Title: CSI-Aye-Aye
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Austin Powers/CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Scott Evil/Greg Sanders
Status: Finished
Series/Sequel: The Evil Series
Summary: What is this affinity Scott seems to have for people in the law enforcement field?
Archive: Yes
Feedback: Yes. On list, or to poet77665@catlover.com
Disclaimer: I did not create and do not own any readily recognizable media characters. I have no agreement, legal or otherwise, with the creators or owners. This is purely for entertainment--I have not made, do not seek, and will not accept any profit for it. This story is in no way meant to reflect on the lives or life styles of the actors/actresses who originally portrayed the characters. I have nothing but fond affection and respect for them, for giving me so much entertainment, and no disrespect is meant by anything herein.
Rating: FRAO
Notes: ^In Jolted. About the bands mentioned-as far as I know, none of them save The Cure actually exist. One of them is a guest mention from my Littermates story. Ain't telling which one. :)
Personal Websites: http://www.scribescribbles.com and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver (which can be reached through the previous site).

CSI-Aye-Aye
by Scribe

Scott Evil examined the two tickets he was holding in what could only be described as a gloating manner. Well, smug would have worked, too. "Fourteen hours," he said. "Fourteen hours of waiting on line, but it was worth it."

"Glad to hear that you think so," said the weary looking henchman standing beside him. "Since I'm the one who did the last ten hours of waiting."

"Not my fault that Mom wanted me back by eleven, dude," said Scott.

"It's just that I find your eagerness to obey curfew a little suspect, given the number of times you've slid on in past 2 AM."

"I wouldn't mention that around the Lair if I were you, dude."

"Yeah, yeah. You might say 'thank you'?"

"Didn't I? I thought I expressed my gratitude."

"How?"

"By not giving Mini Me the combination to your locker, and not telling Fat Bastard that you're wearing edible underwear."

The henchman blanched. "I'm NOT! I'm wearing plain old Fruit of the Loom."

"Hey, the word 'fruit' is involved, and dude..." Scott patted him on the shoulder. "Do you really think it would make much difference to Bastard?"

"Right. You're welcome. I have to admit I was a little surprised when I found out the event you wanted the tickets for. Thrash, heavy metal, death metal, techno, or hip-hop wouldn't have surprised me. But Goth?"

"Hey, the Goth Gather is going to be THE big Goth event of the year in North America, let alone Nevada. They're going to have two dozen Goth bands, from legends to the up and coming. There's a rumor that some of The Cure are going to be there." He started ticking off on his fingers. "For sure there's going to be Dismal, Neverdream, Cut Culture, Tremble and the Restless Dead, and Dystopia."

"But I've never heard you listening to Goth."

"Granted that isn't my first choice, but it's okay. Besides, there's going to be an attraction there besides Goth music."

"What? T-shirts?"

"Goth guys. HOT Goth guys. I love 'em in eyeliner."

"I'd think that might make it kind hard to spot the gay ones, if everyone was wearing make-up."

Scott grinned sharply. "You don't honestly think I completely write them off if they claim they're straight? Remind me to tell you about an FBI agent named Mulder some time." ,

"Well, I'm exhausted, and Number Two isn't around to approve any time off for helping you."

"Don't sweat it. Just go home and nap, and I'll hack the shift records later on. I'll even shoot you a few hours overtime."

"Wow. That's pretty decent of you."

Scott made shushing motions. "Damn, don't say that so loud! I have a reputation to maintain. And in that interest, find you own way back to the Lair. I'm gonna spend a little time in town."

"Knew it was too good to last," muttered the henchman, heading off to find a phone, so he could call a cab.

