Introduction
to Management
Disclaimer:
I don’t own any of the characters from CSI, or anything else that seems
familiar. Purely a labor of love, with
no profit made.
Spoilers:
Minor ones for “Overload” and “Play With Fire.”
Archival:
Sure, if you want it, just e-mail me.
Pairings:
a little bit of UST between Grissom and Sara
Lesson
One: Disciplinary Action
Grissom
had never seen a kicked puppy in his life, but he imagined it would look like
Greg. The lab tech was fidgeting in his
socks, rotating on his heels with restless, twitchy motion. His eyes looked oversized and teary, like a
harsh word was going to make him cry.
Either that, or the smoke drifting from his lab was making his eyes
water. Grissom started to say something,
cleared his throat, and fell silent again.
He surveyed Greg from top to bottom.
No shoes. Charred lab coat. Big brown eyes brimming over with tears.
Remember,
Grissom thought, he’s only twenty-seven.
That was
practically still a kid. Whatever Greg
had done in the lab to simultaneously make him lose his shoes and destroy his
uniform, he looked like it had done him a good lesson. The scorched socks alone should have
imprinted some kind of message into his mind.
And even if Greg did play his music too loud, he was - - a good
kid. A good kid who got the results in
on time, and deserved something right now.
Some kind of sympathy. There was,
at the very least, a sense of kindness to be considered. Keeping his karma in mind, he was fairly
aware that it wouldn’t be easy to forgive himself if his self-control slipped
when Greg looked one step away from an emotional breakdown.
Grissom
took all this into account shortly after he said, harshly, “Greg, what did you
do?”
Greg’s
lip fluttered. “I - - um. I - - yeah.”
“Start at
the beginning,” he said, and then specified, “of the incident,” because without
prompting, Greg was liable to start somewhere around either “God created the
heavens and the earth” or “My mom went into labor around three.”
“I…
messed up?”
“Is that
a question?”
“No?”
“Greg. Getting you to talk isn’t usually a
problem.” One more cautious evaluation
of his DNA tech’s appearance, and another reminder to his system to be calm. Take it one question at a time. “What happened to your shoes?”
“They
caught on fire. I put them out.”
“In the
sink?”
Greg
closed his eyes. “Um. In the coffee pot.”
When
Grissom’s mother was angry with him, he remembered her spelling out his
name. Not even the short abbreviation of
it, but the whole name - - Gil Grissom, constructed manually, letter by letter,
as slowly as she could do it without being ridiculous. Then, as the name built up in her fingers, he
started to squirm, and by the time she was done with just his name, he was
already regretting whatever transgression had started it.
“Greg
Sanders.” The words slid out from
between his teeth slowly, like thick molasses.
Amazing. Different speaker, established vocals, and
over thirty years later, and it still had the same effect. If Greg had gone any paler, he would have
been a prime candidate for Dr. Robbins’s autopsy table.
“Yes
sir?’
“Are you
implying that there is a pair of scuffed sneakers floating in the community
coffee pot? Your sneakers?”
“They
aren’t exactly floating. I mean, I had
to jam them in. They wouldn’t fit right
away.” Greg glanced down at his
hands. “I kind of burnt myself a
little.”
“And, are
you further implying that, upon attempting to fit your shoes in the coffee pot,
you neglected to notice that you were standing a mere two feet from the sink?”
“No, I
didn’t notice. Sir.”
Grissom
sighed. “Then let me see your
hands. If you burnt them, you’ll need
some kind of salve.”
Greg
extended his hands across the desk. The
tops were pink from flushed heat, and when Grissom flipped them over to study
the palms, he saw that they looked badly sunburned - - a crabby, bunchy shade
of red. The skin had started to peel
back from the fingertips.
“They
were tight,” Greg said miserably. “I had
to unlace them before I could get them off.”
Grissom
released Greg’s hands. “Take the rest of
the night off and get to Desert Palms.
Get these treated - - they’re worse than I expected.” He found the absence form and reported Greg’s
name and reason for leaving on it in swift blue pen strokes. “And next time, tell me that your hands are
hurting before you let me start on a lecture.”
Greg took
the note gingerly. “Next time?”
“With
you, Greg, I have learned to be prepared.
Now, go get yourself treated, and, if you’ll excuse me, I have a pair of
shoes to pry out of a coffee pot. And
then a coffee pot to sanitize.” He
patted Greg on one charred shoulder and shepherded the young man out of the
office. Greg looked like a condemned
prisoner who had suddenly seen sunlight again.
He was grinning from ear to ear.
With another pat, Grissom turned his tech towards the exit. Greg, holding his hands in front of him,
started striding towards the door.
“Greg?”
Greg
turned back towards him, and Grissom was relieved to see that the kicked puppy
look had been replaced by a beatific everything’s-going-to-be-okay expression.
“Yeah,
Grissom?”
“When you
get back - - I still need to know how you managed to set your shoes on fire.”
Lesson
Two: Overtime
It was
Tuesday, and Sara was staying late, which was not unusual in the same way that
Sara having brown hair was not unusual. Grissom should have known better than
to give her the rape/murder case up on the boards - - especially when the young
woman involved had a life so close to her own - - but sometimes, personal
motivation was the best fuel. Standing
outside the break room, watching Sara pour over files while chain-drinking
paper cups of coffee, he wished that he knew how to make her go home. Nick and Warrick had retreated into the
rising dawn an hour ago, shortly after Catherine. They’d offered bribes of steak and egg
platters and pancakes, but Sara had shook her head. As far as Grissom could tell, the only way
Sara even noticed everyone else had clocked out was because she had to
reiterate the case details to the dayshift DNA tech.
He
knocked on the doorframe and startled a reaction out of her. She almost dropped the coffee cup, her eyes
wide, only accentuating the dark underlines from lack of sleep.
She shook
herself. “Sorry. I was close to dozing off there. You just startled me.” She cleared off the chair next to her and
motioned him down. “Fourteen cups of
coffee, and I’m wearing down already.
Guess I’m past my prime.” Her
smile was shaky.
“Caffeine
crash,” he said gently. “You ought to go
home and get some sleep.”
“Nah.” Sara worked as she talked, indexing the
plastic sample-bags into the correct order.
He counted a sheet swatch, and a mold - - bracelet? Necklace? - - before she packed them away. “I’m dialed in, I can’t leave now.”
“You’re
going to run out all your overtime early.”
“This
isn’t about money,” she said quietly, her voice intense. “I just what to know the answer.” She pulled a photograph from the heap on the
table, and set it in front of him, like an icon. A young woman, blonde, smiling, looked up at
him. Frozen. “She shouldn’t have died, Grissom.” She tapped the name. “Caitlin Moss. Twenty-three.
These things. . . shouldn’t happen.”
Caitlin
Moss. She had Sara’s eyes.
“No,” he
said, with more power than he had intended.
“They shouldn’t.”
Sara’s
smile was helpless and, Grissom presumed, involuntary. The photo was lifted from his view and she
slid it back into an envelope among the files.
“So we know why I’m still here.
Catherine left to take her daughter to school. Warrick and Nick needed breakfast. Greg - - so he says - - had a date. What’s you’re reason for hanging around?”
“You,” he
said.
A dark,
slim eyebrow raised. “I’m your reason?”
