All necessary to start each day. Unfortunately, a trip to the grocery store is in order and food is something you're having trouble affording right now. You literally slide down the banister in the stairwell of your apartment complex and out the front door. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady.

"Mr. Sanders! Need I remind you that you're late paying the rent?" she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. God, how you want to strangle her sometimes. It's true. You've had sweet, merciless dreams about committing the murder and using your in-depth CSI skills to cover up all the evidence. It would surely solve the rent problem.

"You've reminded me three times a day since last Thursday, Mrs. Templeton," you smile, your voice as smooth as silk. It's a voice that usually gets you out of anything. Usually. "I get a paycheck today, so no worries. I'll have the money at your door first thing tomorrow morning."

Mrs. Martha Templeton. A seemingly endearing, 60-year-old something white lady with fine grey hair and nothing to do all day but hassle her tenants for money. She has a rich lawyer son, whom she rarely speaks of. Her husband is supposed to be the fix-it man but he's "never around when you need him".

Honestly, if she spent more time investing money to repair shoddy plumbing and light fixtures, you might have found her to be remotely tolerable. As it was, she was like any other landlord you've had to put up with in the past. Pushy, arrogant and cheap.

She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, "You're a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better."

Greggy? What the hell kind of nickname is Greggy?!? God, this woman. . .

"I know, Mrs. Templeton," you mumble through a stretched mouth. If you weren't trying to get on her good side, you would immediately pry her clammy claws from your face. . .and forbid her from ever calling you Greggy again.

"This is the fourth time you've been late in the last six months," she continues to push unnecessarily. She doesn't need to paint you a picture! The message was sent and received and your cheek is rather sore as a result. She finally releases your swollen face and asks boldly, "Don't you crime scene people make a decent living?"

"Okay, Mrs. Templeton. I have to go now," you continue to grin, teeth clenched tightly at this point as you practically run to your car.

The trip to the store and back is highly uneventful. You even make it back to your loft without running into the Landlady From Hell. If she had seen the groceries in your hands, she would've pointed out (not so subtly) that the money used to pay for the food could've been used to pay your rent instead. She'd rather see you starve than be late on a payment! That Mrs. Templeton. Always looking out for you.

You check your watch. The time is little after 3 in the afternoon. You do have the option of going into work early, catching the start of swing shift and getting a head start on closing up a case or two. Then a realization hits you. With all the overtime you've been putting in, you are slowing turning into a Sara Sidle. A manic workaholic. While she is a "natural, science breathing, hard worker" kind of workaholic, you are the exact opposite. You are the "kiss-ass, learn a thing or two here and there, flirt with all the ladies during your overtime" kind of workaholic. Something your boss, Gil Grissom, is never happy about.

You muse aloud, "A little veg time wouldn't hurt me."

You strip to your boxers, open a window and cut on a fan. The heat has been unrelenting the last few days. You pop open a root beer and plop down onto your beanbag chair. The plastic-like covering of the chair sticks to your sweaty body and for a moment, you contemplate moving to a more suitable piece of furniture. Then laziness kicks in and you stay right where you are.

You thumb through your mental address book, trying to find someone to call and cure your loneliness. Someone to hang out with before work. Maybe a lady friend who could really make this day worthwhile.

You can't think of anyone besides the people you already work with. Yeah. You have quite the social life. Ladies just lining up at the door.

You snort to yourself and your social misfortune before dozing into a fitful nap, dreams consisting of a frightful one night stand with the pretentious Mrs. Templeton.


Your flashlight leaves a trail of evidence to follow. From the overturned trash by the dumpster to the cold stiff lying in a puddle of muck, you tread over the asphalt surface carefully. Another light soon joins yours. Then another and another. The four of you stop at the body. For a moment, you all contemplate the age old question: Why? Why would a human being kill another? The moment is over quickly and the lead CSI begins barking out orders.

"Greg, take pictures of the dumpster and process. Sara, you cover the body until David gets here. Nick and I will start asking questions inside."

"As you wish, my lady," you smile winningly, even though you are slightly hurt Catherine would choose Nick over you.

Over the last couple of years, Catherine has been good to you. Taking you along for rides to interrogate potential suspects. Helping process evidence. Teaching you what you need to know. It burns you whenever she goes for the manly Nick Stokes instead of you. As a bit of consolation, she does treat you to one of her gorgeous smiles in return before disappearing through the back entrance of the restaurant with Nick.

