kbcgeek

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 06:41:11 GMT

You didn't mean to do it, but like always, you were too goddamn helpless to stop yourself. Ever since Wolfowitz, haunted eyes and death has been dogging your every thought and breath. You can't get your brain to stop feeding you images about what had transpired in that basement purgatory.

Shaved bald, nude, blood and screams that you can't hear and yet you can taste every single ounce of terror.

Even the gleaming wood of the table in front of you taunts you.

The stench of death and depravity clings like a parasitic organism and you can't get clean enough.

And her tears. A mother's anguish is the hardest thing to witness; images of your mother's pain as she tries so hard not to let you hear her sobs as the casket of your father's body is lowered into the ground flash behind your eyes as you down the bourbon. It's possible that you're just a fucking masochist because you're sitting out here getting drunk while thinking about things you can't change instead of going back to bed.

Back to Sara.

Like the pathetic asshole you are, you brought her here for selfish reasons; to forget. You have Sara, naked, in your house, but you're sitting in your living room downing bourbon like it's tequila and wondering why you aren't drunk enough yet.

Who are you? And when did you become this wreck of a human being?

Her hands slide across your bare shoulders and you feel her face against your neck. "It's okay," she says, even though it really fucking isn't, "I get it."

No she doesn't, she really doesn't because you don't even get it yourself. Heather was just another woman; an attractive woman who he turned to in a moment of confusion and sheer stupidity. You weren't vulnerable, you succumbed because you were thinking with your dick instead of your head. And the morning after when you were thinking with your right head, you felt that twist of regret only because you wished you hadn't been thinking of Sara while you were screwing her senseless, hearing her moaning your name.

But now fair is fair. You used her for your own self-gratification and now the tables have turned.

Now you're using Sara because you want to forget about this whole sorry mess. But she just reminds you instead that this mess is not over yet and it won't be for a long, long time. And a part of you resents her because all you want to do is fucking forget everything until the world stops falling apart and goes back to the way it was.

You twist and pull her down into your lap. You try to lose yourself in her hair and the feel of her skin against yours. "Help me," you mutter. "I can't remember."

She understands because she just tightens her grip around you and says nothing. You can't remember why you keep doing this day in and day out, or perhaps that should be night in and night out, but you know you have to.

Sara alone isn't enough to fill that gaping hole in you. She should be, but she isn't. You know that she knows and it's why you will always hurt her, no matter what. Someday, she will find the person who she can be just enough for. You anticipate and dread this day because it's the day when you will stop existing as a person and find freedom that you haven't seen since the day you met her.

"I'm here," she whispers. "I've got you, it's okay."

It's not okay, you want to tell her. It's not fucking "okay" at all that she's not enough. But it will have to be.

You're a sorry son of a bitch, and you're helpless because you won't ever change.

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Sat, 17 Dec 2005 08:02:41 GMT

Okaaaay, I wasn't aware of people reading this. Well, more than two anyways. Thanks everyone! :) This actually started out as a creative brain-stretching exercise, but this turned into an actual fic. LOL. And for those of you curious about my CSI/Silent Hill crossover, I'm posting a short teaser at the end. But I refuse to post it anywhere until it's finished, so yeah.

Anyways, Part 6 for your reading pleasure...?

"Prints match the ones from Sara's box," announced Jacqui. "So the courier was the same guy. And there's also a partial on it that kicked out a match. And this is also positive for Grissom's prints as well."

He nodded, running a hand over his face. "Thanks. AFIS was a bust for the courier, right?"

She bobbed her head, reaching for the next item in her tray. "I checked all the databases, came up empty. Sorry Warrick. And I'm a bit backlogged; I will tell you that something about the placement of the prints is weird. It's all in the report."

Tucking the folder under his arm, he waved a goodbye before moving to find Catherine. He found her in the Layout Room, staring intently at the lone piece of evidence. It was a small statuette; the note that had accompanied it had already been sent to QD, along with several exemplars of Grissom's writing. Though they were pretty sure that Ronnie already had a good handle on his writing, it didn't hurt to be diligent.

"Jacqui says the prints are consistent with the other box, but that there's a slight...discrepancy." He reported. "She told me that she couldn't quite put her finger on it, stupid pun, but said that we should take a look at the prints again."

Catherine looked up, eyes not as bleak as they were ten minutes ago. "Then let's."

He sighs; the warmth of the sun is heavenly against his body. It's been a long time since he's been in the sun that didn't threaten to burn everything in sight. It's a pleasant, radiating type that only exists in places like this. The sand is not unbearably hot under his towel, and he plans to get a good, healthy tan.

The conversation with his uncle went well. He extended his trip another two months and he plans to visit his old college friend in Brisbane. He also plans to visit Myanmar and Tibet. There are too many places he wants to go to, but not enough time. Although he enjoys this freedom, his rational mind insists on returning to the States and find gainful employment.

He's already sent another box off to Sara. He hopes that she likes the bracelet; he knows enough about her tastes in accessories to shop for her.

Even though he tries, everytime he thinks of her, he feels that pang of bitter resentment and hurt. But the love is still there, and it drives him insane. He still drinks at night, hoping to drown that little whispering voice that urges him to go back, to go back and collapse into her arms. No. Never again will he allow such a vulnerability to be even considered a justifiable payoff.

Shakespeare was right after all. This was love.

"Sara?"

She whipped around, quickly switching the screens. "What, Greg?"

"What were you looking at?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered curtly. "What did you want?"

He dropped the issue; holding out a folder, he slid onto the empty stool, resting his chin in one hand. "Results came back from the second box. Traces of sand."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Anything useful?"