“I didn’t
want you to be here alone, with all of this.”
He made a sweeping motion to include the assortment of papers on the
table, and most of the lab itself, for general emphasis.
She said
gently, “Grissom, there are plenty of other people here.”
He
chuckled. “Sure. Dayshift.”
“I know,
I know, they’re sub-par.” She sipped her
coffee with a grimace. “And we
definitely have the better coffee of the bunch.
So you’re worried about leaving me alone with an inept DNA tech? Ecklie?”
“I just
worry sometimes,” he said.
“You
wouldn’t know it.” With a smart hiss,
she clapped the files together and stood.
“I think I might take a walk. Get
some air. Think a little.”
“See if
you can’t walk yourself home,” he advised, his hand on her elbow. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to watch
you start the coffee machine up one more time.
And if you have to enter the DNA lab again, I think you’ll end up biting
that poor man’s head off.”
“He’s
incompetent.”
“He’s
average,” Grissom said. “We’re just used
to better.”
“Graveyard
shift,” Sara said teasingly, “complete with better coffee, better lab techs,
better solve rate . . .” She hesitated
momentarily. “Better boss.”
“Better
employees - - but ones I’m not afraid of sending home. Go get some sleep.”
She
pulled her purse off the chair. “Yeah,”
she said. “Sure.”
Her nod
was unconvincing, and Grissom wasn’t surprised when she turned up an hour later
with an iced cappuccino and the same dark circles.
Lesson
Three: Special Occasions
The
division between the break room and the hall was glass, so, luckily, Grissom
saw what he was getting into before he actually entered. For one thing, he could see the streamers
plastered merrily over the wall, for another thing, Catherine was brandishing a
dubiously large knife above a chocolate-iced cake. And, though not precisely enough to clue him
in, although more than certainly enough to disturb him, he caught a snippet of
conversation through the open door:
Sara:
“Greg and I would like you to know that we have no idea who painted your locker
with liquid latex.”
Nick:
“Sure you don’t. Hey, no one’s going to
sing, right?”
Catherine:
“Oh, I think we should.”
Warrick:
“I’m getting out of this on principle.”
Greg:
“Don’t look at me. My singing is
strictly of the in-the-shower variety.”
Catherine:
“If there’s no singing, there’s no cake.”
After
overcoming the extreme oddity of the conversation opener, Grissom’s mind worked
out a connection, much to his horror. He
slapped a hand against his head. Prank. Singing.
Cake. Nick.
Shit.
Nick’s
birthday. How could he have forgotten
that? Catherine had actually sent a memo
about it - - typed it up on his computer, printed it out, and stapled it to the
board in the break room.
Thirty-one. He swore again, and
risked another nervous glance into the room.
Catherine, apparently having given up on getting anyone to sing “Happy
Birthday,” had started dividing the cake.
Nick was smiling, but his eyes were fixed on the clock, like he was
waiting for something.
Another
swipe of his eyes, and he found what he was hoping against - - a stack of
presents on the table, glossily wrapped.
Four. Catherine, Sara, Greg,
Warrick. And a conspicuous empty spot
among the paper plates and party favors - - a spot waiting for a fifth
present. His present.
Again,
shit.
Catherine
was going to kill him, and he was going to deserve it. No wonder Nick kept looking at the clock - -
he was waiting for Grissom to show up.
He was sure he could just tell Nick that he forgot a present, sure that
he could make some excuse and Nick wouldn’t say a word - - but he still should
have remembered. And it would be crass
to show up without a present. Sara’s
birthday, last month, there had been a present.
And for Warrick, back in October.
He’d made sure he’d had a present for Nick since Nick’s first promotion
to Level Two.
And now
he was the boss, and it was his first slip.
He
realized that he’d stayed in front of the glass a little too long when he
noticed Catherine exiting. She rounded
him up against the wall, eyes icy.
“You
forgot, didn’t you.” Not even a
question. “I sent you a reminder, and
you forgot.”
In the
break room, the remaining two CSI and Greg had teamed up to apparently heckle
Nick into opening his presents, but Grissom could tell by his outstretched
hands and laugh that he wasn’t going to, and then his lips spelled out - -
Waiting for Catherine to come back. And
Grissom.
“He’ll be
mad.”
“He ought
to be mad, but he won’t be. I think I
can cover for him, though. You have to
do something, Gil.” He must have looked
remorseful, because her face softened and she squeezed his shoulder. “Listen, I know things have been stressful
since they made you supervisor. I
understand that. But you have to make
this up to him.”
“I will.”
“You’d
better.”
“What did
you get him?”
Catherine
smiled. “Ornithology book. I figured, since he watched all those
Discovery Channel episodes on birds, there must have been some kind of
interest. I know Warrick got him some kind
of computer game, and Sara said something about a jacket.”
“Greg?”
“You know
Greg. He’s been making exaggerated
zip-lips gestures all day when we ask him.
I’m expecting either socks, a puppy, or a girl who jumps out of a cake.”
Grissom
smiled, but it felt raw. His obsessive
glance at the room again almost got him caught again. He pulled back just before Sara directed a
wondering look into the hall.
“They’re
getting impatient,” Catherine said softly.
“If you have a rabbit in your hat, I’d pull it out quick.”
“I’ve got
an idea,” he said.
He had -
- barely. But Grissom had always been
decent at improvisation, so he smiled at her and walked into the break
room. One of the things about being the
supervisor that he had noticed was that things changed the second he walked
into his room. Greg had speared a bite
of cake that he had apparently been trying to get Sara to take it off his fork,
but she was refusing, laughing. The
second he saw Grissom, the fork dropped back to his plate. Warrick stalled the music he’d been
playing. Four sets of eyes flickered
from Grissom to his empty hands, two (Warrick and Sara) coming back to stare at
him darkly. Greg’s glare landed somewhere
around his shoulder, as if too timid to crawl up to his face. Nick had swallowed and glanced at the floor.
“Hey,”
Nick said awkwardly.
“Happy
birthday, Nicky.” He shook Nick’s hand
firmly. “You should have taken a
vacation.”
“We put
our presents on the table,” Sara said.
Her voice was accusative. She
pointed at the hole in the gulf of assortments covering the surface. “We saved a space for yours.”
“I’m
treating you all to breakfast,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “I know a nice place on the Strip. Take the presents with you, Nick. You can open them while we’re waiting for our
food - - and trust me, it’s going to be worth waiting for. Everyone order big - - it’s my treat this
time. No splitting the bill.”
With
grins, they started filing out, Nick overloaded on presents, balancing them on
his arms, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine flanking him like attendants. “Meet you in the car!” Catherine yelled, and
mouthed back at him, “Nice save.” She
flashed a thumb’s-up.
Greg was
leaning against the table.
“Greg. Go get in the Tahoe. Did you miss your breakfast invitation?”
His face
lit up. “I can come? Seriously?”
“Yes. Hurry, before Catherine decides to tear open
your present to Nick.”
Greg took
off like he was afraid of being left behind (which, apparently, he had been),
and Grissom looked at the cake that everyone had forgotten, and took it up in
his hands with a sigh, as an afterthought, grabbing a few spare items, and
walked out to the Tahoe. They had,
considerately, spared the driver’s seat for him. Nick was in the passenger’s side, with
Catherine and Warrick in the middle, and Sara and Greg in the back, like
children. He handed Nick the cake.
