Meghan O'Hara (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} theohara) wrote,@ 2005-08-20 18:16:00 |
|
Fic: The Wall || Side Two
Title: The Wall
Author: theohara
Rating: NC-17
Length: 17,339 words
Spoilers: Through Grave Danger.
Pairing: It's all about the Grissom. References to GSR and pre-series GCR, though.
Summary: Grissom likes Pink Floyd. Wonder why? A series of Grissom-centric vignettes through time.
Warnings: Pretty much everything I could possibly warn you about except slash and character death.
Notes: The structure will make much more sense if you've heard Pink Floyd's album, The Wall.
Side One: (1960 - 1994)
Side Two: (1996 - 2006)
----------------------------------------
14 // Hey, You // 1996
But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high, as you can see.
No matter how he tried, he could not break free.
Her name is Sara Sidle, and the situation is getting out of hand.
They've snuck out of the cocktail party at the end of the seminar. They're champagne-tipsy and floaty and far, far too overdressed to be where they are, which is sitting on the grass, propped against the wall of the Berkeley auditorium.
He's due back in Vegas tomorrow, and the last thing in the world he should have done on this trip was let coffee with an interesting attendee turn into more coffees and dinners and lunches and trips to the museum that turned into a cab ride in the rain that turned into him almost kissing her goodnight.
He's thirty-nine years old, and she can't be more than twenty-five, if that.
He's learned that lesson already.
This particular problem had fallen into his lap... literally. She'd tripped on a lump in the auditorium carpet, landing on him in a sprawl of gangly limbs and yelped curse words.
"Sorry... sorry... fucking... heels..." she'd muttered, and when she looked up and saw who she'd landed on, her whole face had turned beet-red. "Oh, God... Dr. Grissom..."
He'd been wearing both their cups of coffee. She'd pulled a pack of Kleenex from her purse, swabbing at him while stammering apologies, but she'd only made it worse.
"God... shit... can I at least buy you another cup of coffee? There's a kiosk..."
He'd let her buy him another cup of coffee, watching bemusedly as she'd apologized over, and over, and over.
"And I'd wanted to talk to you, I had so many questions, but... crap, I didn't mean to... you must think I'm such a doof, and... can I just... uh... earlier, when you were talking about timelines..."
She was kind of a doof, actually. Tall and gangly and graceless, red-nosed and gap-toothed, with regrettable eyeshadow and bitten-off lipstick... eager, manic, and raw.
But her questions had been so sharp he'd actually had to think before he answered, and he'd gladly sat down with her at one of the outdoor tables to let the conversation continue.
Once she relaxed, she was fascinating... her wit as dry and dark as his own, her intelligence obvious... and as her confidence grew, he'd realized with a funny shock of dread that she was also more attractive than he'd originally thought.
It was strange, really, nothing he'd ever bothered to think about before. Catherine had been flawless, aggressively gorgeous, unmistakeably dazzling from the moment you laid eyes on her.
Sara... snuck up on you.
Fingernails bitten to the quick, hair curling out of a lumpy, makeshift hairdo somehow involving pencils, a thin mouth that curved down at rest... he almost couldn't tell if she were terribly plain or unspeakably beautiful.
It was... interesting.
Why was he thinking so much about this?
But then her stomach had growled, and she'd blushed and he'd laughed, and the cafeteria had been just a few feet away.
They'd talked about the new exhibit at the museum, and neither had been to it, and the plans had sort of made themselves.
The next afternoon, when she'd come by his hotel to pick him up, he'd looked out the peephole and seen her pacing in front of his door, chewing on her thumbnail.
"Hello, Dr. Grissom," she was mumbling to herself. "No, no. Hi, Dr. Grissom. No..."
He'd pulled back from the keyhole with a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection.
She wasn't his type. She was the anti-Catherine. She was, therefore, safe... and he'd ignored the way he'd blithely rearranged his schedule to spend more time with her, the way he'd sat at lectures making mental notes of things that would interest her, the way he'd taken two steps past bookstores before stopping and going inside for books he'd mentioned that she'd never read, the way he suddenly didn't like any of the clothes he'd packed.
He'd ignored the way her eyeshadow had suddenly become far less woeful and her lipstick was fresh, the way she'd gone from smelling like deodorant and soap to smelling like something exotic and spicy, the way she'd step close to point out things, the way she'd sighed when he put his hand on the small of her back to lead her into restaurants.
Which was easy, as he'd also been ignoring the fact that he'd started putting his hand on the small of her back to lead her into restaurants.
It was always nice to meet a new colleague, he'd told himself. The San Francisco lab was very different from the one in Vegas, and it was always interesting to compare work environments. It'd be handy to have a contact with a background in advanced physics.
He'd told himself a lot of things... and it hadn't crashed down on him that they'd all been bullshit until he'd found himself leaning against her front door, watching her fumble at her keyring entirely longer than was necessary.
"You, uh... wanna come in?" she'd said, nervously. "I uh, have that book we were talking about, if you want to borrow it."
And he'd been... thrilled. A shock of thrill, more precisely, deep-down and low. He'd been staring at her mouth, at the curve of her neck, anticipation making him wet his lips.
That was not how one reacted when your colleague offered to loan you a book.
She hadn't seemed so graceless then, leaned against the doorway in symmetry to his own pose, the strap of her top falling down onto her arm, and he'd wanted to reach out, wrap his fingers around it, move it up her shoulder... wanted it more than he could safely want anything.
"Maybe another time," he'd said.
He'd meant to avoid her at the cocktail party. He really had. But he'd heard her throaty laugh behind him, and caught a snippet of her conversation, and dammit -- he knew something really, really funny and clever to say about that topic, and it had stuck in his head like an itch, the perfect one-liner, no likely opportunity to ever use it again, that would just wither away and die, unsaid.
So he'd snuck up behind her and said it into her ear, making her spit champagne back into her glass, making her turn around with a smile so purely overjoyed to see him that his heart broke, just a little.
She'd gotten them both more champagne, and she'd just finished a book he'd bought her and had a million questions, and the band was loud and they'd had to yell and it hadn't seemed like such a terrible idea when, after he'd suddenly lost her in the crowd for a moment, she'd reappeared with two more flutes of champagne, a napkin full of stolen strawberry tarts, and a suggestion.
He's learning that Sara Sidle can make him lose all ability to judge terrible ideas.
She shifts a little closer to him. The heat of her is making his head spin, and her little black dress is giving him just enough hints that his thoughts are getting dangerous. There's a smattering of freckles on her bared shoulders, and he wonders what they taste like.
Here there be dragons.
"Weird transition... living in the desert, after living by the ocean," Sara's saying. "Don't know if I could do the whole boiling/freezing, dry thing. The ocean's just so palpably alive, y'know? The air, just the way it smells, the sound of the surf... and, I mean... literally, too, of course, the critters in the surf..."
"Washing up on the shore for me to dissect..."
She laughs in delight. "Yeah! That, too. Full of life and handy corpses... what's not to love?"
He's been trying to gross her out, freak her out, scare her away. It isn't working.
"I'm really sorry that you're leaving," she sighs. "I don't meet a lot of people I can talk to."
And they talk into the night... of forensics, of cases, of their annoyance at paperwork and power struggles. His eyelids are heavy, but he can't bring himself to leave... and when he finally lays down on the grass, she shocks him by laying down beside him, her head snuggling into the soft spot between his chest and arm, her arm lying casually across his stomach.
"Is this okay?" she asks, and he nods... but it's not okay, not at all. She's too close and she smells delicious and she's searing him everywhere she's touching him, making the ache worse... and he has to stifle a groan when she completes the torture by letting her leg slide over his.
She lets out a sigh of contentment, snuggling a little closer... and he bites his lip. It's too easy to put that sigh into context... hell, they're practically staging a morning-after scene on the lawn. It's too easy to imagine her in his hotel bed, mussed-up and sleepy and satisfied, too easy to imagine how he'd get her that way.
She's practically asleep now, and he's drifting off too, their conversation turning slow and mumbled. The jazz band from the party they've escaped plays on, a faraway, faded lullaby. She fits against him so perfectly, the warm, sweet weight of her making a lump in his throat. He lets the arm she's using as a pillow curl up over her back, trace meaningless patterns against the silky fabric at her spine.
"Mmm," she purrs, and her hand begins an exploration of its own, fingertips skimming the cloth over his heart, rising to lie against the side of his throat.
He turns to look at her, and she's looking up at him -- eyes wide and hopeful, lips parted in invitation, so close to his own he can feel her breath, soft on his face.
A centimeter's movement, and he'd be kissing her. She'd taste like strawberries, the tarts they'd smuggled out of the party, and she'd be a feast of textures... the satin of her dress, the rough silk of her hair, the velvet of her skin. She'd open for him, warm and willing, and they'd kiss until they were breathless, kiss until his hand was up her dress and her toes were pressing into his calves... and then they'd laugh, and call a cab, and barely make it to his hotel. He'd be gentle with her dress and she'd be rough with his belt buckle, and he'd sink into her body with a soul-shuddering groan of satisfaction.
That would be the beginning.
And he knows how this ends.
"I have to go," he says into her waiting lips.
"Oh," she blinks, and she's blushing fiercely, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "God, yeah, you've got a flight, and I... wow, I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry, I mean, you've... I'm sorry."
She's scrambling up from the grass, nervously pushing her hair behind her ears with both hands as she searches for her shoes, and it feels like she's left a vacuum beside him, impossibly cold.
"I, uh..." he tries, then clears his throat. "It's just... late."
"Right, you're right, of course," she stammers, shoving her feet back into her heels. "I wasn't... I wasn't thinking."
"We should... trade e-mail addresses," he says, and it sounds horribly lame to his own ears.
"Oh! Yeah! That'd be, that'd be great. I mean, we uh, I could have bug questions. I don't know if I could answer anything for you, but uh... I could try. Physics. If you have questions about... physics."
He stands, and they trade business cards in awkward silence. Sara's looking at his shoes, the grass, the auditorium, anywhere but him... twin spots of pink still flaming on her cheeks.
He gets into the cab, gives the driver directions, and then turns in the seat to look out the back window.
He's just in time to see the moment she thinks he's out of view, just in time to watch her brave smile fall off and naked disappointment take its place, just in time to hear her swear and call herself an idiot.