"Unfortunately, no. He couldn't identify the origin of it, so we're still at a dead end. But he says that this confirms the theory that Grissom is out of the country; none of it matched the geological samples from sands in the US." He smiled warily. "That's a good thing, right?"

"It's a start," she agreed, skimming over the report. "But knowing Grissom, he purposely let trace amounts of sand get into the box."

Greg didn't press further on why he would; he already knew the answer. And while he never believed that Grissom could be manipulative and petty that way, he certainly understood the why. At least he hadn't gone down the obsessive stalker lane; a lot of guys did that after being dumped by girls.

Why are you even thinking about this? He asked himself. Shaking his head, he offered another lukewarm smile before retreating.

She was millions of miles away anyway.

"Okay, so Grissom's prints are here," she pointed to the photo. "And the courier's are here."

"What's so wrong about them?" Nick asked. "They look fine to me."

"No, Jacqui's right. Something doesn't feel right about them," said Catherine, holding the box.

Warrick stared at the pictures, willing the answers to his tired mind. The case was closed; but they couldn't help but open the casefile from time to time, wondering if they would ever be able to find the answers. It was as if he was testing them, challenging them to find him when he, like a seasoned criminal, had left no evidence for them to follow.

It was a twisted game; he decided. They were up against the best criminalist in the country, and also the national authority in forensic entomology. If that wasn't a challenge, then he didn't know what was.

And from there, his answer came. "It's the hand. The width. It's not right."

He takes the camera and carefully aims. The small digital screen shows the picture and he smiles; these will make good pictures to put into the scrapbook. As much as he enjoys it, this nomadic lifestyle can't last him forever, and it's almost time for him to return to reality.

As soon as he lands back in the States, William Price will disappear. He knows this; but that persona has become a part of him now, and it's hard to let him go. William Price is a handsome, charming gentleman that plays the women, enjoys lavish meals and indulging in the simple things. Gil Grissom is a burdened, melancholy shell of a man that is too restricted by the mold cast for him by others. These two faces are like the two ends on a magnet; together and not.

But right now, he will stop thinking about that. He will continue to enjoy the company of this young woman, who giggles at his jokes and is easily flattered. It's all about the right words. He doesn't have them for her, but for this anonymous girl, he can't be wrong. And that comforts him.

But it doesn't stop him from aching for someone else instead.

They sat in the conference room. "Okay, now that we've established that the prints that Grissom planted are wrong. That's probably deliberate too, but we got a new lead."

"Jacqui found a partial print that kicked out a match from AFIS. Peter Guthrie, age twenty-four," said Nick, a small grin playing on his face. "I think we finally got a solid lead."

"Brass is already out chasing him down," said Greg.

Sara didn't smile. She knew that this was a longshot; a partial print on a box wasn't much, but in this case, it was pretty significant. But she refused to get her hopes up. Grissom had left. Left her, and she would never be able to forget that.

But you left him first, her heart whispered. I begged you no, begged you not to but you did. And this is your own doing.

"Sara?"

She looked up to find Catherine there, looking at her with concern. The guys were gone; and her blue eyes reminded her of Grissom, of the shade that they were when he laughed. Her eyes were much lighter than his, she noticed. "Yeah, I'm fine. I will be. I just..."

"Miss him. And the ring," Catherine said softly, sitting again. "We noticed. You keep rubbing your ring finger, like you expect something to be there. But it isn't."

"I do miss him," she murmured. "But I don't have anyone to blame but myself, right? I mean, I'm the one who left the ring on the dresser and told him that until he learned how to talk to me, that I wasn't coming back and he could keep it."

"He chose to walk away, Sara," Catherine pointed out, placing a hand on her arm. "And honey, it's the biggest mistake he's made. We'll bring him home, don't worry."

As Catherine left, she couldn't help but think that Grissom hadn't walked away.

How could he, when she hadn't even been there?

The sea smells wonderful. The balcony doors are open and it's an amazing view to wake up to. He wonders if buying a private resort house here will cost much. He decides to keep that in mind as he walks over to the phone. The number he dials is etched into his memory, like the face that is etched into his heart.

And when she picks up, he sighs.

"Sidle."

The caller didn't speak. She heard a soft breath in her ear and she froze. It was him; she knew that sound like she knew the texture of his lips.

"...Gil?" she whispered, her heart galloping wildly.

"Hello Sara."

And now, for the teaser.

"...-ir? Sir?"

Groaning, he tried to open his eyes; they felt heavy and hot, as if he were feverish. But a second attempt and he saw a young man leaning over him. The figure was blurry.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Speaking was difficult. So was breathing. And his head...god, it felt like a rock band was holding a live concert in there. His migraines had never been this bad before. Who...

A pair of arms came to pull him onto his feet. "Just hold here, sir. Until you're steady. I ain't going nowhere."

"Who...where am I?"

He realized that it was quite dark. Not pitch black, but fairly dark. The man was holding an old kerosene lamp; his vision was still fuzzy, but acute enough to make out the boyish face in front of him. A face that was too familiar.

"...Nick?"

The young man frowned. "No sir, my name's Nate. Nate Westmore. My pop owns this cemetery and the land around it."

"Where am I?"

"You're in Silent Hill, sir."

Happy days everyone!

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 03:23:16 GMT

For some strange reason, I'm on a roll on this fic. Here's Part 5.

She lay in her bed, eyes staring at the ceiling blankly. The shift had been a long one; two robberies and a hit-and-run had made her work a double to get as much done as possible. Trace and DNA were both backed up, which left her cases at a standstill until they got to her stuff.

The white box sat on her desk. She hadn't opened it; she didn't want to see what was in there.

Her fingers rubbed at her bare finger; she desperately wished that she had worn her ring on her vacation. Now she couldn't find it anywhere. Turning his house upside down and inside out revealed that the ring was gone.

