Disclaimer CSI and all related belong to CBS
Rating PG, practically family friendly
Prompt Someone wearing fake warts, and also someone wearing a
bed-sheet as a costume
X-posted to geekfiction.
Hodges took one last swipe at the thin, messy wig, straightened the
uncomfortably high collar, and pushed through the doors into CSI
The tiny, plump girl with the owl glasses was behind the receptionist
desk tonight; cat ears on a headband and black on the tip of her nose.
Lame. She glanced up when the doors opened, doing a classic double
take at the sight of him. Hodges barely controlled his nervous quirk
of the lips, turning it into his best British glower.
Owl Girl burst out laughing. Hodges reflexively grimaced at her and
hurried past. Maybe this wasn't the great idea he'd thought. Eight
hours in this get-up suddenly seemed intolerably embarrassing.
Shoulders hunched, he scuttled toward Trace and his blessed lab coat.
He stirred up giggles and catcalls in his wake, cool air on his lower
legs and his face hot and itching where he'd glued on the warts.
God, this was high school all over again. All he needed was an armful
of books so someone could knock them to the floor. Why had he wanted
to do this everyone always laughed at him when he drew attention to
Hodges was jerked from his self-flagellation and stopped short by a set
of caramel-colored cowboy boots. His gaze traveled up the matching
pants, shirt and blue scarf knotted at the neck to stop incredulously
on the face of Gil Grissom, crowned by a white cowboy hat.
"Warts and all, Lord Protector?" Grissom quirked that sideways grin of
his, and suddenly hodges loved him with all his heart.
He straightened his shoulders and preened. "Oliver Cromwell, at your
service, sir." He turned on the glower again.
Grissom looked him over, still grinning. "And I thought my Roy Rogers
would win the prize this year."
"Oh," Hodges said nonchalantly, brushing his velvet sleeves, "There's a
"Hey fancy pants!" Sanders poked his multicolored head out of the
break-room. A plastic laurel wreath sat askew in his hair, and one
shoulder was bare.
Hodges put on a look of disdain. "What are you dressed up as, Sanders?
"Nope!" Greg emerged from the doorway in a white toga, obviously made
out of a bed-sheet from the Bellagio: the logo ran around the hem. "I'm
a frat boy!"
Hodges stared, then sputtered with reluctant laughter. Sometimes he
actually missed Sanders' old insanity.
Catherine glided out too, wearing a tight black catsuit with her hair
done in a '60's flip. Emma Peel, he'd bet. Nick and Warrick clomped
along behind her, two of the Three Stooges. Sara followed in a short
black dress, her hair in two Pocahontas-style braids. Beside him,
Grissom choked back something.
"I'm a serial killer," She intoned solemnly. "They look just like
Ah. Wednesday Adams.
Greg clapped his hands together and rubbed them villainously. "Who's
for cookies? Breakfast of champions!"
Hodges followed the laughing crew into the break-room, feeling warmer
than he had in months.