*Now, let's see,* thought Scott. *I've aggravated someone, I have achieved the means to get sex... What's missing from my day?* His stomach growled. *Oh, yeah--food. The other necessity for survival. Mini Me got into my junk food stash again. No wonder that little booger was bouncing off the wall without the benefit of my foot upside his ass--he was overloaded on illicit sugar. And I couldn't get into the kitchen because Fat Bastard was there and I don't want to be either a snack or a molestation opportunity. I'd have raided the henchmen's lounge, but the last time I looked the only half-way decent thing they had was trail mix, and I had to work like a bitch to pick out the M & Ms and peanuts. I guess I'll have breakfast, then hit the stores to restock. Okay, I'm in the Land of All You Can Eat Breakfast Buffets, but I really don't feel like walking a half-mile to pick out my food. I feel like sitting down and being waited on. What's a good, close choice for that! ?* He looked around, and spotted what looked like a large, old fashioned silver Airstream trailer. The neon sign above it declared EAT HERE. "Well, helloooo, retro," Scott drawled, starting toward the diner.

~*~

"It was sheer torture," said Greg. "Surrounded by sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, napoleons, cream puffs, cream horns, donuts of every description, pecan tarts, fruit puffs, bear claws, a dozen kinds of cake, TWO dozen kinds of cheesecake, and I couldn't even snag a biscotti."

"It would have been violating a crime scene," said Nick patiently. "Besides, I would have thought that seeing the victim after he'd had his head go up-close-and-personal with that heavy dough mixing hook would have killed your appetite."

"It did--for awhile. But then I went out into the front part of the bakery to check for trace evidence, and the scent hit me. Sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. I had a flashback to my Nana's kitchen, and she never let me out of that room without feeding me. I can't help it--it's a conditioned response. So here I am--ravenous, and the vending machine is on the fritz. It's a toss up as to whether I'll die of starvation before I kill myself from frustration."

Greg was in the process of changing out of his 'work shirt' (which he claimed was anything but. "I LIKE work shirts. These are a half-step up from starched straight jackets.") into what he called his 'civvies'. This one was a Hawaiian print shirt that was so bright that it could have served as a nightlight. It looked good on him: but then, so did most things. The only thing that looked better on Greg was his skin, and since there was a communal shower available, and Greg was occasionally careless, Nick had seen that, too. Nick found it rather ironic that he had something of a reputation as a 'ladies man', and the only coworker he wanted to sexually harass was another male.

Nick chuckled. "Look, I've got the paper work--you go on."

"You sure, man?"

"Oh, hell yeah. I took that personal day last week, anyway, and I want to make up the time."

"I'd kiss you if I didn't think you'd slap me silly. Thanks."

Greg bustled off and Nick watched him go, paying particular attention to the ex-lab rat's ass. He murmured, "Wish you'd take that risk some day, Greggo."

In proof of the theory that great minds think alike, at that moment Greg was thinking, *Maybe it's good that CSIs aren't actual law enforcement officials, because how much of a coward am I? I've been wanting to jump Nick's bones since the first time I heard that drawl, and what do I do? Nothing. Maybe I shouldn't be looking at my track record with Sarah-that's depressing enough to drive even Hugh Hefner into a monastery. But Nick's from Texas. Do they HAVE gays or bis in Texas? Yeah, I guess so. But do they ADMIT to them? Maybe the next time we go out for a few beers I'll have more than a few, then need to sleep on someone's couch, hint hint. Then maybe I can work my way up to a 'boy was I drunk last night' encounter. Kinda sad, but I think I'll take what I can get. Okay, where do I eat today? McDonalds is out. I don't want anything I can eat with one hand in the car.* He smiled to himself. *Well, except Nick, and I wouldn't try that while I was driving.* He noticed a large neon sign blinking on a building just down the block. EAT HERE. He'd never tried that particular place, but he'd been meaning to for some time. "Well, hello omen. Looks like I eat there." He draped the work shirt over his shoulder and started to walk toward the diner..

~*~

A waitress was just swabbing down a newly emptied booth when Scott went in, and he slid in immediately. "Hon, we ask single diners to sit at the counter when it's this crowed," she said.

Scott gave her a flat stare. "Feel free to ask."

Her expression stiffened. "I AM asking."

"Let me mention something to you." He reached into the commodious pocket of his baggy jeans, and pulled out his PDA. "See this?" She nodded. "Know what it is?" She nodded again. "Know anyone who can hack into the Department of Health records and make changes?" She shook her head. "Now you do."