“You left
this.”
Nick
grinned. “Well, I didn’t think your
restaurant would like us bringing in our own food.”
“We don’t
have to wait for the restaurant. We can,
appropriately enough, have our cake and eat it, too.” He produced the bag of paper plates and forks
he had brought. Nick’s smile widened as
he passed the cake to Catherine so she could serve with a mother’s precise cuts. Grissom concentrated on the road, waving off
the offered piece for later - - but turned his head at the red light.
“I’m
sorry, Nicky,” he said in an undertone, so the other passengers wouldn’t hear.
Nick had
a dark smear of chocolate icing across his mouth, and he wiped at it with his
hand before answering. “For what?”
“You
know. Forgetting.”
Nick
looked serene - - not an expression Grissom was used to. It was like a ceramic angel you would put on
a Christmas tree - - only not fake. This
was real. Nick was okay. Nick was enjoying himself.
“You made
up for it,” he said honestly. “I’m not
mad. This is great. I’m going out for breakfast with my friends. This is cool.”
“You’re
not mad.” He wasn’t surprised, but
somehow, he thought he heard incredulity in his voice, anyway.
“Man, the
only thing that could make me mad right now is if Greg did that thing with his
present where he packed a box in a box in a box, and I open up the last one and
get a penny. My sister Jenny did that to
me for Christmas once.”
“Did you
shake it?”
“It
doesn’t rattle.”
“I’ll
bring you something tomorrow,” Grissom heard himself promise. “You’ll like it.”
Nick
smiled at him. “You have no idea what to
buy me, do you?”
“Not the
slightest. Sorry.”
“I’m cool
with that. Anyway, I just wanted to tell
you not to bother.” He took another bite
of chocolate cake and worked his mouth around it, eyes halfway closed. He pointed his fork at the remaining part of
the slice. “This is great. But - - to what I was saying - - don’t worry
about it.”
“I have
to do something.”
“You’re
paying for a six-person breakfast.
That’s enough. Hey, I’ll even
order something really expensive, if you want.”
Nick laughed. He patted the
Tahoe’s window. Bright sunlight slid
against his palm. “Listen, I know you’re
a cynic, but - - Griss - - it’s good to be alive today, isn’t it?”
Grissom
surveyed Nick’s serene look, and then looked at the quartet bickering behind
them, snatching cake pieces off other plates, grinding enough crumbs into the
interior. That would never come out, he
thought resignedly. But Sara had a cute
chocolate dab on her upper lip that she had yet to notice, Warrick was moving
presents around and shaking them experimentally, and Catherine was heckling
Greg by holding the last piece of cake just out of his reach.
“It’s
good to be alive,” he agreed, just as another red light made him slam on the
brakes, eliciting a short laugh. “Even
in Vegas traffic.”
“Grissom,
I don’t want to be the one to blow the whistle, but Greg’s cake just smashed
into the back of one of your seats.”
Nick was stifling a laugh, turning to look at Greg’s bright red
face. “And he’s trying to clean it up
with his paper plate.”
“I’m in a
good mood. I don’t think he’ll lose his
job over cake.”
“What
about if he gave me a penny?”
“I’ll
consider it.” He pulled into the parking
lot. “Happy birthday,” he repeated,
squeezing Nick’s shoulder. “Let’s get
inside and get some breakfast.”
Lesson
Four: Valuable Contact
“Have lunch
with me,” she said. “You’re stressed.”
Grissom
looked up at Catherine’s expression, and could almost feel his face settling
into his own harried look - - he had assigned them a tough case. Drive-by shootings were always difficult, and
this one seemed almost impossible. The
victim had apparently been an almost unknown.
He’d been identified by his mailman, for God’s sake. The lack of evidence - - the lack of motive -
- it was driving him crazy.
“Lunch,”
he said flatly, hoping he had managed to successfully express his disdain for
either a) breaking his stride, or b) eating.
Technically, option a was far more truthful, but right then, Grissom
didn’t feel like particularly doing anything, except maybe venting
tension. He wondered if midlife crises
usually required punching bags.
“Lunch. You’ve worked around the clock. We’re in overtime. SARA even went home.”
“I’m that
bad?”
“You’re
terrible. Come on. We’ll get Mexican.”
“I don’t
like Mexican.”
“You
liked Mexican last week.”
“Well,
now I’m sick of it.” He knew he sounded
petulant. “I mean - - I’ve had a lot of
it lately. I’m just not in the mood
right now.”
Catherine
wasn’t going to be dissuaded. “Chinese,
then.”
“I’ll
have a grasshopper,” he said, purposefully trying to disgust her.
“Gil, if
it’s in your fridge, don’t eat it. We’re
going to go - - yes, leave the lab, I know that must shock you, but yes, we are
capable of doing it - - and get you real food.
Like sweet-and-sour chicken. Or
at the very least, fake real food. Like
burritos.” She brushed her hand over
his. “I’ll get you a fortune cookie.”
“There’s
the motivation I was looking for.”
Still, he rose with a slight creaking.
He rubbed the small of his back, thinking, humorlessly, that he was
getting old. Catherine caught his
expression and shook her head.
“Huh-uh. If you’re old, then I’m old. And you wouldn’t want to imply that when I’m
ready to buy you lunch.”
He pushed
the file across the table and looked at her.
There was no sign that she was going to give in anytime soon, and he was
wasting time by arguing.
“Chinese?”
she asked, jingling the car keys.
He
snatched them from her hand. “I’m
driving.”
She
pulled them back just as deftly. “No
way. If I’m buying, I’m going to
drive. Besides, I know where to get the
best Chinese, and you don’t.”
“You’re
assuming things now.”
“I have
evidence,” she said pertly. “I’ve seen
what you eat for lunch. Once you’ve done
the buffet at the Dragon, you never look back.
You certainly don’t keep eating bugs when you want a sugar rush,
anyway.”
She led
him to the car with the promise of Chinese food tugging him along like a
leash. Against his will, he was
imagining the tastes. Sweet-and-sour
pork. Steamed rice. Cashew chicken. Piping hot sugar-coated rolls. His stomach growled irrepressibly, and
Catherine flicked a smile at him over her shoulder. He slid into the passenger seat with a sigh. If he had to be baited into taking a break,
he at least was hoping to get it done fast - - which of course had nothing to
do with his gnawing desire for food.
“You’re
hungry,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“I’m
starving.”
“I’ll
drive fast.”
“I’ll be
thankful.” He buckled up as Catherine
pulled out of the parking lot, her smile firmly intact. “I want you to know that I appreciate this.”
“Food?”
“Food,”
he agreed. “Friendship.”
“Ooh,
someone’s gushy when he’s hungry.” She
patted his hand, like a soothing mother.
“Don’t worry, Gil. You might have
called me old and insulted my knowledge of your food likes and dislikes, but
I’m still going to buy you lunch. No
need to apologize.”
“That
wasn’t an apology,” he said stiffly. “It
was an olive branch.”
“We’re
going for Chinese, not Greek.”
“You know
exactly what I mean.”
“I
do. And thanks.” There was a tiny pause. “I’m a black pepper chicken woman, myself.”
