"Fine. And how are you?"

She grinned. "Ah, it's nice to be around a fellow smart ass. How they hanging, Greg?"

"To the left." *I can't believe I just said that! To a guy, yes, but to a woman... Whoa. She looked.*

Mozell hadn't been able to resist the quick flicker of her eyes to check if she could tell whether Greg was in earnest, or joking. *Can't tell, damn fashionably baggy pants. Oo, look at that blush! God, blonds are so much fun to tease. They can't really lie about when you get them.* "Let's go, kiddo. If both of us are late, the CSI will no doubt collapse."

As they started back into the lab section, Greg said, "I heard about those results you pulled up on the medieval murder case. Outstanding! Catherine and Warrick went back over the scene and this time they located a pair of chain mail gauntlets. That explained some of the wounds Robbins couldn't figure out at first."

Mozell made a face. "Beaten with chain mail gloves. Nasty."

"You know it. Anyway, the day shift got traces of the victim's blood from the outside, and epithelial cells from the suspect on the inside, sooo... Looks pretty much like a slam dunk."

"Bump, bump, bump... and another one bites the dust," she sang. Greg chuckled, and she shrugged. "I'm being optimistic. He'll probably go for the ol' insanity bit, and with his history, he has a chance of making it stick."

"You don't believe he's nuts?"

"Oh, I never said that. He probably is, but leagally? I doubt it." She suddenly stopped--so suddenly that her tennis shoes squeaked on the tile floor. She pointed. "Eep!"

"What?" Greg looked around quickly, expecting nothing less than someone walking an iguana on a leash.

She clasped her hands in front of her chest, eyes glowing. "My place! They've finished my place!" she cooed. Greg looked. Sure enough, the plastic sheeting was down. The door had a fresh coat of paint, and a plaque declaring in large letters CLEAN ROOM. ACCESS RESTRICTED. Mozell drifted over to it and... Well, embraced it was the only appropriate term. She pressed against it, arms outstretched as if giving it a hug, cheek laid against the door. "Oh, baby, Mama is so happy to see you!" She gave the door a kiss.

*Damn,* Greg thought. *A door gets to first base with her, and I haven't done anything yet but flirt. I gotta do something about that.* "Grissom probably has the key."

"Right!" She stepped back. "Can't have just anything roaming in from the hallways." They were coming abreast of their labs. "I'll just trot down and check." Greg was starting to step into his lab when she suddenly whirled, grabbed him, and laid a fervent kiss on him. It was closed mouth, but it was intense. He gasped, wide-eyed, when she pulled back. She grinned. "Sorry. There are two times people might be advised to stay out of my way--when I'm pissed, and when I'm really happy."

She bustled off. Greg stared after her. "Whoa, Mama."

"Greg?"

"Huh?"

He turned to find Nick and Sara approaching. Warrick was smiling, Sara wasn't quite frowning. She said, "Did I just see Mozell kissing you?"

Greg shook his head slightly. "You saw that?"

"Yes," murmured Warrick. "For a second there I thought she was going to bend you over backward, like that sailor did the nurse in that famous WWII photograph."

"You saw it, too, Sara?"

"Greg, yes. You have two witnesses."

"Good. For a minute there I was afraid I'd hallucinated it." He went into the lab, leaving the two CSIs to stare after him.

They continued down the hall. "I'm worried about him," muttered Sara.

Warrick looked at her, curious. "Why?"

"He's getting familiar with that new girl awful fast."

Warrick shrugged. "They get on well together. I think it's great."

"But Warrick, she's so... so..."

*Not like you?* Warrick thought. "Yeah, she's a little in-your-face, but she seems like a nice enough person, and..." he chuckled, "all signs point to her liking Greg. Any way, this is just her second day, and..."

"Warrick, that's the point! She's been here two days, and she's putting up subversive posters, smooching fellow employees in the hallway, and deliberately getting my name wrong?"

One eyebrow lifted. "Excuse me?"

"She acts like she can't remember a simple name like Sidle. She keeps calling me things like Sidewalk and Sidekick."

"Sara, you've never been teased about your name, have you?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I went through childhood and adolescence being called things like Icky, Warthog, and Wick the Dick, I'm having a hard time sympathizing. I can just imagine what she went through growing up as 'Mozell'"

Sara sniffed. "Maybe if I gave her a little dose of her own medicine she'd ease off on it."

Warrick paused and stared at her. "I really wouldn't advise that."

"Why not?" Mozell was almost trotting back up the hall, eyes bright, jingling a set of keys. She was singing, "I got the whoooole wooor-ld in my hands! Hey, Warrick. Hey, Sidewinder. New lab!" She hurried past and let herself into her new domain.

Warrick shook his head ruefully, gazing after the computer tech. "Sara, I just don't think you have the ammunition."

Mozell was in the break room later, rhapsodizing to Greg about her new workplace. "Only Grissom and I have the keys. You step into a little bitty changing room, where you don overalls, and a hairnet..."

"A hairnet?"

"Greggy, if a couple of dust particles can make a difference, what might one of my curlies do? Overalls, hairnet, and booties. then you get into the workroom proper." She sighed. "More white space than THX 1138. I wish I could put up some posters, or maybe a plant, but oh, well..." She shrugged. "Not much room to work with. They'd better not load me up with equipment to reconstruct or whatever, because if you think my office is cramped, it looks like the interior of the Astrodome compared to the clean room."

"Good thing you're not claustrophobic."