Restless, she flipped onto her side, face burying in the pillow that he used to use when he slept over. It still held the lingering scent of him, his shampoo and her fabric softener. Tears welled up in her eyes as she clutched it, desperately wishing for his solid presence. She missed him, and how his beard tickled the back of her neck when they slept, and how warm his body was, and his hands gliding over her skin.

"Come home soon," she murmured into the room. "I miss you."

The city is spread out beneath him; it's night and he sits in his hotel room, sipping at the aged brandy and waiting for room service. His eyes are bright and there is excitement in his step. The responsibilities and burdens of his former identity is no more, and he is free to indulge in one of his treasured hobbies: travelling.

Amsterdam, Lisbon, Cambodia and Thailand are all planned stops on his trip. It will be his first trip out of the United States since he was thirty-five. And before that, his trip to Venezuela for his Ph.D dissertation have been his only ventures outside of the country. Now, now he's free to go wherever he wants.

His eyes fall back on the black leather docket, lying innocently on the bedside table. It contains credit cards, passport, plane tickets, traveller's cheques, driver's licenses...all etched in with the name of William Price. And of course, his new bag holds a second docket, his uncle has connections all over Europe, delivered to him by hand with another set, with a different name. Just in case.

Freedom comes with a price, he tells himself. And it's high time I paid it.

"Two sets of prints. One is a match to Grissom, the other is unknown," Jacqui reported, handing him the folder.

"Thanks Jacqui."

So it was real after all. Sara had brought in the box, sans content, and confirmed that it was indeed Grissom who mailed it. But the lack of a postmark was the big clue. It was hand-delivered, but by who? They had already given up hope that he was still in the state, which left the owner of the unknown prints as the courier. But what company would accept such deliveries, let alone commission them?

He wondered what had been housed in that little box. She would never talk about it and he was too polite to ask. But he gathered that whatever had been in there, it was precious, utterly private and something she didn't want to share. He was fine with that.

Sometimes, he surprised himself with the pangs of bitterness that he felt towards his mentor. How could he just get up one morning and decide to just...leave? Did they mean that little to him?

"Hey Nick. Anywhere on the prints?" Catherine asked, walking in.

He shook his head. "Nope. Just Grissom's and a set of unknowns. The box itself is pretty generic, but it has no postmark. Which means it's been hand-delivered."

She sighed. "Damn him."

Nick nodded. "Maybe this box came in another, bigger box? With a postmark?"

"That would actually help if we knew who he mailed it to for personal delivery," she replied. "Among other things."

Yet another disappointing dead end. He sighed and walked out with her, but stopped short at the break room, only to have Catherine slam into his back. "Nick! What the hell?!"

A pristine white box sat on the break room table. There was no return address, but the words Las Vegas PD Crime Lab was written on black marker. It was his writing.

"Go get Hodges. We just got another box."

He places the item in the box, slips the yellow Post-It note into it and seals it shut. He places it in the bigger box and seals that one as well. He hands it to the store clerk, rattling off instructions smoothly. She seems impressed by his fluency, and he flashes a smile before paying for it and bidding her goodbye.

There is a brief moment where he pauses, wondering if the message was inappropriate. Would it make him sound needy and pathetic, or cruel and malicious? He shakes his head and continues his walk down the street. It has been a long time since he's felt the chill of winter; the snow falls around him and he turns up the collar of his leather jacket. He is grateful for the scarf and the leather gloves, but he can feel the icy breeze blasting through his body.

He turns the corner and disappears, his footsteps slowly filled in by the ever-falling snow.

Sara stared at the note, feeling a mix of elation and hurt. A month of searching databases and every resource at her disposal to find him and bring him home had been for nothing. Until this landed at her front door.

She clutched the small statuette in her hand, brown eyes scanning the note over and over again. Wishing there was an address or a number she could call; she wanted to tell him, beg him to come home.

I thought of you when I saw this. I love you.

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Wed, 14 Dec 2005 01:02:06 GMT

I totally shouldn't keep writing this because, yeah, I'm also working on a CSI/Silent Hill crossover. o_O

On that note, I'm going to keep writing that one too. After this. Yes.

He smiles at the waitress, who flirts right back and smiles at him sultrily. He takes a long pull of bourbon, patient. It wouldn't be too long; he has contacts all over the law enforcement circle, even the ones that extend to the other side. Ironically enough, a small link to his uncle that nobody ever mentioned in his childhood.

"It's been a long time, Gil."

He puts the glass down and shakes the wrinkled, but strong hand. "Twelve years."

She climbed into the car. She needed to see with her own eyes, that he was gone, truly and wouldn't return. Her knuckles were white; the leather of the wheel beginning to warm and stick to her hands. But nothing mattered; everything was going wrong. I'm trapped in a nightmare, she thought dazedly. Only I'm so wide awake that this can't be anything but real.

Groping in her glove compartment, she pulled out her cell phone. She plugged in the charger and started driving, heading towards his townhouse.

This was real.

"She tore outta here like a bat from hell," said Nick, falling into the seat with a loud 'whump'. "Cath, there's nothing. Nothing."

"So what do we do now?" Greg asked. "He's gone, all leads are dead ends, there's no evidence of a crime. He's already been recorded as a missing person. What else can we do?"

They exchanged glances, curious and unsure. He was right; without any more avenues to investigate, there was nothing else left. The case, god he was reduced to a case now, was closed. The report showed that Grissom had walked away from his life voluntarily, and that there was no evidence of a crime being committed. It would be read, signed, filed away and the evidence collected would go into cold storage for a year, until moved to the disposal warehouse across town.