She's adorable. He wants to make the cab driver stop, wants to run back down the street, tell her she didn't read him wrong at all, it's not her fault. Actually, he'd just like to show her. Tasting those freckles would be a pleasant start.
He sighs, and turns around, and gives the cabbie his hotel address.
15 // Is There Anybody Out There? // 1997
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
He opens the door and Catherine brushes past him, arms full of sleeping, towheaded toddler.
He looks at her face and quickly shuts his mouth; Catherine's in no mood to talk yet. Silently, he heads for his linen closet, makes up a bed for Lindsey on his couch.
Catherine lays her down, brushes her hair back, kisses her forehead. When she walks back toward him, he has her drink ready, and he indicates his bedroom with a jerk of his head.
"Christ," Catherine sighs, after he's shut the door. She flops down on his bed, covers her face with her free hand. "Jesus, Gil, the night I've had... it's okay if we stay, right?"
"Of course." He sits down beside her, tentatively, and startles when she grabs his hand.
"He's cheating on me," Catherine whispers.
"Then he's an idiot," Grissom says flatly.
"You probably knew it. Hell, I think everyone knew it but me. Big-titted strippers and eager little ingenues... I'm a fucking fool, aren't I?"
He swallows before he can answer. "Catherine... you're wonderful. He's crazy. That's all there is to it."
"You... are... so... sweet." She shakes his hand a little. "So sweet. God, Gil -- why couldn't I have fallen in love with you?"
He keeps his mouth firmly shut for that one.
"You'd never cheat on a woman, would you?" she asks, almost dreamily. "It wouldn't even cross your mind..."
"No... no, it probably wouldn't."
"Appetite for destruction," Catherine sighs. "That's what my mother used to tell me I had. An appetite for destruction."
And then she lets out a moan. "Oh, God -- I'm gonna have to tell her I left him. I'm gonna have to hear all about it. Forever. This is the beginning of a whole new era in Holiday Lectures."
He squeezes her hand. "Surely that can wait. You should relax, calm down."
"Yeah, yeah, you're right, of course, but... God, what am I going to tell Lindsey? I can get away with it for a few days, she adores you, she'll just be happy we're visiting Uncle Gil, but..."
"Catherine... you don't need to do this tonight. You have time."
She rolls up from the bed, leans her head against his shoulder. "Thank you, Gil. Thanks for letting us stay, and... well, for everything, just... thank you."
Silence for a moment, and then Grissom jerks to feel Catherine's lips on his shoulder.
"Er... Catherine?"
She raises her head. "Mmm?"
"Is this... thanking me? Because if it is, I..."
"Gil, I..." She sighs, pulls back a little. "Right now, I feel... well... I guess I feel how any woman feels when her husband goes for women with a different tens digit, right?"
He nods a little, can't quite speak.
"You, uh... you always made me feel... really beautiful. I kinda... need that, right now."
God, he wants to push her away, tell her maybe now she knows how he felt, tell her to kiss his ass.
But she came to him... and Lindsey loves him, and he'd never cheat, and she'd said she wished she'd picked him, and she says he makes her feel beautiful, and maybe... maybe she gets it now, gets what she did to him.
Maybe this is the part of the movie where the heroine realizes what an asshole the villain is. Maybe this is the part where she realizes how good for her the hero is. Maybe this is the part where the music swells and they kiss in the sunset and the credits roll.
It happens for other people. It could happen for him.
So he kisses her, and she kisses him back, and they're falling in a tangle on the bed and he is going to show her, show her how good it could be with him, prove how much better he is, prove that he deserves her, prove once and for all that she belongs with him.
She fists his sheets and bites his shoulder and finally her own wrist, eyes rolled back and breath coming in little pants, stuttering curse words, and he doesn't stop. She arches off the bed and claws into his hair and makes helpless, tiny gasps, and he doesn't stop.
He's possessed, pent-up, determined. He's going to make her forget Eddie's face, doubt her own sanity, blow her mind and rearrange it with him in the center.
Normal, by definition, isn't genius; he has Sigmund and Anais and Henry on his side, and he's going to win this.
She's praying and moaning and growling, hands in white-knuckled fists around his headboard rails. He's talking, words he never says, endearments he thought he'd choke on. He tells her how beautiful she is, how golden, how alive.
Fingers and teeth and tongue and words, he marks her, and he makes her beg to be taken.
And when she's collapsed into an exhausted sleep, flat-out over his bed with her hair in sweaty tangles, he pulls himself from beneath her, gently.
He makes a quick run to the corner store, gathering everything he needs for a perfect breakfast. He arranges roses in a vase. He catches Lindsey before she can cry, changing her diaper, getting it just right. He sings her back to sleep, tucks her in.
He takes a shower, brushes his teeth carefully, stashes a box of Tic-Tacs in his pyjama bottoms.
He will have everything she needs. He will not have morning breath. He will take care of her.
He can be perfect.
He will be perfect.
16 // Nobody Home // 1997
I've got electric light.
And I've got second sight.
I've got amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There will be nobody home.
He wakes up alone.
He reaches for the Tic-Tacs, then realizes -- silence.
Echoing silence. True silence.
They've gone.
Catherine's note is short, scrawled in haste. Eddie called. They're going to talk. They're going to try to work it out.
"Thank you for last night," it reads. 'Thank you' is underlined twice.
He feels... empty, drained. Utterly defeated. That... that had been all he had, the very best he had to offer. If he can't win with that... then there is no hope of winning, ever.
He runs his thumb over the double-underline, watches the ink smear.
He balls up the note, and hurls it across the apartment.
It doesn't make him feel better. It makes him feel childish, his rage as impotent as his other emotions.
"I don't get people," he says aloud, mournfully.
And then, like a revelation: "I don't get people."
He never has. He never will. He is doomed to misjudge, underestimate, naively believe in. He is doomed to be tricked by evidence out of context, doomed to be befuddled by the secret language the others speak. He doesn't belong, he will never belong. It's time he accepted that.
He's tempted to throw the roses in the trash, but he stops himself. They're pretty; they make his apartment smell nice. He bought them, he'll enjoy them; there's nothing wrong with being self-contained.
It's a good apartment. It has everything he needs. It has tools to help him do the things that he's good at. A man should know his strengths, and his weaknesses. Knowing when to give up is the beginning of wisdom.
He makes himself a perfect breakfast, just the way he likes it. He retrieves the red ants from where he'd carefully hidden them the night before and dumps them in wanton piles over his eggs.
He showers using all the hot water, and drops his wet towel in the middle of the floor, the way she used to nag him about. He brushes his teeth and throws his only bottle of cologne in the trash.
He feels better. Free.
And he smiles, thinking of Pandora's Box, thinking of the last demon it contained -- hope.
A demon, indeed.
He drives to work whistling.
17 // Vera Lynn // 2000
Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?
Remember how she said that
We would meet again
Some sunny day?
"Sara... would you like to stay?"
She blinks, freezes with her wine glass halfway to her lips. "Huh?"
"Well, obviously there's an opening at the lab. I'm going to need to fill it."
And she comes back to life, shaking her head. "Oh! Stay, as in... oh, you're... you're offering me a job."
His brow wrinkles. "What did you think I meant?"
Her whole face flames. "Uh, well, y'know, we're at your apartment, and I... thought you were, uh, offering to let me, um, y'know. Sleep on your couch."
"Do you want to sleep on my couch?" He turns and regards it. "It seems like it'd be too small. You're welcome to it, though."
"No! I mean, I've got a hotel room. I was just... uh. Confused."
"Well... it's a good lab. Good people. I guarantee your solve rate would skyrocket. You'd be a CSI-III before you knew it, if you came to work for us."
She looks... disappointed, almost, and she sighs. "Well, that's a... that's a very nice offer."
"We're the #2 crime lab in the country."
That makes her smile. "You might have mentioned it, once or twice."
He leans over the counter, raises an eyebrow playfully, drops his voice. "I'll let you play with my bugs."
She looks up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "That right?"
"C'mon, Sara. We'll have fun. The desert may not have critters in the surf, but there's lots of handy corpses."
Her eyes widen. "I said that four years ago."
He shrugs. "I was paying attention."
"I dunno, Grissom. I'm so close to making CSI-III there, and I'd have shift seniority. Hopkins told me he's leaving next year, and he's picked me to be his replacement. I have an apartment, I have friends, I have a --"
She breaks off abruptly, and Grissom raises an eyebrow. "Boyfriend?"
"Boyfriend... ish... type... person... thing," she smiles, embarrassed. "We've gone on two dates. He said I was 'really intense'. I don't think that bodes well."
"I like intense," Grissom says lightly.
She smiles a little. "Do you?"
"It's pretty much a required quality on our shift. We pull a lot of doubles. Triples, even."
She looks disappointed again, but she shrugs. "Well, you've got me there. I don't sleep."
"I don't know about that," he teases. "I seem to recall you falling asleep on me once."
"Right." She licks her lips. "Yeah, I guess that's true. But Grissom... I didn't exactly get off on the best foot with everyone. Investigating Warrick? I think they all see me as the enemy."
"You ran a fair investigation." He raises an eyebrow. "Anyway... I thought you liked a challenge?"
"Sure. Patterns, particles. Not people. I'm not good with people."
"You're good with me," he counters.
She pauses, searches him with her eyes, smiles crookedly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I'm in."
When she leaves a few minutes later, hyped-up and on her way to look for apartment classifieds, he leans against his front door and wonders if he hasn't just had another terrible idea.
18 // Bring the Boys Back Home // 2002
Bring the boys back home.
Bring the boys back home.
Don't leave the children on their own, no, no.
Bring the boys back home.
"I don't suppose there's any way you could find this complimentary," Grissom says lightly.
Nick barks out a single laugh. The coffee cup in his hand is trembling a little, and he sits it down on the table. "Uh... maybe I'm not quite there yet, Griss."
"If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery..."
"Yeah, yeah, I get that." Nick shakes his head. "Still sort of fixated on the gun in my face part... I'll get the big ego later. I'm, uh... I'm gonna see if Brass needs anything from me."
Warrick watches silently as Nick leaves, turning to Grissom with a frown. "What was that?"
"Yeah, well, for future notice, Warrick? Shoving someone at me and mouthing 'talk to him' behind his head is pretty much a recipe for disaster."
Warrick shakes his head. "Dammit, Griss... why do you do this?"
"Excuse me?"