You have often dreamed of sweeping Catherine off her feet. Showing Warrick and/or Nick that you can be a desirable man like either of them. She does have the baggage of a kid, but in all honesty, you love Lindsey. You are confident enough your current level of maturity, growth and - dare you say - je ne sais quoi could give Catherine the world and more. She needs someone in her life.

A bright flash snaps you out of your daydreaming. Sara's camera. You glance over to her, seeing her hunched over the body and inspecting it closely. Your dreams of Catherine wash away almost instantly as you log away the memory of Sara's backside for future reference. Just another second. . .

Okay, brain processing over. You head over to the dumpster to start your work.

"I saw that," she teases, her slow drawl containing an ever so playful twang. She continues to process without even looking at you, but that knowing smile is slowly crossing her face. Your obvious crush on her is getting harder and harder to hide these days. Not to mention, your working relationship is beginning to blossom into something you can't quite describe. Your attentions are sure to be noticed by her ever observant eyes.

You feign ignorance, which is standard operating procedure whenever you get caught checking her out. "What are you talking about?"

"You. My ass. Stop checking it out," she explains pointedly, yet jokingly.

You force out an embarrassed chuckle, but respond cheekily, "It's a nice ass."

"Focus, Greg," she warns, this time taking the time to look at you with a stern gaze. Play time is suddenly over and you begin to wonder why Sara is so hot and cold tonight. She was a little snippy with Grissom earlier this shift as well.

You take a few snapshots of the dumpster, then zoom in on more details. You are so caught up in your work, you hadn't noticed David arrive, already giving his assessment on the cause of death. You bag a bloody tissue before tuning your ears in on the conversation between Sara and the medical examiner.

"Ligature marks around his neck would suggest strangulation," David states. An observation either of you could've made without his help. "Liver temp would suggest time of death was a few hours ago. Maybe less."

"Thanks, David," Sara smiles, finally rising from her crouched position on the ground. She checks her camera for battery life and a quick review of the photos she has captured. You take this as your opportunity to report your findings and approach her. She gives you a quick grin before asking, "Any luck with the dumpster?"

The fleeting cold spell has vanished, that smile of hers returning her to the status of "hot". Maybe she recognized how harsh she was earlier and is making up for her odd behavior.

"Lots of trash and rotten food, but I did find a discarded bloody tissue. Could be nothing," you say, shrugging. "The haphazard mess could suggest struggle. The victim or perp accidently busting a bag open while fighting for the upper hand."

"Well, our vic was definitely strangled. If we're lucky, we might find the murder weapon around here," Sara sighs, glancing around the dark alleyway, now decorated with police lights and yellow tape. "If I were you, I would get in the dumpster. Search for anything that could leave half inch marks around someone's neck."

"In the dumpster, huh?" you frown. You can already hear the flies buzzing around inside. "I thought the CSI hazing ritual was over."

Sara winks at you, "All the great CSIs get their starts rummaging through trash, Greggo."


Maybe digging through the trash wasn't so bad. It finally forced you to take a shower. On the other hand, it produced nothing fruitful. No murder weapon. Nothing remotely incriminating or helpful. You are stuck with no leads. Just half eaten dinners foolishly thrown away by upper class patrons. Enough food to feed one of the local homeless shelters down the street. You make a mental note to get together your bi-monthly donation. By that, you mean, actually responding to those urging, bi-monthly postcards you get in the mail asking for contributions.

You step out of the showers wrapped in a towel and make your way to your locker. You yank out all of the essentials. A quick check to make sure you are alone and the boxers go on first. The pants are a quick second and lastly an undershirt to complete the ensemble. Feeling better fully clothed and clean, you throw on a button down shirt and slip into your shoes before rushing back out into the labs. Surely someone had missed you while you were gone.

"Hey, just the guy I wanted to see," you hear as you whiz by DNA. You come to an abrupt halt and turn around. Wendy is smiling and waving at you to come back. You quickly observe how nice her hair is tonight, casually flipped up in a clip. You also take note of her pearly whites flashing like beacons in your direction. She's in a very good mood.

"I must have done something absolutely amazing if you want to see me again so badly," you smile devilishly.

She smirks at you this time, ignoring your attempts at flirting and holding up a report, "You're in luck. That bloody tissue of yours kicked out a name in the database."

"Awesome," you grin widely, walking back into a space that you used to call your domain. Wendy Simms was now ultimate ruler and you were definitely willing to submit to any of her demands. That is, if she ever issued any demands for you to actually submit to.