None of this felt real. She wasn't investigating the case of her missing friend and co-worker. And Nick, Greg and Warrick weren't investigating their missing mentor and pseudo-father. And Sara wasn't coping with the disappearance of her apparent fiancee.

"She wasn't wearing her ring," Warrick said suddenly. "Sara's fingers were bare. No ring."

Greg stared at him. "Well, maybe she wears on a chain? Or it's at her apartment. I mean, we didn't know, so obviously she wouldn't be wearing it."

"I think...I think there's something deeper than that," Nick said slowly, his eyes dark. "Something tells me that she doesn't have the ring, and that's what she went to find."

Catherine's eyes widened. "The neighbour said that he heard a huge fight. A male and female voice. A week before. The female stormed out and never came back."

"Oh shit."

He hands the keys over to him, taking the black leather docket. "See you in a month."

The cab is already waiting outside; he waves and slips into the car, sliding his sunglasses on to protect them from the early morning sun. "Airport, please."

His black SUV pulls out of the parking lot behind him; it goes in the opposite direction and his shoulders slump as the tension leaves his body. He's leaving behind a trail of dead ends. Everything's been arranged; his uncle will let his son-in-law borrow it for two weeks and then stash it in a parking garage where he'll pick it up when he gets back.

Or maybe he might sell it. Nothing's set in stone yet, and that thought exhilarates him. He has freedom, he has choices. He is flexible; able to take on any identity he wishes.

He pays the driver, tips him for not taking his photograph on entering the vehicle and enters the airport. He's been here before, so he quickly bypasses luggage check-in, and at the gates he hands over his ticket. The flight attendant, not stewardess, smiles at him as he trots onto the ramp, into the plane and slides into his seat. First-class.

The sun glares at him, but he closes his eyes and pulls down the windowshade. There is no beauty.

She sliced through the seal, walked in and felt her heart stop.

For inexplicable reasons, she expected chaos. She pictured broken dishes, disarray, papers strewn everywhere. But there was nothing. No indication of a crime occuring. The house looked like it always did; neat and organized. There was a magazine on the couch, his jacket draped over the back of it, and the remote on the coffee table as if he'd carelessly tossed it like he always did.

She quickly ran into the bedroom, and her heart clenched. The bed was painstakingly made; his blue robe was still hanging on the hook on his closet door, and the razor and shaving cream in the cabinet was still there. The house looked like it always did, and she believed that any minute now, he'd come walking in, toeing his shoes off and ambling into the room.

But he wouldn't. Because he wasn't here. And he was never coming back.

His spare kit was still sitting in the hall closet. His primary was sitting in the back of his Denali.

This was painfully real.

Gil Grissom was gone and he was never, ever coming home again.

Her breaths sounded harsh to her own ears. But she could barely hear it over the roar of her pounding heartbeat; she wanted him to come home, not a lingering voice on her voicemail from a week ago. Her phone had shown that she had one missed call.

"Sara, I'm...I'm sorry. You were right, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, sweetheart. You must be busy, so I'll call you again. I'll be waiting when you get back, Sara. And I promise we'll talk. I love you."

"You said you'd be waiting," she whispered, her voice cracking. "So why aren't you here?"

A package is delivered to Sara.

There is no return address or postmark.

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Mon, 12 Dec 2005 06:33:42 GMT

Part 3. I'm on a roll, don't ask. LOL.

He stood in the layout room, staring at the remains of at least five photos in front of him. With Greg's help, he had meticulously put them back together, painting a bittersweet picture of what seemed to be love.

The first photo was definitely a candid; Sara was slumped over on the couch, sleeping in one of Grissom's shirts. The second was mostly destroyed, but he could make out a clear horizon in it. The third was totally destroyed and so was the fourth, but the fifth one had survived mostly intact. Grissom was wearing a tuxedo, and Sara wore a deep burgundy evening dress. She had one arm linked with his, the other smoothing over the lapels of his jacket; the diamond ring on her finger couldn't compete with the brightness of her smile.

When had this happened? And right under their noses, how could they have missed it?

His fingers drum on the steering wheel. He is unsure; should he stop here for the night or keep moving?

Fatigue has been dogging him for several hours now. That makes his decision. He gets out of the car and walks into the small motel. Before the clerk can ask, he says, "One room." He gives him a meaningful look and slides the cash across the counter. Money has silenced yet another moron; the young man hands him a key and smirks. His eyes scan the ceilings and corners for security cameras. Finding none, he quickly makes his way to his rented room and shuts the door behind him.

Thinking, he decides, can wait. He wants to close his eyes and sleep.

He hopes that he won't dream of her.

But he knows he will, and closes his eyes anyway.

"In this picture, no ring. In this last one, ring. How long has this been going on?" he asked.

Nobody answered him and he nodded to himself. At least he wasn't the only one who didn't know; it was typical of those two to keep their relationship so discreet.

"These two were totally destroyed, just little scraps. But this second one shows a horizon, a bit of their faces and that's it. No visible landmarks. Maybe out in Lake Tahoe or Mead?" Warrick nodded as his eyes studied the picture.

They look so damn happy, he thought, shaking his head. What happened?

"Hey, guys."

He froze, terrified.

He stretches. The shower had refreshed him; his sore muscles are no longer protesting so loudly and he's ready to get back on the road. His sleep had been dreamless; a small mercy that he wholly welcomed. But he doesn't think about that anymore, it's depressing and makes him angry for some inexplicable reason. So he ignores it and checks out, climbing into his car and sticking the key into the ignition.

When he can see the motel in his rearview mirror, he laughs. He's miles away from home and it feels fantastic. Nothing is holding him down and for the first time in his life, it doesn't scare the shit out of him. He has no responsibilities, no expectations, no battles to fight. He's been fighting all his life and now that he doesn't have to, it feels liberating.