"Be deliberately oblivious. Y'know, it'd be one thing if you just sucked with people. But you... you read suspects like a book. You play people just fine when you want to. Hell, I've seen you play people like a master when you want to. Gettin' that judge off my back? The people you've talked into confessing? How can you do that, and then just... turn it off, when it's people you care about?"
Grissom stares, and Warrick heaves a sigh.
"Forget it, Griss. Maybe you can get Nick a plant."
19 // Comfortably Numb // 2003
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying...
It's the highs and lows he's losing first. It's harder to hear Catherine than Sara, harder to hear Warrick than Nick. He's almost lost the triumphant little here-comes-the-paper! beep of Greggo's printer; he has lost the low, steady thrumming of the equipment as it runs.
He'd asked his mother, once, what it was like to be deaf. She'd told him it was like being underwater.
He'd taken that at face value, gathering great lungfuls of air and diving beneath the waves to explore a new perspective.
But it's more than that, more like being underwater than he'd ever suspected. It's taking the edge off the world, making things softer. The noise of the casinos has gone from a harsh racket to something muted and almost beautiful, like windchimes; the bustle of the lab is like a low wind through the trees.
Underwater, the world is hushed, reverent, quiet. Here in his new world, the volume knob goes steadily down, like the planet is letting him sleep, letting him go, letting him drift away.
It makes it easier to disconnect. When gunshots sound like water dripping, when screams sound like whispers, he'll have to leave the lab, and he's not fool enough to think the relationships he has here will last beyond that. They'll chase the bad guys and work doubles and drink too much coffee, and he'll sink into silent solitude, books and bugs and library-smell, a mentor at last.
He's almost looking forward to it. A world without pain, a world without people, a world where things are orderly and quiet and unsurprising, total control. Lonely, sure, but... he's good at lonely. Like many things, it has lost the power to bother him.
He snaps on his rubber gloves, reaches down for his kit... and then his light is blocked.
"Griss?"
A voice -- Sara -- and he looks up, concentrates.
There's a man behind her, Ken-doll-pretty and musclebound. He's seen him before.
"Hey, man!" he says, slapping his hand into Grissom's. "Sara's told me a ton about you."
Grissom can barely hear him, doesn't really need to. This would be Hank, then, and he doesn't need to hear the rest of the words... he'd heard them just fine, fourteen years ago.
Hank seems solid and chiseled and blank, like an empty Nick costume on a hanger.
But it's not Grissom's place to judge. Maybe he'll take care of Sara, make her happy. He seems... normal.
It doesn't hurt as much as he'd been afraid it would.
It seems... very far away.
"It's nice to meet you, Hank," Grissom says, and heads further up the tape, not looking back.
Hank's still talking; Grissom can hear the fading murmur of his voice, catch words like "Sara" and "Friday".
But Sara's stopped listening to him, staring across the scene at Grissom with enchanted eyes.
20 // The Show Must Go On // 2004
There must be some mistake
I didn't mean to let them
Take away my soul.
Am I too old, is it too late?
"Griss," Sara pleads, and she's writhing beneath him, gasping, her wrists in his hands at the sides of the pillow
(pin me down)
and her legs wrapped around his calves, trying frantically to press him where she wants him to go. He's ignoring her, having too much fun teasing her, loves the way she begs, the gutteral moans escaping her throat, the absolute trust
(tape me up)
and her hair fanned out across the pillow and her eyes fluttered shut and her neck arched in pleasure and she's beautiful, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen
(since I met you)
and it's perfect until his knee touches cold steel and his fingertips trace the stitching at her sternum
(by the time you figure it out)
and he's stumbling backwards, crashing into a cart, the harsh clang of metal and autopsy tools falling to the floor
(it really could be)
and he can see her, see all of her, cold and waxy and pale in the harsh flourescents of the morgue
(really could be too)
and there's butterflies everywhere, filling the room, brushing against him, turning the world blue
(too late)
her eyes open and she's Debbie and she's Sara and she's both and she's horrible
(too late)
she's wrapped in his security blanket, holding up a baseball card
(too late)
"You've been a great mentor, Grissom," she smiles. "But I have to retract your benefits."
21 // In the Flesh // 2004
I've got some bad news for you, Sunshine...
Pink isn't well
He stayed back at the hotel
And they've sent us along
As a surrogate band
We're gonna find out where you fans really stand...
He's barefoot on the beach in his funeral suit, letting the waves crash over his toes.
He turns at the sound of footsteps behind him. Amazing, what he can hear now.
The man is elderly, white-haired, knobby. But there's no mistaking those eyes.
"Hello, Jack," Grissom says evenly.
"Hello, Gilbert," his father replies.
Grissom turns his eyes back to the sea, and his father takes a step forward.
"That's it? 'Hello, Jack'? No hug, no right hook, no yelling? Not even gonna ask me why I'm here?"
"Fine," Grissom sighs. "Why are you here?"
"Legally, your mother and I were never divorced."
"Ah," Grissom smiles. "Everything she worked for belongs to you now. You must be pleased... I can't think of anything she would have hated more."
"Damn," Jack inhales sharply. "You're a cold one, aren't you?"
Grissom merely smiles, and Jack sighs.
"Hell... don't know why I'm surprised. You always were. Never had any friends, never..."
"Is there some particular reason you're still talking to me?" Grissom snaps.
"Was wondering if there was any... sentimental stuff you wanted from out of the house. Pictures, that kind of stuff."
"Actually... there is one thing I'd like to have, if that's all right. Don't worry -- it's of extremely low monetary value."
"All right," Jack says, eyes narrowed. "You need to borrow the house keys?"
"No, Dad," Grissom smiles pleasantly. "Just a shovel."
22 // Run Like Hell // 2005
You better run all day and run all night.
And keep your dirty feelings deep inside.
Sara's eating a jelly donut in the breakroom, delicately wiping red jam off her bottom lip with her pinky.
Sara's poring over a forensic journal, absent-mindedly tonguing the end of her pen.
Sara's pulling her hair up into a ponytail, a single drop of sweat sliding down the nape of her neck.
He thinks he's beginning to understand the Victorians, how a single flash of ankle could be so potently erotic. It's all about the forbidden, all about what's hidden, denied, pressure building.
He pairs her with Greg whenever he can.
Greg needs the mentoring.
Grissom needs the space.
He's spent too many crime scenes dry-mouthed and half-hard, watching her prowl a perimeter, watching her crawl across a carpet stalking trace evidence, watching the smug, satisfied little lilt to her lips when she finds it. There's a raw, feral grace to her when she's on the hunt, the smoke of her voice, the mischief in her eyes when she sasses him.
And his mind... oh, his mind gets filthier by the day, starvation bringing his edge out. The soft-filtered fantasies where he makes gentle love to her on the Berkeley grass have fallen by the wayside, pale and colorless.
She runs her gloved fingers over a wall, and he thinks of slamming her against it, chuckling darkly in her ear with her hipbones in his hands. In his thoughts, he's fucked her on the layout table, bent her over the breakroom counter, driven into her against the glass wall of the DNA lab. He's taken her on Ecklie's desk and on the hood of Atwater's car, he's slid soapy hands down her in the shower room, she's ridden him breathless in the backseat of the Denali, fingernails digging into his chest.
He focuses on details, pieced-together elements. A sliver of pale stomach revealed by her shirt, the grip of her fist as she tugs loose a pipe, her gasps of exertion when dismantling a heavy engine, the arch of her neck as she works out the kinks in it.
"Here," Greg says, crossing behind her as she rubs at her throat, "Sara, let me. I'm good at this."
And Grissom freezes as Sara obeys, dropping her head forward, letting Greg put his bare hands right on her shoulders, run his thumbs up the nape of her neck.
"Oh... God," Sara moans, and the sound shoots straight through Grissom, turning his grip on his coffee cup white-knuckled.
Greg grins. "Man, you've got knots on knots. When's the last time anyone gave you a backrub?"
Sara's nearly purring, her voice a throaty growl. "Sanders, if you stop, I'll kill you."
Greg could not look happier. "Yes, ma'am."
And Grissom could gleefully strangle him.
He could have done that, could have worked her with his hands, could have given her that pleasure, could have felt her tense and sigh and gasp, could have pressed his lips to her hairline, could have traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, pressing into her body as she rocked back against him, their hips aligning, his palms sliding up the warm skin of her stomach, teasing the undersides of her breasts with his thumbs, the pulse in her throat beating against his open mouth as he unbuttoned her jeans, sliding them to the floor and...
"I have paperwork," Grissom says abruptly, turning on his heel and stalking out.
23 // Waiting for the Worms // 2005
Ooooh, you cannot reach me now
Ooooh, no matter how you try
Goodbye, cruel world, it's over
Walk on by.
Sitting in a bunker here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.
In perfect isolation here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.
His hands are covered in fire-ant bites and the dirt from Nicky's grave, leaving gritty smudges around the paper cup of hospital coffee.
They're all filthy, dust-gray and shell-shocked. Warrick's slumped over across the hallway, elbows on his knees, turning a coin over and over. Catherine paces a tight line a few yards down, one finger in her ear and the other glued to her cellphone. A few chairs from Warrick, a bleary-eyed Greg's head is propped on Sara's shoulder; she has an arm around him, making small, soothing circles on his back, but she's otherwise curled into herself, staring at a far point on the wall.
He's barely seeing them; his eyes are focused inward, stuck on a new and painful memory -- Nick's mouth moving soundlessly, a deathbed scene Nick hadn't known had a witness.
Grissom... I never meant to disappoint you...
One last chance to say goodbye, every word wasting precious oxygen... and Nick had apologized to him.
Greggo... never change, kiddo, you keep us all laughing when we need it...
Gerard had told him once that men told the absolute truth at two times: when they were drunk, and when they were dying.
Warrick, man, I know neither one of us is much for the sappy stuff, but...
No one could tap into people quite like Nick; he made empathy look effortless...
Sara... heck, honey, I'm a little sorry for whoever did this to me if they've got you after them...
He seemed to see everyone in the best light, endless hope for the human race...
Catherine... you give my love to that little girl of yours, okay, and I always wanted to tell you...
And Nicky had... apologized to him.
Apologized to a distant, forbidding father figure whose approval he'd never won,
(kid still walks like a friggin' fairy)
whose praise he'd do anything for.
(Goddamned stupid Cubs)
One thing had been clear from Nick's message; he was certain, deep in his bones, that Grissom wouldn't miss him.