"Yep. Your girl's name is Tracy Marshall. She has priors, her DNA taken for a murder case that dayshift handled two years ago. She was exonerated," Wendy reports, before handing over the computer printouts to you. You study them for a bit, before thanking her. You even offer her to dinner, but she politely declines. You walk away, not allowing the disappointment in being turned down again get to you. Maybe you could work on Sara again. Join her on lunch break. She doesn't usually mind your presence during that time.

Catherine rounds the corner, spots you and waves at you to meet up with her, "Hey, Greg."

Of course, you could try and work your magic on Catherine first.

"Hey, Cath," you smile when you reach each other.

"How's your stuff coming?" she asks.

"DNA kicked out a name on the bloody tissue. A girl named Tracey Marshall," you announce proudly. You hand her the paperwork to let her see. As she reads, you compliment, "I like what you've done with your hair, by the way. You look great."

Hair seems to be your thing today.

This causes her to look up at you, her face a mixture of puzzlement and intrigue. You also notice she is a touch flattered by your compliment, which you log away as points for you. She laughs lightly, before glancing at you sidelong, "Weren't you just hitting on Wendy?"

Those points you had gained are suddenly lost. Damn those CSIs and their observant eyes!

You pretend to be flabbergasted, clutching your chest for dramatic effect, "Hitting on. . .? Wendy? Cath, I was just trying to give you a compliment!"

"Uh-huh," she smirks, obviously not buying your story. She hands the DNA results back to you, a gentle hand squeezing your arm. "You're a sweet kid, Greg. You just gotta learn to manage that heart of yours better. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about someone and then get hurt."

Her warning sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Templeton's before her and you begin to wonder how many more people will address you as a "sweet kid" before the night is over.

For the record, it would be two more people. Sara and Nick.


Vegas: Home to 24 hour alcohol establishments.

The bar crawling stops at the first bar and it's only 7 in the morning. Not exactly the morning bar crawl you had envisioned, but Nick has managed to run into an old flame. She is now your current waitress and is doing all she can to get back into Nick's good graces. . .or his bed. Nick is merely taking advantage of her, of course, most of your drinks being free as a result. As much as you like free beer, you still have developed this bitter taste in your mouth.

It seems all of these little trips leave you just a tiny bit jealous of the two men sitting before you. Both Nick and Warrick seem to have a plethora of old flames littering the streets of Vegas. You, on the other hand, have trouble coming up with at least one woman who enjoyed your company enough to ask for a second date. Anyway, her name is Cindy and Warrick is quick to tease whenever she leaves your sight.

"Cindy? Sounds like a porn name."

"Cindy is a perfectly normal name, Warrick," Nick defends sternly. You can tell he's not at all amused with Warrick's joke. In your time at the labs, you've found Nick and Warrick's friendship to be an odd one. They don't really have the same kind of humor, the same work ethics or the same people skills, yet they are still great friends. It still amazes you that they have allowed you to join their little club of drunken debauchery. You feel like the kid brother, which is perfect considering you never had brothers of your own.

"Besides, she's been eyeing you too," Nick smiles back, to which Warrick scoffs and finishes off his current drink. Nick insists, "I'm serious. I think when I give her my number, I'll put down yours instead of mine."

Warrick's eyes widen, "You wouldn't. . ."

"Tina would have a baby if she heard Miss Cindy's voice on your answering machine!" Nick laughs hard, while you smile at their banter. Nick turns to you, "What do you think, Greggo?"

You shake your head and hold up your hands in defense, "No comment! I'm not going to say anything about a girl you've had relations with nor will I agree or disagree with the claim that Cindy has been eyeing Warrick. I'd like to live to see the next day, thanks."

Warrick grins wickedly, "C'mon, Greg. I wouldn't hurt you. . .too bad."

Nick nods as well, "Yeah, Greg. I mean, if you said Cindy was hot, I would only. . .give you one black eye."

You feel they might be drunk, but another part of you feels their jokes are gravely serious. So you maintain your ground and say nothing even remotely sexual about the beautiful Cindy. Instead, you just raise your glass and order another. You have a feeling surviving a bar crawl with these two will require a bit of inebriation.

Your theory has proven correct, it would seem. Watching Nick leave with Cindy doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would had you been sober. Knowing Warrick has a woman waiting at home for him also stings much less with your brain clouded with alcohol. You leave your car in the lot and call a cab.