“Too much
spice.”
“You will
eat your words.”
“I will
eat,” Grissom said, as his stomach growled again. “That’s what I’m sure of right now.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes,
let the hunger die away as he counted backwards into hazy sunlight against his
face. He felt warm, and somehow
comforted.
Lesson
Five: Support Systems
Grissom
was sitting on the roof when he heard a creeping pattern of footsteps behind
him. He resolutely decided not to turn
around. It hadn’t been a good day for
him - - a spousal battery case had turned sour when the wife had suddenly
decided to drop all of her accusations and clam up, refusing to confirm their
theory or even to press charges. All of
the work - - all the samples he’d gathered, all the thought and energy - - all
the emotion - - it had gone to waste.
Dry as dust. He had the
beginnings of a migraine.
“Hey,”
said a soft voice. “I, um, brought you
this.”
“Greg,
you ought to be downstairs,” he said, without turning around. His head rested squarely in his palm. “Sara’s running that 419 from last night and
I know she has some samples she’s going to need tested.”
“I’m on
break,” Greg said defensively. He came
into view, still in his lab coat, looking smaller out of the sealed lab. The air whistled around him. He was holding a coffee cup in his hand, and,
as much as his headache was hurting him, Grissom had to admit that it smelled
heavenly. Greg practically shoved it
into him. “Here.”
He
sipped, and let the flavor roll over his tongue. “This is your Blue Hawaiian.”
“Yeah.”
“I
thought I wasn’t allowed to touch this.”
“You
aren’t. I made it. I’m feeling generous today.” Greg settled down beside him on the railing with
a whisper of cotton fabric. “Besides,”
he added, “you looked tense. And kind of
pissed, to tell you the truth. Blue
Hawaiian does miracles for calming you down.”
“Coffee
isn’t supposed to calm you down, Greg.
It has caffeine. It’s not a
sedative.”
“This
does both. It’s like a miracle. It calms you down and jazzes you up at the
same time.” Greg stole the cup from him
neatly and took a quick gulp before handing it back. He gave a deep, satisfied sigh. “Things that taste this good should be illegal.”
Grissom
thought about rebutting him again, but instead just drank. Greg was - - impossibly - - right. His emotions were settling down at the same
time as his energy was perking up.
“I’m
sorry about earlier,” he said, once he’d finished the coffee. It settled inside him, warm and comforting.
Greg
shrugged him off. “Don’t worry about
it.”
“I
snapped at you.”
“It’s not
a big deal, Grissom. Besides which, I
still owe you from that one time. With
the shoes, and the fire? Ecklie would
have black-marked me.”
Grissom
rotated the cup in his hands. “It was an
accident.”
“It was a
mistake.”
Grissom
heard his own voice, a few hours earlier, echoing back at him, in response to
that. In retrospect, he sounded bitter,
angrier than he had intended. He winced
as it replayed:
(“Greg, I
need those results now. Not tomorrow,
right now. I don’t want to hear music, I
don’t want to hear talking - - right now I don’t want to hear anything but
machines humming and you working. I
tolerate a lot from you, but not right now.
Results are all that matter.”)
And, from
that - - he somehow got coffee.
“We all
make mistakes,” he said gently. He
rested his hand on Greg’s shoulder for a second. “And I AM sorry.”
“It’s all
right. You were stressed.” Greg gave an audible groan as he
stretched. He slid his eyes over his
wrist to his watch. “Grissom,” he said
incredulously, “how long have I been on-duty?”
“You
clocked in at nine last night, I think.”
“It’s
noon.”
“That’s a
fifteen-hour shift, Greg.” He looked at
the lab tech out of the corner of his eyes, evaluating. Black circles were becoming a fixture of the
graveyard shift, but he hadn’t noticed them on Greg until then. He didn’t like that. It made him feel petty. “Aren’t you loaded up from Ecklie now, too?”
“I always
have tests, Grissom.”
“I don’t
like you sounding that old.” He frowned
when he heard that come out of his mouth.
It was true, but outside of his head, it sounded parental. Well, forget it. It was late (early), and he was tired, and if
he was going to sound parental, then he was going to sound parental.
“I am
old. Practically ancient. I have a crick in my neck.” Greg rubbed at it. “Does the lab give away free massage
appointments, by chance?”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine?” Greg’s eyes widened. “I’ve had that dream before.”
Grissom
smiled, but it felt weary on him. He
wondered when all of his expressions became that tired. “She’ll get that knot out, if you ask. She is a mother, after all.”
Greg’s
face crinkled. “Spoil my fantasies, why
don’t you, Grissom?” he said lightly, and was to his feet and away before
Grissom could remember to thank him.
Lesson
Six: Advantages
So far,
Grissom had found only a few advantages to being a supervisor, as opposed to
just another member of the team.
Warrick, in particular, had a tendency to remind him of the advantages -
- not consciously, but without noticing, tthe good points would slide by
him. At least one of them, he had
determined, had to do with choosing his own assignments:
“Nick and
Sara. There’s a 419.” He handed Nick the address.
“The
Hotel Star?” he asked, tapping the name on the slip of paper. “Haven’t heard of it.”
“I have,”
Sara said. “Kind of glitzy, serves clams
to newlyweds.”
“They get
a lot of business?”
“Well,”
she said, smiling, “this is Vegas.” She
pulled the slip from his hand, and Nick shook his head as she demanded access
to the driver’s seat, the two leaving, playfully arguing. Grissom directed a sigh in the general
direction of their exit - - had he ever acted like that? - - and handed
Catherine her assignment.
“312
Lapland Avenue. A neighbor reported
shots fired. There’s an injured boy and
no one admitting to anything. Check for
household guns - - he could have been playing with one of them, so we might
just be looking at an accident here.”
Catherine
nodded. “Am I taking Warrick?”
“Not this
time,” he said, and waited until she had left before directing a mild smirk at
Warrick.
“Oh no,”
Warrick said. “Something’s definitely
wrong with that grin.”
“Forgery
case,” Grissom said smugly. “Local
museum called it in.”
“Man,
that’s cold. I could do a forgery in my
sleep.” Warrick shook his head in
dismay. “You couldn’t just send me along
with Catherine, let Ecklie’s crew handle some lousy forgery case?”
“Maybe
next time you won’t take the last of the coffee,” Grissom said. “I, on the other hand, have a double-homicide
out on the Strip.”
“You’re
kidding me.”
“Afraid
not, Warrick. A financial guru and his
wife, stabbed to death in a hotel bathroom.”
“You’re
holding me off a double-homicide because I had a cup of coffee?”
“It was
the last cup. And it was GREG’S
coffee. I stood in line for ten minutes
to get that, and suddenly the sheriff wanted to have a talk about my policies, and
you sneaked up and drank the last bit.”
Warrick
threw up his hands. “Have him make more
coffee! You’re the boss!”
“Warrick,
I can control what equipment Greg uses in his lab. I cannot, however, control when he chooses to
make a pot of coffee. I CAN control what
case you’re taking tonight. Have fun
with your forgery. I hope it’s very
exciting.” That smirk played around his
mouth again.
“You have
to be the most vindictive supervisor ever.”
“I am a
man who loves his coffee,” Grissom said contentedly. “Now.