Grissom rubs his eyes, looks out at the hallway, thinks of Catherine's words...
People are making a family around you whether you like it not, whether you give them permission or not...
Catherine finishes her phone call to Lindsey, touches Warrick's shoulder lightly. He looks up gratefully, and they share a smile.
Greg's finally fallen asleep, holding onto a fistful of Sara's shirt. She's still rubbing his back.
His accidental family. Reaching out, comforting each other. No one seeks comfort from him; no one offers it.
They think they know him too well.
And I know what you fear more than anything, Mr. Grissom.
What's that?
Being known.
Hand on the plexiglas, staring down into Nick's terrified eyes... it was the closest he'd been to anyone in years.
It had been too much.
It hadn't been enough.
24 // Stop // 2005
I wanna go home
Take off this uniform
And leave the show.
But I'm waiting in this cell
Because I have to know.
Have I been guilty all this time?
"Hey, Nicky," Grissom says softly.
"Hey, Grissom," Nick croaks.
Grissom moves silently into the room, drawing up a chair, setting down the bag. "I hope you're getting good drugs."
"Hey, they ain't bad," Nick smiles weakly.
Brave. Always brave, his Nick.
"I brought your spare bag of clothes from the lab. Warrick informs me that you always steal his shampoo, so that's in there too."
"Thanks, Griss... thanks a lot." Nick sits up a little in the bed. "Not too fond of the drafty dress look, gotta say."
"I brought you something else, too." Grissom reaches down, holds out a small frame.
Nick squints at it. "A certificate for... honorary ownership of... Trigger. That's uh, Roy Rogers' horse, right? I think I saw this on your desk."
"I'd like you to have it, if that's all right."
"That's... sure," Nick mumbles, staring at the paper as if that will help him decipher the gift's meaning. "I, uh..."
"It's a replacement. When I was four, my father threw all my Roy Rogers stuff in the Pacific."
"Oh." Nick seems stunned by even this simple revelation. "You, uh... you've never really talked about your dad."
"He hated me," Grissom says simply. "Or maybe... maybe he didn't. Either way, if he did love me, I never knew. I spent my whole life trying not to become him... but I fucked up, didn't I, Nicky?"
Nick inhales sharply.
"Back then," Grissom continues, "I promised myself that when I had a son, I'd give him every Roy Rogers thing ever made. This is the only Roy Rogers thing I have, right now."
Nick's hands are white-knuckled on the frame, shock in his eyes.
"You have never," Grissom insists, "Never disappointed me, Nick. And I can't tell you how sorry I am that I made you think that, even for a second."
"Shit," Nick whispers, and he scrubs at his eye with the side of one palm. "Grissom, I..."
Nick trails off, shakes his head, holds the certificate up a little. "Thanks. For this. I... it means a lot to me. A lot."
"I don't think you'll ever know how many times I wished I could be like you."
He's floored Nick yet again. "Huh?"
"You have a gift, Nick. Your ability to understand people, to connect with them... it amazes me. God only knows how many cases it's solved."
"You, uh... really think so?"
"I'd like to be a better friend to you. To you, and everyone. I know it's selfish to ask you for help right now, but... I could really use your guidance, if you wouldn't mind."
Nick seems to straighten, to grow, and this time, his grin is real. "Yeah, Grissom. Yeah. I could do that."
25 // The Trial // 2005
The crown will plainly show
The prisoner who now stands before you
Was caught red-handed showing feelings
Showing feelings of an almost human nature.
This will not do.
He finds Sara in the Drying Room; she looks up when he walks in, holding up a defensive hand.
"Grissom -- please don't take me off this case."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I don't know what people are saying, but I swear -- I didn't start it! I mean... I was goading the guy, Brass and I both were... look, you can ask Brass, he'll back me up on this one..."
"Sara, you were attacked by a suspect. I came to see if you were all right."
"Oh. You're... I'm not..."
"You're not off the case. I can't say I feel comfortable having you in another little glass room with the psycho, though. Do you mind if I take over the interrogation?"
"No, I don't... mind..." Sara's staring at him in wonder; she swallows hard. "Thank you, Griss. Thanks for... asking, like that."
He takes a step closer. "Are you hurt?"
"Eh, he clocked me in the jaw." She rubs at it with her wrist. "It's not so bad."
"Let me see." He takes her face is his hands, turning her jaw to the light. "Oh, honey, you should let Robbins x-ray that."
The sound of a cleared throat behind them.
"Well," Ecklie sneers. "Isn't this cozy."
"Hello, Conrad," Grissom says coldly.
Ecklie leans against the doorway, savoring the moment. "Wow. Nothing gets the ol' juices pumping like a fistfight with a suspect, huh, Sidle? Or should I call you 'honey', too?"
Sara's frozen, panicked, her eyes flashing between Grissom and Ecklie.
Grissom releases her, takes a step backwards. She stares at the floor.
"I dunno, Conrad," Grissom says lightly. "I thought you only called Sofia 'honey'? Of course... I could ask your wife."
It's Ecklie's turn to freeze; Sara's head snaps up.
"I beg your pardon?" Ecklie stammers.
"Oh, Sofia and I had the most interesting dinner last year. Y'know, in retrospect, sabotaging her career may have not been the most intelligent move?" Grissom shakes his head mournfully. "I'm sorry to say, Conrad, she really doesn't like you very much anymore."
"Are you... trying to threaten me?"
"Oh... was that not what we were doing? You threaten, then it's my turn...? Sorry, I must have misunderstood."
"Well, I'm sure you can understand this. You're fired."
Sara's jaw drops. "You asshole. You can't do that..."
"You too, Sidle. I'd have mentioned that, but I just figured you'd follow Gil wherever he went, anyway. It's what you do, isn't it? Follow him around? Come running when he snaps his fingers?"
"Y'know, it's strange," Grissom muses. "I think you're going to find Sheriff Atwater bizarrely reluctant to sign our dismissal forms."
"We'll see about that," Ecklie snaps, turning on his heel.
And Sara whirls on him. "Grissom!"
He turns to her, serenely. "Mmm-hmm?"
"Grissom... we just got fired. And you're just... standing there with your little... your little Zen smirk, like you've figured out the crime scene an hour before the rest of us. This... this job is your life, it's... it's my life, and..."
"I have a confession," Grissom smiles.
"You..." she shakes her head in frustration. "What?"
"I lost some evidence."
She blinks. "Grissom... this is serious!"
"Oh, I'm very serious. I was supposed to present it at a hearing. But one of the folders in Bruce Eiger's toybox... well, I just lost it. I guess no one's going to get to see what it says now. It's a real tragedy."
Her eyes widen in sudden understanding. "You... lost... all Eiger's dirt on Sheriff Atwater."
"Poof," he shrugs. "I can be so absent-minded sometimes. Atwater was pretty understanding when I told him about it, though."
"Grissom... you..." she sputters... and then her lips curve into a smile. "You fought dirty."
And he grins. "I don't like it when things I love are threatened."
"Well, yeah, I mean, your job..."
"Actually," he smirks, "I was referring to my loose cannon with a gun."
Sara watches him walk off, head cocked in confusion. What in the hell was he talking about?
26 // Outside the Wall // 2006
All alone, or in twos,
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists
Make their stand.
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.
"Way to scare the crap out of everyone, Grissom," Sara smiles, pulling the curtain shut after her. "I think we've filled up the waiting room. Everybody's here... you've got quite the fan club."
"Maybe I should issue a series of commemorative plates," he says hoarsely.
She grins. "Of you getting shot? You'd sell out from Ecklie alone."
"He probably has a shrine in his basement. 'Great Moments In Grissom Injuries'. How happy is he, anyway?"
"Actually, he's pissed off. Well... pissed off with a healthy chunk of I-hope-someone-on-the-night-shift's-to-b
Grissom snorts, rolling his eyes.
"Well, hey." Sara takes a step forward, licks her lips. "I'm assuming you're on a lot of painkillers, and you scared the shit out of me, and Ecklie's gunning for me anyway, so..."
He raises an eyebrow. "So...?"
"So... this." She leans forward, presses her lips to his briefly, pulls back with a little smile. "Just so I could say I did it before I died."
He frowns. "That was hardly fair."
Uncertainty flickers in her eyes, then embarrassment.
"My reaction time is slowed," he protests. "One of my arms is completely non-functional! Do it again."
She freezes, blinks. "Uh... what?"
"They've got me all wired up, I can't go over there."
"You, uh..." Sara chuckles nervously. "Wow, those are some good drugs they've got you on."
"Sara," Grissom says sternly, "If you don't come over here, I'm going to pout."
That shocks a laugh out of her.
"My pout is devastating," he informs her very seriously. "Potentially lethal."
"Well, huh. Don't, uh, guess I don't want that..."
And she's walking towards him, confused but smiling, her hands wrapping around the rail of his bed, leaning down...
And he surges up to meet her, good hand sliding into her hair, pulling her down to him. She stumbles and laughs against his lips and kisses him again, rising with twinkling eyes.
"So, what's this stuff they have you on? What's the brand name, where do I buy it?"
He reaches out, takes her hand. "I've wanted to do that for ten years."
"I, uh... you're stoned."
"Not that stoned. We should... talk."
"Well, there's... there's a billion people here to see you, Griss." She pauses, gets a mischevious gleam. "So you might want to pop some breath mints or something."
He scowls. "I wasn't planning on making out with Brass."
Her lips lift a fraction. "But you... but you were planning on making out with me?"
"Well... yes. In intricate detail, actually. But not today... an opportunity just presented itself."
She shakes her finger at him. "You are fun when you're doped up. I'll be back later, okay?"
"Promise?"
She grins. "Yeah."
Warrick's waiting out in the hallway, leaning gracefully against the room sign.
"He is so out of it," Sara grins. "Go easy on him."
"Yeah, right," Warrick laughs, pushing himself off the wall and sauntering towards the door.
He leans down, breathes in her ear. "Hey, girl... you don't want the whole lab knowin' what happened in there, you better wipe that Christmas-morning look off your face and quit touching your lip, okay?"
She drops her hand, blushing, and Warrick pats her shoulder, passing into Grissom's room.
She walks back to the waiting room, smiling a little to herself as the heads pop up. Practically the whole lab's here, two shifts' worth, pacing and chewing their fingernails and drumming on unread magazines.
She wonders if Grissom has any idea how much he is loved.