Though he can't quite remember when he began to dislike his work, this is a break that he knows he needs. He tried living for someone else and it didn't work, so now he wants to try living for himself. After all, it can't be as painful, right?

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of red Marlboros, a purchase made on a whim on the way. He taps one out and lights it; the acrid smoke burns and settles in his lungs.

As the smoke leaves his lips and blows into the wind, he wonders if anyone is looking for him.

But he keeps driving.

"Uh, Sara? What, what are you doing here? I thought you were on vacation?" he stuttered, heart pounding madly in his chest.

Shit. Warrick looked as panicked as he could and Greg had already beat a hasty retreat, leaving him alone to field all the questions. He knew that she was coming back, but according to the paperwork, they were supposed to have four more days to come up with some answers. But life was unpredictable that way.

Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the evidence and flashed. "Where did you get those?!" she demanded, moving towards him.

He moved in front of her, grabbing her shoulders gently. "Listen..."

"How did you get them?" she asked, looking angry. "Those are private, Nick! And who gave you access to my apartment!"

"These aren't from your apartment, Sara," Warrick spoke up.

She spun to face him, eyes dangerously dark. But she turned back, staring at him straight in the eye. "Where's Grissom? And why were you in his house?!"

He was pretty sure that she asked a question, and that he was supposed to give an answer, but his ears weren't working properly. Had she just asked where Grissom was?

"He's, he's not here Sara. He's missing."

She stared at him, hearing the words but unable to process them. "Wha-what? Missing? When?"

Warrick stepped next to Nick, shielding her from the other pictures on the table. She wanted to see what they were hiding from her, needed to know why they were being like this. Warrick sighed. "About four days now."

"You didn't call?" she asked, feeling her hands shake. This wasn't happening. He wasn't missing.

Shouldering past them, her eyes landed on the five photos on the table. Well, more like two and three quarters of photos. Her fingers traced over the first one. She didn't know that he had taken a picture; that shirt was one of her favourites. It brought out his eyes. She remembered the day clearly. It had been after a hard case, and she had forgotten a change of clothes. She remembered curling into his arms and crying herself to sleep, his hands on her body and waking up with his scent in her nose.

"We watched a documentary that day," she mumbled. "I took a shower and he let me borrow his shirt. I fell asleep."

Was this really happening?

Nick's bleak and sympathetic eyes told her 'yes'.

And her heart crumbled.

There is a payphone up ahead. On this lonely stretch of nothingness, there's a payphone. Providence, he supposes, and stops by it. He climbs out and picks it up.

"I'd like to place a collect call, please."

"Who took him? When?" she asked.

Warrick and Nick traded looks. There was no way that they would get out of this encounter alive. Nick squared his shoulders, looked into her eyes and said, "Nobody. He, he left. On his own. During the day."

"No," she blurted out. Denial was so easy, so terribly easy. "He wouldn't. He'd never."

"He did Sara," Warrick insisted, grimacing in sympathy.

Nick had lied to her once. Something stupid, but he had lied to her. Warrick had never lied to her, not once. Just like Grissom.

She ran.

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Sun, 11 Dec 2005 08:48:28 GMT

Part 2

There was definitely a sense of deja vu nipping at her. She was sitting with Nick, Greg, Warrick and Brass at the conference table, papers and folders spread out. They each held a carton of Chinese food; it was cheap and filling, and it would tide them over through their double.

"Okay, updates?"

Brass nodded at his paper. "Ran tracers on his credit cards, bank account, got zilch. He hasn't used it in the last 72 hours. But, his bank account has been closed. Close to one and a half million pulled out and gone."

Greg whistled. "Man, that's some serious dough."

"All in cash too," he added, "which explains the lack of credit activity."

"Talked to the other neighbours. The neighbour on the other side also heard the crash, but this guy also said that about a week ago, he heard a huge fight. A male and female voice, and the female stormed out. He didn't see her come back," said Nick.

Warrick frowned. "That explains the hairbrush on the bedroom nightstand."

Nick shook his head. "But we checked out the rest of the house. Cath checked the bathroom, no woman was living there. No sign of it at all."

"Maybe she did come back," said Greg. "While he was gone, she went and got all her stuff out of his place. Sort of like an, 'in your face' sort of thing..." he trailed off at the deadly look from Nick and Catherine.

Tensions were flaring; nothing was making sense. The kidnapper, or abductor, had about sixty hours on them. But there wasn't even any evidence to suggest that this was a kidnapping. The pieces were falling haphazardly; none of it made any sense. How could a man just wake up and disappear into nothingness? And how could they explain it, let alone prove it?

"Maybe she took him?" Greg suggested, looking hesitant. "Maybe she wanted to get back at him, for revenge or something."

"Why haven't we got the report yet anyways?" Warrick asked. "It's been over three hours."

"Wendy says she's got a backlog, but I paged her right before the food got here and said she was--" Wendy walked in, looking somber as she handed the folder to Nick.

"I got a match."

They all peered at the folder.

MATCH FOUND -- COMPLIANCE -- SIDLE, SARA

"How can I help you?"

"I'd like to buy a car."

"Do you have a model in mind?"

"An SUV. Black, all features, leather interior, tinted windows. And, I'd like to ask a favour."

She stares at him, wary. He places the briefcase on the desk, and discreetly flashes the money at her. "My name is William Price. That is the name that will go on the vehicle registration."

She nods and begins to fill out the papers. He sits back and waits. It's amazing, he thinks, the sheer power of money. What he's doing is illegal, but for some reason, he doesn't care. Passenger manifests can be acquired through a warrant; he'd be busted in a heartbeat. But this buys him more time. This woman knows his name is not William Price, but he's paying her an extra ten grand to make sure she doesn't ask any questions. His back is facing the cameras; checkmate.