She whipped a menu out of the deep pocket of her apron and slapped it on the table. "Specials are on the card clipped inside. Coffee?"

"Got Jolt cola?"

"At this time of the morning?" He stared at her. "Jolt is too modern. We have Coke."

"That'll do."

"I'll have it for you in a flash."

*This is probably one of the only places on earth where the waitresses are not only allowed to chew gum, but are ENCOURAGED to,* thought Scott. The blue haired lady who'd seated him had been wearing kitty-cat rhinestone glasses, and had been chewing a wad of gum that might have rivaled the one' he'd managed in the semi-infamous Jolt^ incident. He examined the menu she'd handed him, along with his glass of water. (There was no lemon slice floating in the water-another retro sign, and one for which Scott was profoundly grateful. He didn't want lemon anywhere near his water unless he was making lemonade). The menu was also decorated with fifties motifs. *Leather jackets. Yowza. Nothin' wrong with that.* The bell over the door jangled, and he glanced up automatically, looked back at the menu, then did a double take. *And denim jackets aren't bad either. Woof.*

The man who had just entered was somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties. Nice build-no body builder, but he kept himself in shape. He had short, messy blond hair that was almost as spiky as Scott's own. He was wearing a battered denim jacket over a baggy, slightly screaming Hawaiian shirt-and he was carrying what looked at first glance like the sort of plain, button-down white shirt that Number Two wore. He was also wearing a pair of mirrored aviator style shades, but what Scott could see of his face looked nice: humorous, if a little tired.

He was standing just inside the door, looking around. He pulled off the shades and squinted, frowning a little, his eyes flicking to each occupied booth. When he came to Scott his gaze continued on, then flicked back for a moment. Scott smiled. The man blinked, then smiled back, and continued his perusal of the diner. His gaze came to rest on the single seat left at the crowded counter, and he sighed. *Opportunity knocks. Time to be fucking gracious.* Scott hissed.

Blondie looked around. So did the couple that were about to exit. Scott looked at them, saying, "Not you two. I only do threesomes with people I sort of know." He crooked a finger at Greg as they fled.

Greg pursed his lips, unknowingly giving Scott ideas, and walked closer. "Yes?"

Scott indicated the other side of the booth, saying, "You look like a man who can appreciate a soft seat." Then he squirmed.

Greg could feel his eyebrows climbing. He hadn't had such a direct flirtation since he'd worked a crime scene at a motel that was a favorite place of business for gay hustlers. He'd been more-or-less propositioned twice, but one of them was a working boy who wanted a paycheck, and the other was a suspect trying to distract everyone in sight. Not very flattering. But if this one wasn't up to either of those... "You're not working, are you?"

Scott looked puzzled, then he frowned. "Dude, you think I look like a man whore?"

"Um..."

Scott smiled. "Coool. Nope, not working. Just real friendly, real fast." He pointed at the empty seat. "C'mon. Park it and get better acquainted. You look like you're about to drop."

Greg decided what the hell. He tossed the shirt onto the seat and slid in after it, extending his hand. "Greg Sanders."

"Pleased." Scott shook hands. "Scott Evil."

Greg quickly sat back a little. "Is that your idea of a little joke?"

"The little joke is Mini Me, and I'm going to guess that you know about my dad. You've heard of Dad?"

"You could say that. There has been discussion at work about opening up a division devoted solely to his boondoggles."

"You're a cop?"

"Not exactly."

"Hey, don't be shy admitting it if you are. I like cops, as long as they aren't handcuffing me." He grinned. "Well, even that's acceptable... in some situations. If you're not a cop, what are you?"

"Crime scene investigator. In fact, I've been out to your Lair."

"Really? Couldn't have been the last time Austin tore the place up. Mom asked me to keep an eye on you guys, and I'd have remembered you."

"No. It was..." Greg pulled off his shades and squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Um... two months ago."