She touches her lip, and wonders other things.
Title: The Wall
Author: theohara
Rating: NC-17
Length: 17,339 words
Spoilers: Through Grave Danger.
Pairing: It's all about the Grissom. References to GSR and pre-series GCR, though.
Summary: Grissom likes Pink Floyd. Wonder why? A series of Grissom-centric vignettes through time.
Warnings: Pretty much everything I could possibly warn you about except slash and character death.
Notes: The structure will make much more sense if you've heard Pink Floyd's album, The Wall.
Side One: (1960 - 1994)
Side Two: (1996 - 2006)
----------------------------------------
14 // Hey, You // 1996
But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high, as you can see.
No matter how he tried, he could not break free.
Her name is Sara Sidle, and the situation is getting out of hand.
They've snuck out of the cocktail party at the end of the seminar. They're champagne-tipsy and floaty and far, far too overdressed to be where they are, which is sitting on the grass, propped against the wall of the Berkeley auditorium.
He's due back in Vegas tomorrow, and the last thing in the world he should have done on this trip was let coffee with an interesting attendee turn into more coffees and dinners and lunches and trips to the museum that turned into a cab ride in the rain that turned into him almost kissing her goodnight.
He's thirty-nine years old, and she can't be more than twenty-five, if that.
He's learned that lesson already.
This particular problem had fallen into his lap... literally. She'd tripped on a lump in the auditorium carpet, landing on him in a sprawl of gangly limbs and yelped curse words.
"Sorry... sorry... fucking... heels..." she'd muttered, and when she looked up and saw who she'd landed on, her whole face had turned beet-red. "Oh, God... Dr. Grissom..."
He'd been wearing both their cups of coffee. She'd pulled a pack of Kleenex from her purse, swabbing at him while stammering apologies, but she'd only made it worse.
"God... shit... can I at least buy you another cup of coffee? There's a kiosk..."
He'd let her buy him another cup of coffee, watching bemusedly as she'd apologized over, and over, and over.
"And I'd wanted to talk to you, I had so many questions, but... crap, I didn't mean to... you must think I'm such a doof, and... can I just... uh... earlier, when you were talking about timelines..."
She was kind of a doof, actually. Tall and gangly and graceless, red-nosed and gap-toothed, with regrettable eyeshadow and bitten-off lipstick... eager, manic, and raw.
But her questions had been so sharp he'd actually had to think before he answered, and he'd gladly sat down with her at one of the outdoor tables to let the conversation continue.
Once she relaxed, she was fascinating... her wit as dry and dark as his own, her intelligence obvious... and as her confidence grew, he'd realized with a funny shock of dread that she was also more attractive than he'd originally thought.
It was strange, really, nothing he'd ever bothered to think about before. Catherine had been flawless, aggressively gorgeous, unmistakeably dazzling from the moment you laid eyes on her.
Sara... snuck up on you.
Fingernails bitten to the quick, hair curling out of a lumpy, makeshift hairdo somehow involving pencils, a thin mouth that curved down at rest... he almost couldn't tell if she were terribly plain or unspeakably beautiful.
It was... interesting.
Why was he thinking so much about this?
But then her stomach had growled, and she'd blushed and he'd laughed, and the cafeteria had been just a few feet away.
They'd talked about the new exhibit at the museum, and neither had been to it, and the plans had sort of made themselves.
The next afternoon, when she'd come by his hotel to pick him up, he'd looked out the peephole and seen her pacing in front of his door, chewing on her thumbnail.
"Hello, Dr. Grissom," she was mumbling to herself. "No, no. Hi, Dr. Grissom. No..."
He'd pulled back from the keyhole with a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection.
She wasn't his type. She was the anti-Catherine. She was, therefore, safe... and he'd ignored the way he'd blithely rearranged his schedule to spend more time with her, the way he'd sat at lectures making mental notes of things that would interest her, the way he'd taken two steps past bookstores before stopping and going inside for books he'd mentioned that she'd never read, the way he suddenly didn't like any of the clothes he'd packed.
He'd ignored the way her eyeshadow had suddenly become far less woeful and her lipstick was fresh, the way she'd gone from smelling like deodorant and soap to smelling like something exotic and spicy, the way she'd step close to point out things, the way she'd sighed when he put his hand on the small of her back to lead her into restaurants.
Which was easy, as he'd also been ignoring the fact that he'd started putting his hand on the small of her back to lead her into restaurants.
It was always nice to meet a new colleague, he'd told himself. The San Francisco lab was very different from the one in Vegas, and it was always interesting to compare work environments. It'd be handy to have a contact with a background in advanced physics.
He'd told himself a lot of things... and it hadn't crashed down on him that they'd all been bullshit until he'd found himself leaning against her front door, watching her fumble at her keyring entirely longer than was necessary.
"You, uh... wanna come in?" she'd said, nervously. "I uh, have that book we were talking about, if you want to borrow it."
And he'd been... thrilled. A shock of thrill, more precisely, deep-down and low. He'd been staring at her mouth, at the curve of her neck, anticipation making him wet his lips.
That was not how one reacted when your colleague offered to loan you a book.
She hadn't seemed so graceless then, leaned against the doorway in symmetry to his own pose, the strap of her top falling down onto her arm, and he'd wanted to reach out, wrap his fingers around it, move it up her shoulder... wanted it more than he could safely want anything.
"Maybe another time," he'd said.
He'd meant to avoid her at the cocktail party. He really had. But he'd heard her throaty laugh behind him, and caught a snippet of her conversation, and dammit -- he knew something really, really funny and clever to say about that topic, and it had stuck in his head like an itch, the perfect one-liner, no likely opportunity to ever use it again, that would just wither away and die, unsaid.
So he'd snuck up behind her and said it into her ear, making her spit champagne back into her glass, making her turn around with a smile so purely overjoyed to see him that his heart broke, just a little.
She'd gotten them both more champagne, and she'd just finished a book he'd bought her and had a million questions, and the band was loud and they'd had to yell and it hadn't seemed like such a terrible idea when, after he'd suddenly lost her in the crowd for a moment, she'd reappeared with two more flutes of champagne, a napkin full of stolen strawberry tarts, and a suggestion.
He's learning that Sara Sidle can make him lose all ability to judge terrible ideas.
She shifts a little closer to him. The heat of her is making his head spin, and her little black dress is giving him just enough hints that his thoughts are getting dangerous. There's a smattering of freckles on her bared shoulders, and he wonders what they taste like.
Here there be dragons.
"Weird transition... living in the desert, after living by the ocean," Sara's saying. "Don't know if I could do the whole boiling/freezing, dry thing. The ocean's just so palpably alive, y'know? The air, just the way it smells, the sound of the surf... and, I mean... literally, too, of course, the critters in the surf..."
"Washing up on the shore for me to dissect..."
She laughs in delight. "Yeah! That, too. Full of life and handy corpses... what's not to love?"
He's been trying to gross her out, freak her out, scare her away. It isn't working.
"I'm really sorry that you're leaving," she sighs. "I don't meet a lot of people I can talk to."
And they talk into the night... of forensics, of cases, of their annoyance at paperwork and power struggles. His eyelids are heavy, but he can't bring himself to leave... and when he finally lays down on the grass, she shocks him by laying down beside him, her head snuggling into the soft spot between his chest and arm, her arm lying casually across his stomach.
"Is this okay?" she asks, and he nods... but it's not okay, not at all. She's too close and she smells delicious and she's searing him everywhere she's touching him, making the ache worse... and he has to stifle a groan when she completes the torture by letting her leg slide over his.
She lets out a sigh of contentment, snuggling a little closer... and he bites his lip. It's too easy to put that sigh into context... hell, they're practically staging a morning-after scene on the lawn. It's too easy to imagine her in his hotel bed, mussed-up and sleepy and satisfied, too easy to imagine how he'd get her that way.
She's practically asleep now, and he's drifting off too, their conversation turning slow and mumbled. The jazz band from the party they've escaped plays on, a faraway, faded lullaby. She fits against him so perfectly, the warm, sweet weight of her making a lump in his throat. He lets the arm she's using as a pillow curl up over her back, trace meaningless patterns against the silky fabric at her spine.
"Mmm," she purrs, and her hand begins an exploration of its own, fingertips skimming the cloth over his heart, rising to lie against the side of his throat.
He turns to look at her, and she's looking up at him -- eyes wide and hopeful, lips parted in invitation, so close to his own he can feel her breath, soft on his face.
A centimeter's movement, and he'd be kissing her. She'd taste like strawberries, the tarts they'd smuggled out of the party, and she'd be a feast of textures... the satin of her dress, the rough silk of her hair, the velvet of her skin. She'd open for him, warm and willing, and they'd kiss until they were breathless, kiss until his hand was up her dress and her toes were pressing into his calves... and then they'd laugh, and call a cab, and barely make it to his hotel. He'd be gentle with her dress and she'd be rough with his belt buckle, and he'd sink into her body with a soul-shuddering groan of satisfaction.
That would be the beginning.
And he knows how this ends.
"I have to go," he says into her waiting lips.
"Oh," she blinks, and she's blushing fiercely, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "God, yeah, you've got a flight, and I... wow, I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry, I mean, you've... I'm sorry."
She's scrambling up from the grass, nervously pushing her hair behind her ears with both hands as she searches for her shoes, and it feels like she's left a vacuum beside him, impossibly cold.
"I, uh..." he tries, then clears his throat. "It's just... late."
"Right, you're right, of course," she stammers, shoving her feet back into her heels. "I wasn't... I wasn't thinking."
"We should... trade e-mail addresses," he says, and it sounds horribly lame to his own ears.
"Oh! Yeah! That'd be, that'd be great. I mean, we uh, I could have bug questions. I don't know if I could answer anything for you, but uh... I could try. Physics. If you have questions about... physics."
He stands, and they trade business cards in awkward silence. Sara's looking at his shoes, the grass, the auditorium, anywhere but him... twin spots of pink still flaming on her cheeks.
He gets into the cab, gives the driver directions, and then turns in the seat to look out the back window.
He's just in time to see the moment she thinks he's out of view, just in time to watch her brave smile fall off and naked disappointment take its place, just in time to hear her swear and call herself an idiot.
She's adorable. He wants to make the cab driver stop, wants to run back down the street, tell her she didn't read him wrong at all, it's not her fault. Actually, he'd just like to show her. Tasting those freckles would be a pleasant start.