Stumbling into your place, you strip your outer layers on the way to your bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind. You flop down onto the bed and eye your alarm clock.

The time is now 9 a.m.

You shut your eyes hoping the hangover won't be too bad when you wake up.


The bright, red LED lights on your alarm clock switch from 12:59 p.m. to 1:00 p.m..

A song starts out softly, the lyrics oddly familiar.

"And the tears come streaming down your face.

When you lose something you can't replace."

You open your eyes. Your hand absentmindedly scratches your rear and your feet reluctantly kick off the sheets. You stare at the clock, your foggy mind finally remembering that you woke up to this very same song the day before at exactly the same time. You laugh at the coincidence and sluggishly slip out of bed.

Oh, this is not a good day to have a hangover. Drinks with the guys was fun, but it doesn't come without its consequences.

It's weird, though. The more you walk, the more you realize that you don't have a headache at all! Your stomach slowly stops swimming and your steps more confident. You scratch your head wondering how you managed to avoid such a massive hangover. Maybe you drank a lot of water the night before or something.

As you step into the bathroom, you hear the radio squawk, "Good afternoon, Las Vegas! This is Dan the Man for KMRK Radio!"

"Morning, Dan," You yawn, as you shut the bathroom door behind you.

"That was Coldplay with "Fix You". Up next, more hits, but first we're gonna check in on Bobby with our traffic report. Bobby?"

"Thanks Dan! A major accident just outside Scotty's Junction, so if you can, avoid that mess at all costs!"

You throw the door open, sticking your face out and listening to the radio very closely now. The monologue continues as you say aloud, "Scotty's Junction is backed up again?"

As Dan the Man and Bobby go into their bantering routine, you begin to realize it's the same monologue you had heard yesterday! Gosh, isn't that a bit weird? There must've been a mix-up at the station you reason. You slink back into your bathroom and shut the door.

"Okay, everyone. Have a wonderful November 14th! I'm Dan the Man signing off. Stayed tuned for the next hour of great music!"

You open the door again, this time half naked and clutching your towel. Your gaping lips sputter, "November 14th? That was yesterday!"

This is crazy, you think. The radio station just needed to fill up airspace because Dan the Man called out sick or something. Yeah, that's it! Dan the Man is just sick! There is no way that yesterday is today, again. Er. Whatever.

You forego the shower for a second day in a row, throw on some clothes and bolt out of your room. There is only one way to get to the bottom of this. Check the groceries. You bought food yesterday and once you find it, you'll have proved your radio theory. Simple as that.

You go into the little kitchen, throw open the fridge and groan. Your new gallon of milk is gone. The coffee beans are gone. The fresh loaf of bread: also gone. You go through your small pantry to find all of the snack items have mysteriously vanished as well. Everything you had bought yesterday has disappeared!!

You quickly shut the pantry doors, hanging onto the handles for dear life.

"Okay, hold on Greg," you talk to yourself. "You did get a little drunk after shift with the guys, so maybe you just ate everything in a drunken haze! That's it!"

You run over to your garbage can. The first look isn't too promising. So you dump the contents on the floor, just to double check. You kick it around, turn things over and then fall to your knees in exasperation. There is no evidence that you ate any of those food items within the last day. You pull at your semi-long locks and decide that there is one more thing you have to check.

The newspaper.

The date on today's newspaper will finally prove whether you are going crazy or not. You pull on shoes and run out of your building. You have the misfortune of running into your landlady, Mrs. Templeton. Again.

"Mr. Sanders. Need I remind you that you're late paying the rent?" she prods, her beady eyes squinting ever so annoyingly at you. Again.

This time, the witty remark doesn't come as fast or as suave. You gulp then reply, "Yes. Three times every day since last Thursday. But I paid you this morning?"

"Don't you try and pull that trick on me again, mister!" She reaches up, pinches your cheek solidly and comments, "You're a nice kid, Greggy. You just gotta learn to manage your finances better."

"Okay," you mumble, your lips taut from her pulling at your cheek. You almost forget to be mad about her nettling nickname.

"This is the fourth time you've been late in the last six months," she continues to push unnecessarily. Just like the day before. She is going through this conversation like it has never happened! She finally releases your face from her killer grip, but before she can ask about your paycheck, you step in.

"Crime scene investigators make a nice paycheck, Mrs. Templeton," you say shakily to which she stares at you wide eyed. She sputters, not sure how to respond. How could you possibly know what she was going to say before she had said it?

You know because you have lived this all before.

To be continued. . .