You have two forged pieces of glazed pottery to examine.”
“Evil,”
Warrick said, sighing.
Lesson
Seven: Leave Time
“I need
to get off early tonight,” Catherine told him when he handed out
assignments. “Lindsay’s dance class is
doing a recital, and if I want to be there.
Be the supportive mom. I’m even
thinking about bringing her some roses.
So I need off at eight, okay?”
Grissom
had nodded and marked it down. They were
pulling a double on a homicide case, and everyone was starting to show the
strain. Nick and Warrick had been
trading off napping in the break room for the past few days in place of actual
sleep, and Sara seemed to run on caffeine alone. Greg, complete with his own dark circles
underlining his eyes like bruises, dutifully made coffee and junk food runs,
coming back at one in the morning with bags of Skittles and bottles of
Gatorade. Grissom, never particularly a
sugar-addict, had nonetheless fought his way past Nick to grab some, and was
bitterly regretting it. His sugar crash
had finally come.
“Don’t
forget,” Catherine said.
“I
won’t,” he retorted, and went back to staring at the samples. His eyes felt sawdust-dry, and it was almost
a minute before he even realized what he was looking at.
Strangely
enough, it also seemed like just a minute before Catherine had pushed open the
glass doors.
“I’m
late,” she said, grabbing her things off a chair. “You could have beeped me.” She tried to check her watch and pull on her
jacket at the same time, twisting and squirming to make it. “Eight twenty-six.” Her eyes were icicles. “Now I REALLY won’t have time to pick up any
flowers. I’ll barely make it.”
Grissom
meant to reassure her that she would, though he wasn’t at all sure - - traffic
was, as always, terrible - - but he opened his mouth and what came out instead
was, “I’ll get the flowers for you.”
She gave
him an incredulous look. “You?”
Having
dug his grave, Grissom proceeded to climb inside. He gave a floundering answer. “I’ll look up a florist and go pick up, what,
a dozen? Red? I’ll meet you at - -“
“Rio
Hall,” Catherine said, looking at him as if it were an elaborate April Fool’s
Joke. “On Boardwalk.”
“I know
where it is. Go ahead - - I’ll be there
about half an hour after you. Let me
just make sure everyone knows we’ll be gone.”
He smiled at her, thankful for a break, no matter how oddly it had come
about, and started to leave when she called his name. He turned to see her fumbling in her
purse. He held up his hand. “My treat.
Lindsay’s playing the princess, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, a
princess should have flowers.”
She
sighed. “Gil, red roses aren’t cheap.”
“But,” he
said, “I didn’t page you. I owe
you.” He rubbed his temples and added
honestly, “Catherine, I’ve been awake for the past two days, and I’m
sugar-crashing because I forgot that you shouldn’t take candy from
strangers. Or Greg. I’m feeling generous, not good-spirited. Lindsay is getting red roses and you - - you
are getting in the car.”
“But - -“
“No.” He gave her a gentle shove towards the
door. “Go. It’s eight-thirty.”
Catherine
shook her head in horror and almost ran for the exit, calling back, “I owe
you!” She disappeared through the
closing panes of glass, and into the dark.
Grissom closed the break room behind him and ran almost immediately into
Sara.
“Coffee,”
she demanded.
He
pointed. “Half a pot.”
“Thank
God.”
He
followed her inside again and she laid hands on the warm pot like it was an
idol, shakily pouring a cup.
“Sara.”
“Mm.”
“Catherine
just left - - Lindsay has a ballet recital.
I’m going to go do an errand, and I’ll be back later, okay? Maybe around eleven.” He studied her eyes, wide and groggy over the
rim of the coffee cup. “Did you hear
anything I just said?”
“Mm.”
“Okay. Good, I think. So if anyone asks, where am I?”
Sara said
something long and incomprehensible into her cup, her lips smearing dark red
over the rim. Grissom considered asking
her to repeat herself, and realized it was probably self-defeating. He just nodded, and gave her one last
concerned look as he headed, like Catherine, for the exit.
“Sara? Get some sleep, if you can.”
“Mm-hmm,”
she replied.
The
florist he visited was mildly astonished to find out that Grissom was too tired
to argue over the price of tying up a dozen red roses. For his part, Grissom was equally astonished
that any florist with a neon “open twenty-four hours” sign over his store
actually carried red roses as opposed to plants of a more - - nefarious nature.
He paid without complaint and bundled
the roses against him as he strolled back to the car. The drive to Rio Hall was agonizing. He caught himself on the verge of sleep once,
and, filled with a strange steak of fear, pulled into a Costco parking lot, and
hunted around in his seats until he found the mixed CD Greg had burned for him
last Thanksgiving. In a second, Rage
Against the Machine was filling up his car, and there was no chance of him
going to sleep. Possibly ever.
Grissom,
frustrated and delayed, pulled into Rio at the same time everyone else was
pulling out.
He saw
Catherine, her arm protectively encircling a sunny looking Lindsay in a
rose-colored tutu, strolling to her car - - which, unfortunately, was at the
complete opposite end of the parking lot.
Grissom unbuckled his seatbelt and locked the doors before realizing
that he had left the flowers inside.
With a muffled curse, he unlocked, grabbed them roughly, and slammed the
doors, not even bothering to try locking them again - - security could
hang. He ran after mother and daughter,
shouting, well aware of his romantic-comedy appearance.
Lindsay
heard him first and she spun around, her tutu ruffling. “Uncle Grissom!” she exclaimed, and in a
second, was hugging him, crushing the roses. Catherine, looking wearily amused, smiled at
him.
Grissom
dropped to one knee and held the bouquet out.
“For milady the princess,” he said mildly.
He was
rewarded with a kiss on the cheek from Princess Charming, who gathered them
into his arms and tucked one into her hair, giving a tiny gasp as a thorn
snagged her hair.
“Be
careful, sweetie,” Catherine said. “They
bite.”
Lindsay
giggled. “Can I go ahead in the car,
Mommy?”
Catherine’s
hand played with the spangles on her daughter’s tiara. “Thank Gil first, honey.”
“Thank
you, Uncle Grissom,” Lindsay said politely, before she started giggling and
dropped a curtsy, looking antique and otherworldly for an instant. He smiled at her as she climbed into
Catherine’s car, her ballet shoes pushing off the rough asphalt.
“Thank
you,” Catherine said seriously once her daughter was inside. “She loved that.” She put her hand on his elbow. “Why don’t you come with us? I’m taking her out for ice cream before I
drive her to my sister’s. We’re going to
celebrate. Brownies and M & M crunch
at the Yo-Yo Stand.”
“Catherine,
the last thing I need right now is another sugar crash.”
“Come on,
Prince Charming,” she said teasingly, and was interrupted by Lindsay, who had
rolled down her window to shout:
“Please
come with us, Uncle Grissom!”
Grissom
yawned, and caught himself. “As long as
you drive,” he said, and walked around to the passenger’s side. “I almost fell asleep getting here - - I had
to listen to Greg’s music to stay awake.”
“Black
Flag?”
“Rage
Against the Machine.”