He sighs, and turns around, and gives the cabbie his hotel address.
15 // Is There Anybody Out There? // 1997
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
Is there anybody out there?
He opens the door and Catherine brushes past him, arms full of sleeping, towheaded toddler.
He looks at her face and quickly shuts his mouth; Catherine's in no mood to talk yet. Silently, he heads for his linen closet, makes up a bed for Lindsey on his couch.
Catherine lays her down, brushes her hair back, kisses her forehead. When she walks back toward him, he has her drink ready, and he indicates his bedroom with a jerk of his head.
"Christ," Catherine sighs, after he's shut the door. She flops down on his bed, covers her face with her free hand. "Jesus, Gil, the night I've had... it's okay if we stay, right?"
"Of course." He sits down beside her, tentatively, and startles when she grabs his hand.
"He's cheating on me," Catherine whispers.
"Then he's an idiot," Grissom says flatly.
"You probably knew it. Hell, I think everyone knew it but me. Big-titted strippers and eager little ingenues... I'm a fucking fool, aren't I?"
He swallows before he can answer. "Catherine... you're wonderful. He's crazy. That's all there is to it."
"You... are... so... sweet." She shakes his hand a little. "So sweet. God, Gil -- why couldn't I have fallen in love with you?"
He keeps his mouth firmly shut for that one.
"You'd never cheat on a woman, would you?" she asks, almost dreamily. "It wouldn't even cross your mind..."
"No... no, it probably wouldn't."
"Appetite for destruction," Catherine sighs. "That's what my mother used to tell me I had. An appetite for destruction."
And then she lets out a moan. "Oh, God -- I'm gonna have to tell her I left him. I'm gonna have to hear all about it. Forever. This is the beginning of a whole new era in Holiday Lectures."
He squeezes her hand. "Surely that can wait. You should relax, calm down."
"Yeah, yeah, you're right, of course, but... God, what am I going to tell Lindsey? I can get away with it for a few days, she adores you, she'll just be happy we're visiting Uncle Gil, but..."
"Catherine... you don't need to do this tonight. You have time."
She rolls up from the bed, leans her head against his shoulder. "Thank you, Gil. Thanks for letting us stay, and... well, for everything, just... thank you."
Silence for a moment, and then Grissom jerks to feel Catherine's lips on his shoulder.
"Er... Catherine?"
She raises her head. "Mmm?"
"Is this... thanking me? Because if it is, I..."
"Gil, I..." She sighs, pulls back a little. "Right now, I feel... well... I guess I feel how any woman feels when her husband goes for women with a different tens digit, right?"
He nods a little, can't quite speak.
"You, uh... you always made me feel... really beautiful. I kinda... need that, right now."
God, he wants to push her away, tell her maybe now she knows how he felt, tell her to kiss his ass.
But she came to him... and Lindsey loves him, and he'd never cheat, and she'd said she wished she'd picked him, and she says he makes her feel beautiful, and maybe... maybe she gets it now, gets what she did to him.
Maybe this is the part of the movie where the heroine realizes what an asshole the villain is. Maybe this is the part where she realizes how good for her the hero is. Maybe this is the part where the music swells and they kiss in the sunset and the credits roll.
It happens for other people. It could happen for him.
So he kisses her, and she kisses him back, and they're falling in a tangle on the bed and he is going to show her, show her how good it could be with him, prove how much better he is, prove that he deserves her, prove once and for all that she belongs with him.
She fists his sheets and bites his shoulder and finally her own wrist, eyes rolled back and breath coming in little pants, stuttering curse words, and he doesn't stop. She arches off the bed and claws into his hair and makes helpless, tiny gasps, and he doesn't stop.
He's possessed, pent-up, determined. He's going to make her forget Eddie's face, doubt her own sanity, blow her mind and rearrange it with him in the center.
Normal, by definition, isn't genius; he has Sigmund and Anais and Henry on his side, and he's going to win this.
She's praying and moaning and growling, hands in white-knuckled fists around his headboard rails. He's talking, words he never says, endearments he thought he'd choke on. He tells her how beautiful she is, how golden, how alive.
Fingers and teeth and tongue and words, he marks her, and he makes her beg to be taken.
And when she's collapsed into an exhausted sleep, flat-out over his bed with her hair in sweaty tangles, he pulls himself from beneath her, gently.
He makes a quick run to the corner store, gathering everything he needs for a perfect breakfast. He arranges roses in a vase. He catches Lindsey before she can cry, changing her diaper, getting it just right. He sings her back to sleep, tucks her in.
He takes a shower, brushes his teeth carefully, stashes a box of Tic-Tacs in his pyjama bottoms.
He will have everything she needs. He will not have morning breath. He will take care of her.
He can be perfect.
He will be perfect.
16 // Nobody Home // 1997
I've got electric light.
And I've got second sight.
I've got amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There will be nobody home.
He wakes up alone.
He reaches for the Tic-Tacs, then realizes -- silence.
Echoing silence. True silence.
They've gone.
Catherine's note is short, scrawled in haste. Eddie called. They're going to talk. They're going to try to work it out.
"Thank you for last night," it reads. 'Thank you' is underlined twice.
He feels... empty, drained. Utterly defeated. That... that had been all he had, the very best he had to offer. If he can't win with that... then there is no hope of winning, ever.
He runs his thumb over the double-underline, watches the ink smear.
He balls up the note, and hurls it across the apartment.
It doesn't make him feel better. It makes him feel childish, his rage as impotent as his other emotions.
"I don't get people," he says aloud, mournfully.
And then, like a revelation: "I don't get people."
He never has. He never will. He is doomed to misjudge, underestimate, naively believe in. He is doomed to be tricked by evidence out of context, doomed to be befuddled by the secret language the others speak. He doesn't belong, he will never belong. It's time he accepted that.
He's tempted to throw the roses in the trash, but he stops himself. They're pretty; they make his apartment smell nice. He bought them, he'll enjoy them; there's nothing wrong with being self-contained.
It's a good apartment. It has everything he needs. It has tools to help him do the things that he's good at. A man should know his strengths, and his weaknesses. Knowing when to give up is the beginning of wisdom.
He makes himself a perfect breakfast, just the way he likes it. He retrieves the red ants from where he'd carefully hidden them the night before and dumps them in wanton piles over his eggs.
He showers using all the hot water, and drops his wet towel in the middle of the floor, the way she used to nag him about. He brushes his teeth and throws his only bottle of cologne in the trash.
He feels better. Free.
And he smiles, thinking of Pandora's Box, thinking of the last demon it contained -- hope.
A demon, indeed.
He drives to work whistling.
17 // Vera Lynn // 2000
Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?
Remember how she said that
We would meet again
Some sunny day?
"Sara... would you like to stay?"
She blinks, freezes with her wine glass halfway to her lips. "Huh?"
"Well, obviously there's an opening at the lab. I'm going to need to fill it."
And she comes back to life, shaking her head. "Oh! Stay, as in... oh, you're... you're offering me a job."
His brow wrinkles. "What did you think I meant?"
Her whole face flames. "Uh, well, y'know, we're at your apartment, and I... thought you were, uh, offering to let me, um, y'know. Sleep on your couch."
"Do you want to sleep on my couch?" He turns and regards it. "It seems like it'd be too small. You're welcome to it, though."
"No! I mean, I've got a hotel room. I was just... uh. Confused."
"Well... it's a good lab. Good people. I guarantee your solve rate would skyrocket. You'd be a CSI-III before you knew it, if you came to work for us."
She looks... disappointed, almost, and she sighs. "Well, that's a... that's a very nice offer."
"We're the #2 crime lab in the country."
That makes her smile. "You might have mentioned it, once or twice."
He leans over the counter, raises an eyebrow playfully, drops his voice. "I'll let you play with my bugs."
She looks up at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "That right?"
"C'mon, Sara. We'll have fun. The desert may not have critters in the surf, but there's lots of handy corpses."
Her eyes widen. "I said that four years ago."
He shrugs. "I was paying attention."
"I dunno, Grissom. I'm so close to making CSI-III there, and I'd have shift seniority. Hopkins told me he's leaving next year, and he's picked me to be his replacement. I have an apartment, I have friends, I have a --"
She breaks off abruptly, and Grissom raises an eyebrow. "Boyfriend?"
"Boyfriend... ish... type... person... thing," she smiles, embarrassed. "We've gone on two dates. He said I was 'really intense'. I don't think that bodes well."
"I like intense," Grissom says lightly.
She smiles a little. "Do you?"
"It's pretty much a required quality on our shift. We pull a lot of doubles. Triples, even."
She looks disappointed again, but she shrugs. "Well, you've got me there. I don't sleep."
"I don't know about that," he teases. "I seem to recall you falling asleep on me once."
"Right." She licks her lips. "Yeah, I guess that's true. But Grissom... I didn't exactly get off on the best foot with everyone. Investigating Warrick? I think they all see me as the enemy."
"You ran a fair investigation." He raises an eyebrow. "Anyway... I thought you liked a challenge?"
"Sure. Patterns, particles. Not people. I'm not good with people."
"You're good with me," he counters.
She pauses, searches him with her eyes, smiles crookedly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. I'm in."
When she leaves a few minutes later, hyped-up and on her way to look for apartment classifieds, he leans against his front door and wonders if he hasn't just had another terrible idea.
18 // Bring the Boys Back Home // 2002
Bring the boys back home.
Bring the boys back home.
Don't leave the children on their own, no, no.
Bring the boys back home.
"I don't suppose there's any way you could find this complimentary," Grissom says lightly.
Nick barks out a single laugh. The coffee cup in his hand is trembling a little, and he sits it down on the table. "Uh... maybe I'm not quite there yet, Griss."
"If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery..."
"Yeah, yeah, I get that." Nick shakes his head. "Still sort of fixated on the gun in my face part... I'll get the big ego later. I'm, uh... I'm gonna see if Brass needs anything from me."
Warrick watches silently as Nick leaves, turning to Grissom with a frown. "What was that?"
"Yeah, well, for future notice, Warrick? Shoving someone at me and mouthing 'talk to him' behind his head is pretty much a recipe for disaster."
Warrick shakes his head. "Dammit, Griss... why do you do this?"
"Excuse me?"