"Suppose so. The overalls are a bit of a bummer. I'd rather have one of those cool white coats, like you do."

"No one's going to stop you from wearing one. I think you'd look cute in it." *And can I possibly be more idiotic?*

"I'd look like a mad scientist, which I wouldn't mind, but thank you for thinking so."

He noticed a lapel button pinned to her blouse. It was black, with pink lettering, and said DMV. "What's that?"

"It's a lapel pin."

"Duh. What does DMV stand for?"

She grinned at him. "Guess."

"Um, you used to work for the Department of Motor Vehicles?"

"Greg, Greg, Greg. I'm disappointed. That would be too simple."

"You're right, of course. Um..." He thought hard. "Dallas Volleyball... uh... Mavens?"

"No, but not bad."

"Drink More Vodka?"

"Excellent sentiment--but no."

"Gimme a hint."

"Okay. It's the initials of a sort of club I used to belong to."

"Is it nationally known?"

"Not hardly. I only knew one other girl who belonged. We're both ineligible now."

He frowned. "Damn, that's a tough one."

Catherine, Nick, and Sara came in. "What are you looking so thoughtful about, Greg?" asked Catherine, going to the refrigerator.

Greg indicated the lapel pin. Mozell helpfully lifted her collar to show it to a better advantage. "I'm trying to guess what the DMV stands for. It's some sort of club Mozell used to belong to, and she won't tell me what it is."

Catherine was passing bottles of water to Nick and Sara. "DMV, huh? Department of..."

"Nope," chorused Greg and Mozell.

"Right. Mm... Democratic Midlands Voters?"

Mozell shook her head. "Came from Winnie, Texas, not Midlands."

Nick was smiling. "Downtown Mall Vixens?"

Mozell laughed, shaking her head. "But that would make a terrific T-shirt."

Sara said, "Devious, Machiavellian... uh..." Mozell gave her a small smile and an encouraging wave. "Vagrants?"

"Nooo. I've never been rich, but I'm darn sure self-supporting. I liked the first two words, though."

"How about Delectable, Magnificent Visions?" offered Greg.

She smiled at him. "Just for that, I'll tell you." She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Greg's eyes got big, and he stared back at her. "Really?"

"Yea, but this is an old pin. Now I'm a DOB."

She got up and twiddled her fingers. "Must dash. Hard drives to reconstruct, crooks to catch." She left.

The CSIs sat at the table. "Well?" said Sara. "Tell, Greg."

"Oooh, I don't know if I should," Greg protested. "She told me in confidence." Nick reached over, expression never changing, and wrapped his fist in Greg's collar. "You talked me into it. It stands for..." he cleared his throat.

Catherine gestured with her bottle of water, holding it threateningly over his lap. "Spill it, or I spill this--and it's cold, Greg."

"It stands for Dirty Minded Virgins." Nick and Catherine burst out laughing. Sara's lips twitched briefly, but she settled on wrinkling her nose. "Go ahead and laugh," said Greg, "But now I have to find out what DOB stands for, and I'm pretty damn sure it's not Date of Birth."

Mozell was clattering away on her keyboard when Greg peeked in the door. "Hello, Handsome Stranger," she said cheerfully.

"Mozell, I... uh... I told them what DMV stands for."

"Good boy. I knew I could count on you."

"You don't mind?"

"Pish-tosh. The greater shock to their sensibilities would have been if I was still a DMV, not that I once was. Actually it sort of shocked me, myself, when I lost my club standing. Hadn't planned on it, but it's amazing what can happen at a fan convention when it rains too hard for anyone to go out, and you're in costume. The inhibitions sort of thin out with enough alcohol." She glanced at the slightly stunned looking young man. "TMI, huh?"

"You're a great one for acronyms, aren't you?"

"You damn betcha. That stands for Too Much Information. Sorry, kid, I don't usually hang my dirty laundry from the flagpole, but there's just something about you that makes me feel all comfortable and open. Perhaps that should frighten you."

"No, I like it."

"Brave boy. Good thing, because I only see it intensifying."

"Ya think?"

She gave him an amused glance. "I think I heard hope in that tone. You're a rare bird, Greg Sanders. Most guys would have run screaming for the hills by now."

"Actually, it's nice to meet someone who says what they think."

"Good to know. The usual reaction is 'my God, do you ever have a thought you don't blurt out?'" She shrugged. "I'm not a diplomat, officially or unofficially. I have no ambition to rise in administration, so I feel no need to pucker up when an ass is presented." She paused, giving Greg a mischievous glance, then said, "Nooooo, I won't say it. He's too young."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"How old do you think I am?" She shrugged. "I'll have you know I'm twenty-seven."

"And I'm forty-one. I'm old enough to be your mother."

"You'd have had to have gotten pregnant at thirteen!"

"Okay, I'm old enough to have been your mother if I was slutty and careless. Greg, when the age difference is more than a decade, and it's the woman in the upper bracket, people... How do I put this? They assume she's in it for the sex, and he's in if for either money, or a mommy."

"That's not fair. Guys date women that much younger than them all the time, and no one thinks anything about it."

"I never said it was fair--I just said that's how it is."

"Does it bother you?"

"Heck no! Go, younger men!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm just telling you that if anything got started, you'd have to expect to take some flack, and I can pretty well imagine who'd fire the first volley."

Greg was quiet. "IS anything going to get started?"

Mozell turned away from the computer, cocking her head as she looked at him. "I thought that was what we were discussing."

"Want to go out with me Friday?"

She smiled. "Sure."