“Well,”
she said lightly, “now you’ll have a lovely accompaniment of the Little Mermaid
soundtrack to keep you awake.” They got
inside and Grissom received a second impromptu hug from the ball of energy in
the backseat. “Everyone buckled
up?” Catherine swiped them for
confirmation. “All right, great.” She pulled smoothly from the parking lot. “Oh, and Gil?”
“Yes?”
“Before
there’s the sugar crash, there IS the sugar high, you know.”
Lindsay
started cheerfully singing along with Ariel as they joined the queue of cars
waiting to escape Rio Hall’s parking lot.
Her voice was young and soprano, sweet, but nowhere near on-key. Grissom checked the glowing green clock
numbers and found that if they were out by eleven, he could get back to work
and see if the other three had made any progress.
“Good,”
he said. “I’ll need it.”
Lesson
Eight: Promotions
Warrick
stopped by Grissom’s office near the end of shift, heralded by the ever-watchful
Big Mouthed Billy Bass’s encore of “Take Me to the River.” He looked quietly concerned, and when he
asked Grissom if they could talk after work, Grissom agreed readily enough. Warrick knew of a more quiet bar called the
Branch where they could get a couple of drinks, even at nine in the morning,
distanced from the usual drinking time.
Warrick drove and settled them into a niche in the bar. His long fingers played with his beer for a
second.
“The word
around dayshift is that you’re thinking about pulling out at the end of this
year,” Warrick said.
“They’re
saying that?”
“Yeah. Danny Monroe said that you were already
making things straight with the mayor for when you drop out, you know - -
successors. He said Catherine.” Warrick took a swallow of beer and ran one
finger down the wet bottle until it squeaked.
“You know that I don’t care about that.”
“No?”
“No. But you shouldn’t leave, Grissom. Supervisor for two years, and you’re already
bailing out? You’ve got what it takes,
and - -“
“Warrick,”
Grissom said, “are you giving me a pep talk?”
“No,
man.”
Grissom
drank his beer swiftly and signaled for another. “Because if you were, I’d have to ask you if
you ever noticed exactly how many rumors float through dayshift?”
“You
aren’t leaving?” Warrick’s face was a
study in relief. His hand had clamped
around the neck of the bottle, and he loosened it as he talked. “Seriously?”
Grissom
ignored him, feeling it necessary to prove his point. He took another drink and continued, “If you
listened to days - - particularly to Monroe - - you would have a number of
mistaken impressions, Warrick. Far more
serious than me leaving CSI. I recently
heard that my method of promoting cooperation was holding team orgies in my townhouse.”
Warrick
chuckled. “That’s news to me.”
“I was
surprised myself. Greg told me that one
- -“
“He was
probably hoping to get invited,” Warrick said dryly.
“The
thought crossed my mind. But as I was saying
- - I have an agreement with myself to nevver believe anything coming out of
dayshift without official verification and forensic evidence.”
“Then you
aren’t leaving.”
Grissom
smiled. “No. I’m not leaving.”
“Good.”
“And
Warrick, you know - - that it isn’t going to be Catherine.” They had talked about that before, briefly,
when Grissom had returned from the entomology convention earlier that
year. He was Catherine’s friend. She was an excellent investigator. She was not, however, his choice for his
successor, and she never had been. “You
know that you’ll be who I recommend, when I do leave.”
“You
mentioned it. Actually, that’s a little
strong. You IMPLIED it.”
“Well,
now I’m telling you.”
“And I
still don’t know why.” Warrick called
the bartender over and got a stronger drink, expression clearly indicating that
he thought he was going to need it. “You
never said.”
“You
never asked.”
“Well,”
Warrick said, in imitation, “now I’m asking you.”
“You’re a
leader. You understand people. You have talent.”
“Declaratives,
man. Everyone fits that bill. You don’t have any real reasons for me?”
Grissom
slid the bowl of peanuts between the two of them and used munching to delay the
response, thinking. As far as he knew,
his choice of Warrick as his successor had been something gradual, and he
couldn’t remember where he had started thinking about it and where he had
sealed the subject off in his mind, neatly marked solved. He had never bothered to justify his choice
to himself because he had never actually, consciously, sat down and debated
about it. Warrick’s demand made him
examine whatever he’d considered.
“I picked
you,” Grissom said, “because you could do the job better than the others.” Feeling he had satisfied whatever obligation he
had to answer the question, he cracked open another peanut, humming to himself.
“That’s
your reasoning?”
“That’s
it,” Grissom said. “Let me buy you
another beer.”
Lesson
Nine: Extra Effort
Grissom
saw the woman long before he saw Nick - - she was a brunette in a trim white
dress. She was nice-looking in a severe
way, but what caught his eye long before her features were her hands. They were signing, pushing symbols into the
air. Grissom looked at them for a few
seconds, unused to that old form of communication, before his mind clicked that
she was actually forming words, not just erratic gestures. A clipped visitor’s pass was pinned to her
sweater. Someone from the college for
the deaf they’d investigated last year?
Coming around the corner from his office, he concentrated on her hands.
“I
couldn’t reach your phone. Our meeting
has to be rescheduled.”
Grissom
listened for a reply but didn’t hear one, and just as he completely came into
view of the scene, he saw why. The young
woman was talking to Nick - - and Nick was signing back to her. Signing, albeit a little awkwardly, with
hesitations, that it was fine. Were
there any problems?
“My
sister is having a baby,” the woman answered, her motions slow and precise.
Nick
watched her hands intently, his expression apt.
“Congratulations,” he said aloud, and signed, “My sister - - a year
back. My little niece,” he paused, and
manually spelled, “Ashley.”
The woman
smiled warmly at him, dropping her hands to her sides. “Enough teaching for right now, Nick. You’re doing fine - - just keep
practicing. I have a flight to New York
leaving soon.”
“At least
let me give you a cup of coffee before you leave,” Nick said. “I mean, you came all the way here just to
tell me my lesson’s been rescheduled?
Come on.”
“I’m
sorry. I really can’t. I’ve got to rush for that flight already.”
Nick
smiled. “Fine, fine. Just call me when we can meet, okay?” He signed, “I hope your sister will be fine.”
“She will
be,” the woman signed back.
Once she had
vanished through the doors at the opposite end of the hall, Grissom rounded
from the corner, armed with nothing but dissatisfied confusion. “Nick?
Can I talk to you?” His hands
fluttered at his sides, anxious for something to do. He calmed them into his pockets. No need to send Nick into a panic by starting
to sign in the middle of the hallway.
Obviously, Nick hadn’t wanted him to know about whatever sign language
skills he had gained.
Nick,
looking nervous, nodded, and let Grissom lead him into the office.
“Have a
seat,” Grissom said, settling down into his own chair once he was sure Nick
wasn’t going to give into his own panicked expression and bolt. “I - - heard you talking with that young
woman in the hall. Care to
explain?” He had very, very carefully
said “heard,” so Nick would think that he had only caught one edge of the
conversation.
Nick’s
anxious expression eased into a smile.
“She’s not a girlfriend. Don’t
worry - - I don’t bring my personal life into my work.”
“No, but
apparently you brought your work into your personal life.” He lifted his hands off the desk and, copying
the woman’s precise, concentrated style, said, “Sign language lessons?”
Nick
winced. “And here I was hoping that
something would escape you.”
“Why?”
Grissom signed.