"Be deliberately oblivious. Y'know, it'd be one thing if you just sucked with people. But you... you read suspects like a book. You play people just fine when you want to. Hell, I've seen you play people like a master when you want to. Gettin' that judge off my back? The people you've talked into confessing? How can you do that, and then just... turn it off, when it's people you care about?"
Grissom stares, and Warrick heaves a sigh.
"Forget it, Griss. Maybe you can get Nick a plant."
19 // Comfortably Numb // 2003
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying...
It's the highs and lows he's losing first. It's harder to hear Catherine than Sara, harder to hear Warrick than Nick. He's almost lost the triumphant little here-comes-the-paper! beep of Greggo's printer; he has lost the low, steady thrumming of the equipment as it runs.
He'd asked his mother, once, what it was like to be deaf. She'd told him it was like being underwater.
He'd taken that at face value, gathering great lungfuls of air and diving beneath the waves to explore a new perspective.
But it's more than that, more like being underwater than he'd ever suspected. It's taking the edge off the world, making things softer. The noise of the casinos has gone from a harsh racket to something muted and almost beautiful, like windchimes; the bustle of the lab is like a low wind through the trees.
Underwater, the world is hushed, reverent, quiet. Here in his new world, the volume knob goes steadily down, like the planet is letting him sleep, letting him go, letting him drift away.
It makes it easier to disconnect. When gunshots sound like water dripping, when screams sound like whispers, he'll have to leave the lab, and he's not fool enough to think the relationships he has here will last beyond that. They'll chase the bad guys and work doubles and drink too much coffee, and he'll sink into silent solitude, books and bugs and library-smell, a mentor at last.
He's almost looking forward to it. A world without pain, a world without people, a world where things are orderly and quiet and unsurprising, total control. Lonely, sure, but... he's good at lonely. Like many things, it has lost the power to bother him.
He snaps on his rubber gloves, reaches down for his kit... and then his light is blocked.
"Griss?"
A voice -- Sara -- and he looks up, concentrates.
There's a man behind her, Ken-doll-pretty and musclebound. He's seen him before.
"Hey, man!" he says, slapping his hand into Grissom's. "Sara's told me a ton about you."
Grissom can barely hear him, doesn't really need to. This would be Hank, then, and he doesn't need to hear the rest of the words... he'd heard them just fine, fourteen years ago.
Hank seems solid and chiseled and blank, like an empty Nick costume on a hanger.
But it's not Grissom's place to judge. Maybe he'll take care of Sara, make her happy. He seems... normal.
It doesn't hurt as much as he'd been afraid it would.
It seems... very far away.
"It's nice to meet you, Hank," Grissom says, and heads further up the tape, not looking back.
Hank's still talking; Grissom can hear the fading murmur of his voice, catch words like "Sara" and "Friday".
But Sara's stopped listening to him, staring across the scene at Grissom with enchanted eyes.
20 // The Show Must Go On // 2004
There must be some mistake
I didn't mean to let them
Take away my soul.
Am I too old, is it too late?
"Griss," Sara pleads, and she's writhing beneath him, gasping, her wrists in his hands at the sides of the pillow
(pin me down)
and her legs wrapped around his calves, trying frantically to press him where she wants him to go. He's ignoring her, having too much fun teasing her, loves the way she begs, the gutteral moans escaping her throat, the absolute trust
(tape me up)
and her hair fanned out across the pillow and her eyes fluttered shut and her neck arched in pleasure and she's beautiful, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen
(since I met you)
and it's perfect until his knee touches cold steel and his fingertips trace the stitching at her sternum
(by the time you figure it out)
and he's stumbling backwards, crashing into a cart, the harsh clang of metal and autopsy tools falling to the floor
(it really could be)
and he can see her, see all of her, cold and waxy and pale in the harsh flourescents of the morgue
(really could be too)
and there's butterflies everywhere, filling the room, brushing against him, turning the world blue
(too late)
her eyes open and she's Debbie and she's Sara and she's both and she's horrible
(too late)
she's wrapped in his security blanket, holding up a baseball card
(too late)
"You've been a great mentor, Grissom," she smiles. "But I have to retract your benefits."
21 // In the Flesh // 2004
I've got some bad news for you, Sunshine...
Pink isn't well
He stayed back at the hotel
And they've sent us along
As a surrogate band
We're gonna find out where you fans really stand...
He's barefoot on the beach in his funeral suit, letting the waves crash over his toes.
He turns at the sound of footsteps behind him. Amazing, what he can hear now.
The man is elderly, white-haired, knobby. But there's no mistaking those eyes.
"Hello, Jack," Grissom says evenly.
"Hello, Gilbert," his father replies.
Grissom turns his eyes back to the sea, and his father takes a step forward.
"That's it? 'Hello, Jack'? No hug, no right hook, no yelling? Not even gonna ask me why I'm here?"
"Fine," Grissom sighs. "Why are you here?"
"Legally, your mother and I were never divorced."
"Ah," Grissom smiles. "Everything she worked for belongs to you now. You must be pleased... I can't think of anything she would have hated more."
"Damn," Jack inhales sharply. "You're a cold one, aren't you?"
Grissom merely smiles, and Jack sighs.
"Hell... don't know why I'm surprised. You always were. Never had any friends, never..."
"Is there some particular reason you're still talking to me?" Grissom snaps.
"Was wondering if there was any... sentimental stuff you wanted from out of the house. Pictures, that kind of stuff."
"Actually... there is one thing I'd like to have, if that's all right. Don't worry -- it's of extremely low monetary value."
"All right," Jack says, eyes narrowed. "You need to borrow the house keys?"
"No, Dad," Grissom smiles pleasantly. "Just a shovel."
22 // Run Like Hell // 2005
You better run all day and run all night.
And keep your dirty feelings deep inside.
Sara's eating a jelly donut in the breakroom, delicately wiping red jam off her bottom lip with her pinky.
Sara's poring over a forensic journal, absent-mindedly tonguing the end of her pen.
Sara's pulling her hair up into a ponytail, a single drop of sweat sliding down the nape of her neck.
He thinks he's beginning to understand the Victorians, how a single flash of ankle could be so potently erotic. It's all about the forbidden, all about what's hidden, denied, pressure building.
He pairs her with Greg whenever he can.
Greg needs the mentoring.
Grissom needs the space.
He's spent too many crime scenes dry-mouthed and half-hard, watching her prowl a perimeter, watching her crawl across a carpet stalking trace evidence, watching the smug, satisfied little lilt to her lips when she finds it. There's a raw, feral grace to her when she's on the hunt, the smoke of her voice, the mischief in her eyes when she sasses him.
And his mind... oh, his mind gets filthier by the day, starvation bringing his edge out. The soft-filtered fantasies where he makes gentle love to her on the Berkeley grass have fallen by the wayside, pale and colorless.
She runs her gloved fingers over a wall, and he thinks of slamming her against it, chuckling darkly in her ear with her hipbones in his hands. In his thoughts, he's fucked her on the layout table, bent her over the breakroom counter, driven into her against the glass wall of the DNA lab. He's taken her on Ecklie's desk and on the hood of Atwater's car, he's slid soapy hands down her in the shower room, she's ridden him breathless in the backseat of the Denali, fingernails digging into his chest.
He focuses on details, pieced-together elements. A sliver of pale stomach revealed by her shirt, the grip of her fist as she tugs loose a pipe, her gasps of exertion when dismantling a heavy engine, the arch of her neck as she works out the kinks in it.
"Here," Greg says, crossing behind her as she rubs at her throat, "Sara, let me. I'm good at this."
And Grissom freezes as Sara obeys, dropping her head forward, letting Greg put his bare hands right on her shoulders, run his thumbs up the nape of her neck.
"Oh... God," Sara moans, and the sound shoots straight through Grissom, turning his grip on his coffee cup white-knuckled.
Greg grins. "Man, you've got knots on knots. When's the last time anyone gave you a backrub?"
Sara's nearly purring, her voice a throaty growl. "Sanders, if you stop, I'll kill you."
Greg could not look happier. "Yes, ma'am."
And Grissom could gleefully strangle him.
He could have done that, could have worked her with his hands, could have given her that pleasure, could have felt her tense and sigh and gasp, could have pressed his lips to her hairline, could have traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, pressing into her body as she rocked back against him, their hips aligning, his palms sliding up the warm skin of her stomach, teasing the undersides of her breasts with his thumbs, the pulse in her throat beating against his open mouth as he unbuttoned her jeans, sliding them to the floor and...
"I have paperwork," Grissom says abruptly, turning on his heel and stalking out.
23 // Waiting for the Worms // 2005
Ooooh, you cannot reach me now
Ooooh, no matter how you try
Goodbye, cruel world, it's over
Walk on by.
Sitting in a bunker here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.
In perfect isolation here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.
His hands are covered in fire-ant bites and the dirt from Nicky's grave, leaving gritty smudges around the paper cup of hospital coffee.
They're all filthy, dust-gray and shell-shocked. Warrick's slumped over across the hallway, elbows on his knees, turning a coin over and over. Catherine paces a tight line a few yards down, one finger in her ear and the other glued to her cellphone. A few chairs from Warrick, a bleary-eyed Greg's head is propped on Sara's shoulder; she has an arm around him, making small, soothing circles on his back, but she's otherwise curled into herself, staring at a far point on the wall.
He's barely seeing them; his eyes are focused inward, stuck on a new and painful memory -- Nick's mouth moving soundlessly, a deathbed scene Nick hadn't known had a witness.
Grissom... I never meant to disappoint you...
One last chance to say goodbye, every word wasting precious oxygen... and Nick had apologized to him.
Greggo... never change, kiddo, you keep us all laughing when we need it...
Gerard had told him once that men told the absolute truth at two times: when they were drunk, and when they were dying.
Warrick, man, I know neither one of us is much for the sappy stuff, but...
No one could tap into people quite like Nick; he made empathy look effortless...
Sara... heck, honey, I'm a little sorry for whoever did this to me if they've got you after them...
He seemed to see everyone in the best light, endless hope for the human race...
Catherine... you give my love to that little girl of yours, okay, and I always wanted to tell you...
And Nicky had... apologized to him.
Apologized to a distant, forbidding father figure whose approval he'd never won,
(kid still walks like a friggin' fairy)
whose praise he'd do anything for.
(Goddamned stupid Cubs)
One thing had been clear from Nick's message; he was certain, deep in his bones, that Grissom wouldn't miss him.