"I just need your signature here Mr. Price," his pseudonym rolls off her tongue smoothly and he smiles.

They stared at each other dumbly.

"This explains everything," Warrick murmurs.

"No, it doesn't," Catherine replied. "It doesn't explain why he left. Besides, she hasn't even been here for the past week."

"Exactly!" Nick says, slamming a fist onto the table. "She left on a two-week vacation. Out of nowhere. But not really. The neighbour said he heard voices arguing. They had an argument; she leaves, he leaves."

She wanted to deny it. But the truth was there, laughing into her face and she couldn't deny it. The pieces were in place, but some were still missing. The picture wasn't complete yet and she would prove them wrong. She had to. But they were staring at her, eyes bleak and she knew that the same look was in her eyes. They didn't want to believe either, but it was the only possible conclusion.

"Let's go back to his place. We should be able to find something that backs up this theory," she says, standing up.

They follow, eager to refute it.

She wonders if he'll like the new dress she bought.

Her vacation lasts for four more days, but she decided to come home early to surprise him. She tried calling him several times, but she had only gotten his voicemail.

She didn't like the way she left; she never meant to say those things. But he hurt her too, and while she wants to rationalize it and say 'fair's fair' and not feel the guilt, she knows, has always known, that he is more emotionally fragile than she is.

She really is her parents' daughter; she can slice open a loved one's heart with short, economic words.

Another Sidle trait she wishes isn't genetic.

He hates the 'new car' smell. It nauseates him. So he hangs the air freshener off the rearview mirror; the engine purrs to life and he is back on the road.

The seat is comfortable and the black leather interior makes him feel as if he is cocooned in darkness. The stars are barely visible; Los Angeles is to his back and he has yet to decide on where to go. He decides to keep driving until he feels like stopping. He has nothing to lose anymore. He has enough money to buy another car, buy off another salesperson and keep moving. Maybe he should get out of the country, go see the sights in Europe or Australia.

It's been awhile since his last trip to Edinburgh.

But he can't help but feel disappointed when he glances sideways to the passenger seat, and sees an empty seat instead of her smiling, radiant face.

And that disappointment angers him.

So he turns on the radio to drown out the voices in his head.

But it doesn't shut up that little boy inside his heart, wailing at the loss of yet another loved one.

She crouched by the desk, moving her flashlight along the drawers. Pulling them open revealed papers, other writing paraphernalia and stamps.

Disappointment clenched at her stomach. Nothing.

Until the barest of glinting metal caught her eye. Latex-covered fingers probed and poked, trying to find that little glint of light. It could be nothing, her mind whispered, probably just a loose nail. Hope was cruel that way. Anticipation made her heart pound; where was that damn thing?

Something clicked, and she tugged at the bottom-most drawer; it jerked open with the sound of wood dragging on wood.

"Oh, Gil," she sobbed.

Greg found her and peered over her shaking shoulders. And sighed.

"We found it guys," he called.

They all congregated around her, hearts and stomachs churning with guilt, unease and pain.

Handfuls of torn, charred scraps of papers, no, of photos, lay inside. Of a shyly smiling bearded man and a brunette with a gap-toothed grin that shone brighter than the innocent diamond on her ring finger.

CSI - NP - Walk the Line

Fri, 02 Dec 2005 16:57:37 GMT

Haven't seen the movie. I want to so badly zomg.

They stood on the pavement, mindlessly staring at the wide open door in front of them. The bright yellow crime scene tape mocked them, snickered heartlessly; it was too late. They weren't fast enough, weren't smart enough. Their jobs always began when it was too late. The crime had already been committed.

"Who called it in?"

Brass cleared his throat, his gaze locked with the innocuous strip of yellow in front of the door. "Neighbour. Said that he came to return a book and found the door unlocked. Said he looked around and then called the police."

Nobody moved. By this time, they would all be inside the house, pulling out fingerprint powder, flashlights, ALS and everything else to process the scene. But they held back, hesitant; something about this scene didn't feel right. To her, nothing felt right about the scene.

"Let's go."

Everything was untouched, pristine. A shrine to a life abandoned, a life that had simply vanished. Keys on the counter, briefcase by the coffee table, dishes still in the sink; it was as if he would return, a puzzled frown and a pointed question about what they were doing at his front door. But she knew that he wouldn't be coming back and that this house would never be a home again.

Careful steps led her to his office door. She peeked in and found the desk in a state that she had seen all-too-often; cluttered with papers, folders and other knickknacks, a whiteboard on the wall was covered with mathematical equations, and an innocuous laptop sat in the middle of the minefield on the desk. An adjoining door led to a bathroom. Convenient, she thought, and moved further down the short hall.

The white door was closed, but she had a pretty good idea of what lay behind it. The inner sanctum; his bedroom. Though she didn't have any qualms about going into a man's bedroom, she paused outside the door, hesitation nipping at her heels again. She jerked as a heavy hand settled on her shoulder. She turned around to find Warrick standing there, a sympathetic grimace on his face. "I'll do it."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks," she said, backing away and moving back into the main room.

"No signs of forced entry," Greg said. "And no prints on the doorknob, frame or the door itself at the back."

She sighed. "Anything in here?"

Nick shook his head. "Not really. It doesn't look as if anything's been disturbed. Whoever it was knew exactly where to go."

That sickened her. "Any blood traces?" She asked and received two negative answers. Warrick re-entered the room, holding a single bag containing a handgun. "Other than this and a hairbrush, nothing probative in the bedroom."

"All right. Let's get back to the lab. There's nothing here; the most we can do is talk to the neighbour and try to retrace his steps from the last 72 hours."