Nick,
apparently realizing that he wasn’t going to get out by just speaking, started
to sign, slower than he had in the hallway, as if making a mistake in front of
Grissom would either result in death or unemployment. “Why do I take them? Or why didn’t I want you to know?”
“Both. One at a time.”
Nick held
up one finger. “The deaf student who was
killed last year. You could - - speak -
- with them.” Judging by the frustrated
look, Nick was trying for a word he didn’t know the sign for yet. “They trusted you because you
understood. I didn’t. I’m trying to.”
“You
can’t understand everyone, Nick,” he said aloud, gently, and added in sign,
“Why didn’t you want me to know about this?”
“I don’t
know.” Nick’s lips were tight, face
tense. His mouth was bloodless, lined in
white from the pressure. “I was . . .
embarrassed.” He manually spelled the
last word, taking his time. “I was
hoping to skip over the part where I learned it and just surprise you with the
fact that I knew it.”
“You thought
I’d be angry? Upset?”
“No.”
“Condescending?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” he signed again. “You make people want to be better. I wanted to show you that I could learn
something, by myself. Something that you
appreciated.” He settled his hands down on
the desk and cleared his throat. “Can I
talk now? In case you didn’t notice, I’m
not very good at this yet.”
Grissom
smiled and nodded, switching to speech.
“How long have you been taking these classes?”
“A little
less than a year. I hunted around after
that case for a teacher.”
“So
you’ve had about ten months of practice?”
“About
that, yeah.” The suffused color in
Nick’s face was starting to settle down.
His eyes looked into the corner for a second as he calculated. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it. Why?”
“Your
vocabulary is impressive. Good
form. Nice reading skills. A lot of people learn how to make the symbols
but then can’t recognize them when they see them elsewhere. You understood what I was saying,
though. That takes talent.”
Nick said
cautiously, “I practiced in front of a mirror.”
“Good.” Standing, he crossed the room and held open
the door. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I’ll buy
us lunch. Catherine took me to a Chinese
restaurant called the Dragon once.
You’ll love it.”
“Yeah?” Nick stepped out of the office. “Fortune cookies?”
“Good
ones. Without actual cryptic messages
instead of the ones telling you to have a nice day.”
“I hate
those things.”
“They’re
a disgrace,” Grissom agreed. They left
into warm sunlight, and he mentally reminded himself to radio Catherine and
tell him where they had disappeared to.
“Keep up the good work, Nicky my boy.
But you don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Nick’s
face looked momentarily puckish. “Why
not? It got me a free lunch.”
“I may
live to regret that.”
“You
can’t back out of a deal, Griss.”
“We’ll
see,” Grissom signed.
“You’re
going to do that through the whole meal, aren’t you?” At Grissom’s nod, Nick leaned back in his
seat with a sigh. “I know there had to be
a drawback.”
Lesson
Ten: Team Society
He liked
working with Sara best of all.
Catherine
had the charm of being mature, and she understood him. One of his oldest friends, and one of the few
people he had let into his life without reservation. He never felt nervous around Catherine. Warrick, his chosen successor, rarely lost
his cool and looked eternally comfortable in his own skin and his own
situations, and Nick, for all his naiveté, worked hard and had a knack for
seeing into people. He would have been
glad to work with any of them, on any occasion.
He was comfortable around them - - they were a kind of surrogate family,
rough and well-worn, easy to slip into.
He was
not comfortable around Sara, not consistently.
When he was around Sara, he was too aware of her presence. He felt awkward, like a kid rehearsing in a
play, liable to forget his lines or miss his cues. But he still looked forward to the times they
worked together. Sometimes he thought
Nick was right after all, about people flocking to bright lights the same as
birds. Except Grissom had been untouched
by Vegas - - Sara was the only bright light in his presence.
There
were policies, and there were rules, and there were emotions, and Grissom knew
it took a delicate balancing act to work between them. It took patience, skill, and courage.
Gil
Grissom had never thought of himself as a brave man. There was too much in the world that he
feared. But underneath everything, he
thought that Lady Heather had been wrong when she told him that what he most
feared was being known. What he feared
most was Sara, and the look in her eyes, and the way he thought his own might
look around her.
Sara was
his only bright light; and he was crashing into the glass window that separated
her from the rest of the world. He could
take it down, unlatch it, but he was - - afraid. He was afraid of that flame.
But he
still liked working with Sara. The
brightest lights were always beautiful, even when seen through a window.
Lesson
Eleven: Work History
(spoilers
for “Overload”)
Grissom
leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his chest. It should have just been a test run,
something to warm up the new program. He
had never expected any link at all to show up - - and when it had first
appeared, he had chuckled, expecting something minor and embarrassing, like a
traffic dispute. Something that he could
startle Nick with some time in the near future.
He had
not expected the single match to be from Dallas, Texas, in 1980. Nick would have still been a kid. Nine, he realized, counting backwards in his
head. Nick would have been nine. What was it, then? Graffiti?
Some kind of minor probationary black mark?
The
software was new and it had been lent to the lab for a trial period. Supposedly, it had a database of all
registered court proceedings and police notices in the west for the last three
decades. Grissom had been skeptical at
best - - the information seemed far too large to contain, and much of it must
have slipped through the system. He had
been assured that everything that could be found was there, and all he had to
do was search for a name to see where and when that person had been involved
with any criminal activities, either perpetrator or victim.
NICHOLAS
STOKES, he’d typed. It should have just
been a joke.
ONE
MATCH: DALLAS, TEXAS. APRIL 17, 1980.
Any other
location, and he would have dismissed it without even checking the link
first. Stokes was hardly an uncommon
name. But a Nick Stokes, in Dallas? He clicked on the link and received a terse
and thoroughly unmerciful summary:
REPORT
SENT BY ST. THERESA’S MEDICAL CENTER TO DALLAS POLICE
(No
formal charges filed.)
Test:
Sexual Assault/Rape
Subject:
Nicholas Daniel Stokes
Requested
by: Paul and Natalie Stokes
Administered
by: Kyle Anderson
Results:
Positive
Additional
Notes: As Stokes is a minor, this report is required, though the parents say
they will not be pressing charges. Tests
for semen, negative. Test for vaginal
secretions, positive. Mother tests clean
for recent sexual activity, so no cause to file parental abuse.
DATA
SENT: APRIL 17, 1980
DATA
RECEIVED: APRIL 19, 1980
Grissom read
it twice, and then a third time, his eyes scanning over the short words,
disbelieving them, not comprehending them, though he had always comprehended
Latin and science terms quickly. These,
though, simple and horrible, took time before sinking in his mind - - they
settled instead on the surface.
Nick. Rape kit.
Positive.
And then,
angrily, his mind fixed on the number: nine.
It chanted in his head
(nine-nine-nine-nine-nine)
and
didn’t disappear, even when he closed his eyes against the glowing screen and
clicked the program off, suddenly no longer curious about what it had to offer.
There was
a tiny knock on his doorframe, and a sudden electronic outburst of “Take Me to
the River.” Grissom’s head jerked and he
saw Nick standing there, inquisitive.