Grissom rubs his eyes, looks out at the hallway, thinks of Catherine's words...
People are making a family around you whether you like it not, whether you give them permission or not...
Catherine finishes her phone call to Lindsey, touches Warrick's shoulder lightly. He looks up gratefully, and they share a smile.
Greg's finally fallen asleep, holding onto a fistful of Sara's shirt. She's still rubbing his back.
His accidental family. Reaching out, comforting each other. No one seeks comfort from him; no one offers it.
They think they know him too well.
And I know what you fear more than anything, Mr. Grissom.
What's that?
Being known.
Hand on the plexiglas, staring down into Nick's terrified eyes... it was the closest he'd been to anyone in years.
It had been too much.
It hadn't been enough.
24 // Stop // 2005
I wanna go home
Take off this uniform
And leave the show.
But I'm waiting in this cell
Because I have to know.
Have I been guilty all this time?
"Hey, Nicky," Grissom says softly.
"Hey, Grissom," Nick croaks.
Grissom moves silently into the room, drawing up a chair, setting down the bag. "I hope you're getting good drugs."
"Hey, they ain't bad," Nick smiles weakly.
Brave. Always brave, his Nick.
"I brought your spare bag of clothes from the lab. Warrick informs me that you always steal his shampoo, so that's in there too."
"Thanks, Griss... thanks a lot." Nick sits up a little in the bed. "Not too fond of the drafty dress look, gotta say."
"I brought you something else, too." Grissom reaches down, holds out a small frame.
Nick squints at it. "A certificate for... honorary ownership of... Trigger. That's uh, Roy Rogers' horse, right? I think I saw this on your desk."
"I'd like you to have it, if that's all right."
"That's... sure," Nick mumbles, staring at the paper as if that will help him decipher the gift's meaning. "I, uh..."
"It's a replacement. When I was four, my father threw all my Roy Rogers stuff in the Pacific."
"Oh." Nick seems stunned by even this simple revelation. "You, uh... you've never really talked about your dad."
"He hated me," Grissom says simply. "Or maybe... maybe he didn't. Either way, if he did love me, I never knew. I spent my whole life trying not to become him... but I fucked up, didn't I, Nicky?"
Nick inhales sharply.
"Back then," Grissom continues, "I promised myself that when I had a son, I'd give him every Roy Rogers thing ever made. This is the only Roy Rogers thing I have, right now."
Nick's hands are white-knuckled on the frame, shock in his eyes.
"You have never," Grissom insists, "Never disappointed me, Nick. And I can't tell you how sorry I am that I made you think that, even for a second."
"Shit," Nick whispers, and he scrubs at his eye with the side of one palm. "Grissom, I..."
Nick trails off, shakes his head, holds the certificate up a little. "Thanks. For this. I... it means a lot to me. A lot."
"I don't think you'll ever know how many times I wished I could be like you."
He's floored Nick yet again. "Huh?"
"You have a gift, Nick. Your ability to understand people, to connect with them... it amazes me. God only knows how many cases it's solved."
"You, uh... really think so?"
"I'd like to be a better friend to you. To you, and everyone. I know it's selfish to ask you for help right now, but... I could really use your guidance, if you wouldn't mind."
Nick seems to straighten, to grow, and this time, his grin is real. "Yeah, Grissom. Yeah. I could do that."
25 // The Trial // 2005
The crown will plainly show
The prisoner who now stands before you
Was caught red-handed showing feelings
Showing feelings of an almost human nature.
This will not do.
He finds Sara in the Drying Room; she looks up when he walks in, holding up a defensive hand.
"Grissom -- please don't take me off this case."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I don't know what people are saying, but I swear -- I didn't start it! I mean... I was goading the guy, Brass and I both were... look, you can ask Brass, he'll back me up on this one..."
"Sara, you were attacked by a suspect. I came to see if you were all right."
"Oh. You're... I'm not..."
"You're not off the case. I can't say I feel comfortable having you in another little glass room with the psycho, though. Do you mind if I take over the interrogation?"
"No, I don't... mind..." Sara's staring at him in wonder; she swallows hard. "Thank you, Griss. Thanks for... asking, like that."
He takes a step closer. "Are you hurt?"
"Eh, he clocked me in the jaw." She rubs at it with her wrist. "It's not so bad."
"Let me see." He takes her face is his hands, turning her jaw to the light. "Oh, honey, you should let Robbins x-ray that."
The sound of a cleared throat behind them.
"Well," Ecklie sneers. "Isn't this cozy."
"Hello, Conrad," Grissom says coldly.
Ecklie leans against the doorway, savoring the moment. "Wow. Nothing gets the ol' juices pumping like a fistfight with a suspect, huh, Sidle? Or should I call you 'honey', too?"
Sara's frozen, panicked, her eyes flashing between Grissom and Ecklie.
Grissom releases her, takes a step backwards. She stares at the floor.
"I dunno, Conrad," Grissom says lightly. "I thought you only called Sofia 'honey'? Of course... I could ask your wife."
It's Ecklie's turn to freeze; Sara's head snaps up.
"I beg your pardon?" Ecklie stammers.
"Oh, Sofia and I had the most interesting dinner last year. Y'know, in retrospect, sabotaging her career may have not been the most intelligent move?" Grissom shakes his head mournfully. "I'm sorry to say, Conrad, she really doesn't like you very much anymore."
"Are you... trying to threaten me?"
"Oh... was that not what we were doing? You threaten, then it's my turn...? Sorry, I must have misunderstood."
"Well, I'm sure you can understand this. You're fired."
Sara's jaw drops. "You asshole. You can't do that..."
"You too, Sidle. I'd have mentioned that, but I just figured you'd follow Gil wherever he went, anyway. It's what you do, isn't it? Follow him around? Come running when he snaps his fingers?"
"Y'know, it's strange," Grissom muses. "I think you're going to find Sheriff Atwater bizarrely reluctant to sign our dismissal forms."
"We'll see about that," Ecklie snaps, turning on his heel.
And Sara whirls on him. "Grissom!"
He turns to her, serenely. "Mmm-hmm?"
"Grissom... we just got fired. And you're just... standing there with your little... your little Zen smirk, like you've figured out the crime scene an hour before the rest of us. This... this job is your life, it's... it's my life, and..."
"I have a confession," Grissom smiles.
"You..." she shakes her head in frustration. "What?"
"I lost some evidence."
She blinks. "Grissom... this is serious!"
"Oh, I'm very serious. I was supposed to present it at a hearing. But one of the folders in Bruce Eiger's toybox... well, I just lost it. I guess no one's going to get to see what it says now. It's a real tragedy."
Her eyes widen in sudden understanding. "You... lost... all Eiger's dirt on Sheriff Atwater."
"Poof," he shrugs. "I can be so absent-minded sometimes. Atwater was pretty understanding when I told him about it, though."
"Grissom... you..." she sputters... and then her lips curve into a smile. "You fought dirty."
And he grins. "I don't like it when things I love are threatened."
"Well, yeah, I mean, your job..."
"Actually," he smirks, "I was referring to my loose cannon with a gun."
Sara watches him walk off, head cocked in confusion. What in the hell was he talking about?
26 // Outside the Wall // 2006
All alone, or in twos,
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists
Make their stand.
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.
"Way to scare the crap out of everyone, Grissom," Sara smiles, pulling the curtain shut after her. "I think we've filled up the waiting room. Everybody's here... you've got quite the fan club."
"Maybe I should issue a series of commemorative plates," he says hoarsely.
She grins. "Of you getting shot? You'd sell out from Ecklie alone."
"He probably has a shrine in his basement. 'Great Moments In Grissom Injuries'. How happy is he, anyway?"
"Actually, he's pissed off. Well... pissed off with a healthy chunk of I-hope-someone-on-the-night-shift's-to-b
Grissom snorts, rolling his eyes.
"Well, hey." Sara takes a step forward, licks her lips. "I'm assuming you're on a lot of painkillers, and you scared the shit out of me, and Ecklie's gunning for me anyway, so..."
He raises an eyebrow. "So...?"
"So... this." She leans forward, presses her lips to his briefly, pulls back with a little smile. "Just so I could say I did it before I died."
He frowns. "That was hardly fair."
Uncertainty flickers in her eyes, then embarrassment.
"My reaction time is slowed," he protests. "One of my arms is completely non-functional! Do it again."
She freezes, blinks. "Uh... what?"
"They've got me all wired up, I can't go over there."
"You, uh..." Sara chuckles nervously. "Wow, those are some good drugs they've got you on."
"Sara," Grissom says sternly, "If you don't come over here, I'm going to pout."
That shocks a laugh out of her.
"My pout is devastating," he informs her very seriously. "Potentially lethal."
"Well, huh. Don't, uh, guess I don't want that..."
And she's walking towards him, confused but smiling, her hands wrapping around the rail of his bed, leaning down...
And he surges up to meet her, good hand sliding into her hair, pulling her down to him. She stumbles and laughs against his lips and kisses him again, rising with twinkling eyes.
"So, what's this stuff they have you on? What's the brand name, where do I buy it?"
He reaches out, takes her hand. "I've wanted to do that for ten years."
"I, uh... you're stoned."
"Not that stoned. We should... talk."
"Well, there's... there's a billion people here to see you, Griss." She pauses, gets a mischevious gleam. "So you might want to pop some breath mints or something."
He scowls. "I wasn't planning on making out with Brass."
Her lips lift a fraction. "But you... but you were planning on making out with me?"
"Well... yes. In intricate detail, actually. But not today... an opportunity just presented itself."
She shakes her finger at him. "You are fun when you're doped up. I'll be back later, okay?"
"Promise?"
She grins. "Yeah."
Warrick's waiting out in the hallway, leaning gracefully against the room sign.
"He is so out of it," Sara grins. "Go easy on him."
"Yeah, right," Warrick laughs, pushing himself off the wall and sauntering towards the door.
He leans down, breathes in her ear. "Hey, girl... you don't want the whole lab knowin' what happened in there, you better wipe that Christmas-morning look off your face and quit touching your lip, okay?"
She drops her hand, blushing, and Warrick pats her shoulder, passing into Grissom's room.
She walks back to the waiting room, smiling a little to herself as the heads pop up. Practically the whole lab's here, two shifts' worth, pacing and chewing their fingernails and drumming on unread magazines.
She wonders if Grissom has any idea how much he is loved.
She touches her lip, and wonders other things.