Disheartened and frustrated, the four of them walked out of the townhouse, never looking back as an officer sealed the front door shut, the damning crime scene tape flapping in the mid-morning wind.

He climbs out of bed and stumbles into the shower. It's another day, well, another night. Another goddamn night of dealing with questions and trying to hide the fact that he's been drinking a bit too much. He caught his hands shaking the other day, and he curses himself for becoming so dependant, again. He wonders why he even bothers.

The shower goes a long way in clearing up the fuzzy pounding sensation in his head. When he gets out and wraps the towel around his waist, he realizes that the dark circles under his eyes have mostly disappeared. Which is good; there would be less questions asked if he looked well-rested. Though he doubts that being rendered unconscious due to the bottles of whiskey ingested counts as being "rested".

A flash of red catches his eye. He looks down and finds a toothbrush on the sink. And immediately the rage fills him. The image reflected back at him is unbearable; it's a damnation, a fucking curse to have to live with himself. Before he can stop himself, his fist rockets forward and shatters the glass, splinters of sound assaulting his ears as the shards of glass cut into his flesh. Red smears on the mirror, red beneath him, and the fractured pieces of his soul stare back at him.

He's had enough.

"Okay, so according to the neighbour, three days ago, he borrowed a book from him at around 7PM; he says he got a call on his cell phone right before he went over, and the phone records corroborate his story. He also remembers seeing him leave at his usual time, and his son remembers talking to him before leaving for school."

"His son?" said Greg, munching on a chip.

Catherine nodded. "His son, Jason Gable, goes to St. Inez Catholic School. Seventh grade. He said that he remembers waiting with him for the bus."

"How...neighbourly of him," Nick muttered not unkindly. They shared a brief grin before settling back into cool professionalism.

"The neighbour, Mr. Jacob Gable, said that he remembers the sound of something breaking two days ago. But he thought that it was probably a dish dropping, so he didn't think much of it. That's all we got from him."

It still wasn't much. There was nothing to suggest that this was a crime. Perhaps he was just missing, gone for a long trip and forgot to call. But her gut, and apparently everyone else's, said that this was indeed a crime and they had to catch the bastard. Or bitch. Or both.

The mirror is whole again. Too bad he can't say the same for himself.

He checks the room, making sure that everything is in its place.

He shuts the door behind him, hunches his shoulders and begins to walk.

Down the stairs, past the gate, onto the sidewalk and into the night.

Walking the line into oblivion.

CSI - GS - Sanctuary

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 03:48:53 GMT

WANTED: New icon muse.

Oh, and some goddamn time to make said icons. *cries*

There was a certain threshold that she rarely crossed. Her mind could only take so much before it caved, leaving her to bear the brunt of the darkness in the world. The same darkness she thrived in day after day, putting one criminal after another into jail. Though she liked to think on the hardest of days that what she did was start the step towards healing for those who were left behind.

But sometimes, when she crossed that line between hanging on into falling, she knew that she was in for a restless sleep, haunted by nightmares, memories and what ifs.

For the longest time, she had desperately tried to find sanctuary. A place where she could just fall asleep and wake up refreshed instead of feeling like she had been run over by a Mack truck. And several times, she had found temporary havens; illusory comfort in the arms of a man named Hank, at the bottom of a bottle, in precious memories of an ice rink, a decomposing pig.

She was tired. It stung her pride to admit it, but she was tired. So tired.

She wanted someone to hold her and take away the pain, to protect her from the darkness that constantly threatened to overwhelm her. Nobody had protected her from the world, from the violence that viciously destroyed her childhood hopes and dreams. But she still sought it, like the lost little girl she really was inside. Memories of blood, of her mother's broken teeth, of her father's breath reeking of cheap alcohol, of moving from home to home, passed around like a cheap party favour.

Two arms came around her; she started, pushing against the embrace. But the owners of the said arms were insistent, tucking her head gently into the crook of his shoulder and neck, and she sagged as she inhaled his clean, male scent, realizing at once who it was. Her arms went to wrap around him, but he trapped them against him and she felt his lips find the crown of her head in a kiss. She wanted to say something, but he must have sensed it; he shushed her and sat them down on the couch, cradling her in his strong arms. She burrowed deeper in them, wanting to crawl beneath his skin and fall asleep, hugging his heart to her, like the beloved stuffed bear she had lost in her third foster home.

"Find sanctuary in me, Sara. And rest."

When the tears came, she did not resist.

See? He's alive this time. I'm so proud of myself.

CSI - NP - The Annual Journey

Sun, 30 Oct 2005 03:19:04 GMT

Don't ask me where this came from, because I don't really know either. I'm trying to write more to improve it. Here's to hoping that it'll be someday half-decent. And I'm going to stop killing Grissom for awhile, I think I'm more than satisfied with my passive-aggressive revenge now. :P

Every year she made a journey.

She took one week off from work, got in her car and drove. There were exactly three stops on her trip; Santa Monica, San Francisco and Boston.

Her mother was buried in Santa Monica; surrounded by the headstones of her family. This stop had been added just six years ago.

Her father was buried in San Francisco. A Catholic cemetery that was the home to most of the Sidle family members. Her grandmother and great-grandfather were also buried here. And she knew that she would have a plot here too if she hadn't already decided to be cremated. She supposed that it would have been extremely tacky and painful for her father's side of the family to allow her mother to be buried with him.

The final stop was Boston, a place that had embraced her, taught her and nurtured her for the most memorable five years of her life. This was also the final resting place of her best friend Rachel. Rachel had died from breast cancer at age twenty-three; she had been with her through the surgery, the therapy and the eventual relapse that had finally taken her life. Rachel had been her roommate, sister and confidant until her death. There wasn't a single day that hadn't gone by since that she didn't remember or think about Rachel.