"Two months? Yeah, I'd have been away. Dad was trying to incarcerate... Oops, pardon me. Trying to ENROLL me in another one of his lame ass evil genius colleges. What happened? Nothing made headlines."

"Bus load of Japanese tourists were held hostage. One of 'em disappeared, and they found a lot of what they thought at first was blood. We thought that this huge Scottish guy might have eaten the tourist. He kept yelling something about sushi and sashimi."

"What happened?"

"We found the tourist unharmed, bound and gagged with duct tape and stuffed in one of the kitchen cabinets. I think he had a close call, though. The 'blood' turned out to be sweet and sour sauce. It was the most bizarre thing I've ever heard of."

"You think that's bizarre? How long have you lived in Las Vegas, anyway?"

"Okay, it's the most bizarre thing not involving actual bloodshed."

The waitress approached. Her tone was a lot less brash than it had been the first time she'd spoken to Scott. "Look, I don't want to rush you, but my manager will have my butt if I don't have a certain turnover. He's going to assume it's because I'm dragging on the service. Any chance of an order soon?"

"Bring my friend..." Scott looked at Greg. "Coffee? Tea?"

"Chocolate milk, extra chocolate syrup, just a dash of vanilla, and a plop of whipped cream on top," said Greg.

The waitress was staring at him. "Do you have any idea what the cook will say if I ask him to do so much special preparation on a glass of milk?"

"Let's see," said Scott. "Maybe..." he glanced at her name tag. "Damn shame what happened to Bertha. Maybe if she'd been a little better in customer service she wouldn't have been eaten by gerbil-pit bull hybrids. What else might he say?"

"Nothing," she said backing away. "He doesn't speak to me if I don't speak to him." She looked at Greg. "You gonna want a cherry with that?"

"No," said Greg. "That would be excessive." She left, and Greg bent down to peer at the back of the menu Scott held. "Let's order. Not that I'm not enjoying the company, but my stomach currently thinks that they've set up a detour between it and my mouth."

Scott moved the menu away from him. "All you're gonna see on the back is the senior citizen menu." He patted the seat beside him. "Come on over to the dark side and check it out with me."

Greg took the invitation, sliding in close to Scott. They put their heads close together and studied the menu-that is when they weren't studying each other. Finally they settled on a breakfast called a James Dean-it included three slices of bacon, patty sausage, breakfast links, ham slice, eggs, hash browns with bacon and cheese, and a pancake. The menu said it was called the James Dean because with all that cholesterol, sodium, and preservatives you could live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse.

The waitress brought Greg's chocolate milk and another soda for Scott, and did everything except bob and curtsy when she took their order. Greg said, "Damn, I've never seen service like this. How does your line of intimidation work in ritzy restaurants?"

"Wouldn't know, man. For one thing they have dress codes." He shuddered. "And for another, they tend to try to feed you things like cilantro, arugula, bloody meat, and snails. I'm a semi-vegetarian."

"And you're ordering a breakfast with enough pork products to keep Paula Dean happy for a week? When are you a vegetarian?"

"When it will most piss off my dad."

"Ah."

"I like an occasional chunk of beef, but I don't want it to practically moo at me. It's nearly impossible to convince a professional chef that you MEAN it when you say 'well done', and I'd rather not waste my efforts annihilating them over what's basically a matter of opinion." Scott watched as Greg took a deep sip of his milk. "How is it?"

"Just about perfect."

"You've got a double mustache."

"Double?"

"One is chocolate milk, then above it a whipped cream one. Would you slap me stupid if I said that I'm imagining cleaning them off with my tongue?" Greg slapped himself. "What the hell, dude?"

"I'm just making sure that I'm awake. I've had wet dreams that start off like this."

Scott smirked as the waitress set two overflowing plates of food before them. He picked up his fork and twirled it. "We're going to have to discuss wet dream plots, wet dream endings..." He poured a thick stream of maple syrup on his pancake, dabbed his finger in the sweet stuff, then licked it clean. Eyes twinkling, he continued, "...and how they can be made to come true."