The layers of him seemed to peel back away, and Grissom wondered what
Nick had looked like, at nine. How his
hair had been cut. Whether he had been
scared when his parents took him to the hospital - -
His
stomach clenched, churned. Nick was
there for a reason, but Grissom couldn’t remember what it was now. His mind scaled backwards - - paging Nick,
killing time by playing with the software, and then, shutdown.
“Grissom? You okay?”
Such a
good question.
“I’m
fine, Nick,” he said. “I was musing.” He seized on a fabrication of idea, one with
the blurry semblance of hope stamped on it.
“You know, the annual softball game is coming up. Grave versus day.”
Nick
mimed a swing. “Yeah, I’ve been
practicing.”
“Well,
I’m trying to gather a list of expected attendants. Are your parents going to come in?”
Nick
laughed. “For a softball game? No, man - - they’re coming up for Easter, and
then I migrate south for Christmas.
Usual schedule.”
“Right.” Grissom had met Nick’s parents once and liked
them, but with the sudden weight of extra knowledge pressing down on his
shoulders, he was no longer sure. (The
parents say they will not be pressing charges.)
“I’m sorry, it’s slipped my mind.
Your parents, what are their names again?”
“Paul and
Natalie.” Nick’s brow furrowed. “Are you SURE you’re all right?”
No.
“Yes,” he
signed. The familiar motion seemed to
calm Nick down - - they hadn’t had a whole conversation in sign language since
the first day Grissom had found out about Nick’s lessons, but occasionally they
would make a few motions. It was
beginning to have a soothing effect on him, a reminder that things were
okay. “I just - -“ In a flash of thankful memory, he recalled
why he had paged Nick in the first place.
“I wanted to tell you that the suspect in your robbery confessed.”
“The
clerk?”
“The
clerk,” Grissom confirmed with a false, congratulatory smile. “Good work, Nicky.”
Nick
grinned. “Guy was guilty as sin. Evidence would have proved it anyway. Now I’ve just got to do the follow-up work.”
Grissom
smiled again, but he wasn’t sure what to say.
There was only one thing he really wanted to talk about with Nick, and
he understood that it was the one subject that couldn’t be broached. Whatever secrets Nick kept about himself, he
kept well enough. Sign language lessons
had been one thing. Finding out about
those had been a pleasure. But he
wouldn’t - - couldn’t - - broach the topic of 1980 and nine-year-old boys with
Nick now. Not when Nick looked pleased
at a job well-done. No . . . not ever.
“It
shouldn’t be a problem,” Grissom said.
“Take care of it tomorrow.”
“But - -“
“The
shift’s almost up, and you’re almost as maxed-out on overtime as Sara. Save it for a case where you really need it,
not follow-up work on a solved robbery.”
Nick
sighed, and flipped a sign at him.
“Fine, fine.”
“That’s
right,” he signed back.
Nick
started to leave but paused in the doorway.
“That software they sent you - - the legal database? You tried it out yet? Warrick said it sounds great.”
“It
didn’t work,” Grissom lied, his mouth a hard, white line.
“I’m
sorry. Would’ve been helpful.”
More help
than he needed.
Lesson
Twelve: Tearing Down the Barrier
(spoilers
for “Play With Fire”)
When he signed
into the hospital room, Greg was still sleeping, curled up on his side. Grissom wasn’t sure if he could properly say
that Greg’s hair was mussed or not, because it looked how it usually did. He thanked the nurse and settled into the
single chair at the bedside, expecting her to depart, but instead she stood at
the foot of the bed, arms crossed, directing a fond look at her sleeping
patient.
“When he
wakes up, I’d watch out,” she said.
“He’s a hellion.”
Grissom
smiled. “He’s troubling you?”
“Won’t
take his medicine, won’t accept the fact that he can’t get up yet, won’t stay
still . . . Are you family? Maybe you could calm him down a little.”
“Friend,”
Grissom said. “But I’ll try.”
“He’s a
good kid?”
Grissom
mentally reminded himself to tell Greg that he was perceived by the hospital to
be a spastic, energy-wracked child, before saying, “One of the best. But I’m sorry if he’s causing problems. I don’t think he likes hospitals very much.”
“So I’ve
heard, and often.” Her smile was sweet
and friendly. “He ought to wake up
soon. We gave him some sedatives last
night, but they’ll wear off by now.
Excuse me.” She brushed out into
the hallway, leaving Grissom alone with Greg.
He took
the time to survey his lab tech’s appearance.
There was no doubt that the burns were mending underneath the gauze, but
it was hard to tell. Still, the numerous
times he’d called the hospital to check on Greg’s condition had reassured him
of one thing - - Greg was going to get better.
He would be fine.
None of
that had been in his head when he followed the stretcher out of the lab.
“Greggo,”
he said quietly, “what am I going to do with you?”
A mumbled
reply, slightly muffled, reached his ears.
“Not talk to me when I look unconscious?” Greg turned his head around so that his mouth
wasn’t buried in the pillow, and offered a weak smile. “Grissom, you’ve got to get me out of
here. I’m climbing the walls.”
“From
what I’ve heard, you’d like to.”
“Oh,
no. You’ve been talking to Tricia.”
“If she’s
your nurse, than yes. Greg, I’m
obligated to tell you that if you don’t sit still, take your medicine, and get
better, I’m liable to cancel the order for the ice cream cake I have for when
you come back.”
Greg
licked his lips. “You’re buying me ice
cream cake?”
“Not if
you don’t stop annoying the doctors.”
“Why
not? They seem to find it
endearing.” Greg stretched, rubbing the
back of his neck. He considered
something, nibbling at his lower lip.
“What flavor ice cream cake?”
“Chocolate
cake, vanilla ice cream.”
“Make it
chocolate cake, mint-chocolate chip ice cream, and we have a deal.”
“Deal.”
They
shook on it, Grissom being careful not to pressure Greg’s hand. It seemed - - shaky.
“You know
what really, REALLY sucks?” Greg said darkly.
“My family’s all in San Francisco, and I don’t want to have them come in
just to take care of me or anything, but they said if I lived with someone,
they’d let me go home.”
“Really,”
Grissom said.
“Yeah.” Greg yawned, his eyes scrunching up. He mumbled something incomprehensible, then,
“Thanks for coming by, Grissom. Really.
. . nice. . . “
Then Greg
was out like a light, his eyes fluttering shut and there was the slight sound
that some would have referred to as snoring.
Grissom, feeling charitable, decided to call it “heavy breathing,” and
smoothed the rumpled sheets before going out into the hall. Tricia was waiting by the door.
“I
thought you’d be out soon,” she said.
“He really needs his rest.”
“I
know. Listen, if I could just make a few
phone calls - - I’m sure I could find several people who’d be willing to stay
with him for a few days. I think if he
could get home, he’d feel better.”
“I know
he’d like that,” Tricia said. “He keeps
going on about how he wants to get home.
Wants to get to work. Where DOES
he work?”
“He’s a
DNA technician. Works on crimes.”
“Really? A kid like him?” She grinned.
“Go figure. Is he any good?”
“He’s the
best one I ever worked with,” Grissom said sincerely, and went to make his
calls.
(So, the
question is, should there be any more “lessons?” I really liked writing them, and Grissom’s
interaction with his team is a lot of fun.
This was kind of a humor/angst blend, and did that work? I guess what I’m REALLY asking is, how did
you like them, and did you want any more?)