She had once told Nick about her annual one-week vacation, about why she took one week every year, never more or less. He had just smiled sympathetically, hugged her and bought her another beer. Hours later, she had been arrested for a DUI. Her one-week-a-year vacation had started the day after, ironically enough. And when she came back, no-one had been the wiser.

On the days of their deaths, she always had a drink, a private toast for their souls. It was the least she could do, aside from the annual trip she made with a boquet of flowers. She spoke to them, sitting in front of the headstone, Indian-style, and telling them about the year. Of people, of cases, of life. It strengthened her will to continue on in her chosen career; it was conviction she came back with to Vegas. If he had ever noticed it, he had just simply smiled and hugged her.

But recently, she had added another stop on her macabre roadmap. This new stop was three years old, the most painful stop of all.

When that phone call had roused her from her sleep that afternoon, she remembered being cold. And then she remembered hurtling to the bathroom to vomit into the toilet. And then the crushing pain of despair, misery and fury. The phone rang again later that night; she had taken the night off because she knew she wouldn't have been able to work. She hadn't wanted to answer it, but that burning, manical desire for answers, for the truth, had spurred her to pick up that phone and listen.

To this day, she wished she hadn't. The truth had never comforted her, instead it had threatened to choke her. The truth laughed at her, mocked her and made her want to never remember.

She had demanded for a copy of the autopsy and an investigation. It still amazed her that the level of denial that she had been in during those painful days.

But she had never cried.

Not then. Or ever.

She still couldn't quite believe it, actually. Though this stop had been added three years ago, this visit would be her first. She hadn't attended the funeral. The plane ticket had come in the mail, but she had thrown herself into her job so far that by the time she got it, it had been a week too late.

A call came on the first anniversary for her to join them. She had hung up.

On the second one, she had simply refused to go.

But she knew that she couldn't put it off any longer. It was year three, and she just couldn't take more therapy. Her therapist, a man named Tyler, had told her that she had to let go, had to finally put this final ghost to rest before she could move on. He had told her that she had to accept it, accept the truth and mourn it and start living again. She had told him to fuck the five stages of grief and all that shit. She would never be able to accept it because it defied all logic.

"Sara...you said it yourself, remember? That you never really knew, and that you forced yourself to forget. So how can it go against what you know when you don't even know?"

"I lied. I never forgot."

"I figured as much. That's why you're still here, still running away."

"I'm not running from anything. I'm here because I want to be."

"You're here because you don't want to be there."

She hated it when her therapist was right. But he was right all the goddamn time.

So at his insistence, she had finally decided to make that final stop on her map. Instead of one week, it became one and a half. She started in Boston, then drove to San Francisco, Santa Monica, and with three days left in her vacation, she was finally, finally at the end of her annual sojourn of remembrance.

Las Vegas.

And she wasn't alone.

"Hi."

"Hey."

She stared at the inscription, swallowing hard as she read the dates and the short epitaph underneath it. It was a quote, an old favourite if she recalled correctly. And something more simple, personal and utterly fitting.

"It's time you came. Everyone's already been through."

"I know. I wanted to be alone."

He squeezed her shoulder briefly. "Come by after, okay? We'll talk."

"Thanks."

Staring at the tombstone, she slowly sat down in front of it, holding a pristine and never opened folder in front of her. She had no flowers, but she didn't think it'd be appropriate. She opened it and stared at the report, the photos hidden away by the sheets of papers clipped in place, telling her in no uncertain terms about the cause of death and the reason for the lack of investigation into it.

"Suicide. The COD of your death was suicide, huh. You're the last person I imagined to take your own life, you stupid selfish bastard."

It was silent. It was beautiful. And the tears welled behind her eyes, something that made her even more angry and embarrassed. "You're fucking selfish and I'm never going to forgive you. You should have never done it, you asshole. Why didn't you pick up and fucking call me!!" She screamed and her voice cracked in the air like a brittle twig.

"I'm going to come back here every year, you got me? And every year I'm going to tell you the words I never got to say to you. That you didn't let me say, and this time you're going to listen to me. Because you can't do anything else. And even though I'll never get my answers, at least I know I got to say my piece, even though it's too late. But that's your fault, and I'm going to hold it against you until I die."

She hunched over and let the tears fall, bitter and salty against her lips, falling onto the manicured grass beneath her. She was crying now, sobbing and feeling the pain like never before. And it was a welcome relief after three years of winter.

As she was leaving hours later, she did not look back.

But she swore that she could hear a soft whisper in her ear, murmuring the words closest to her heart that only he knew.

And that gave her the strength to get in the car and drive away, and to return faithfully year after year.

Gilbert Isaiah Grissom
August 17th, 1956 - September 9th, 2007

"Tomorrow we shall meet,
Death and I-
And he shall thrust his sword
Into one who is wide awake."

We will preserve your reverence for humanity and justice.

CSI - GS - Bitter End

Tue, 25 Oct 2005 15:23:23 GMT

Why do I write fics when I just get out of Psych class, really? I don't get it.

You are alone.

More alone than you've ever been in your life. Even when your father walked out on you and your mother, calling her a lying bitch and you a retarded bastard. Even more than when you discovered your fiance in bed with your best friend.

And you find a bitter, twisted sense of justice in that. You should feel like this for all the pain that she put you through, the pain that you put her through. She is the most intense woman you have ever met, and this was the most honest and painful relationship you've ever been in. So it stands to reason that the pain and the hollow feeling should be as equally intense.

You don't know what happened. You don't even know how things got this bad. You'd never imagined that you would one day end up resenting her. Ever. She was the one woman you believed in, trusted in through the best and worst of times. And now it meant nothing.

If you had ever thought that your words all those years ago would have been prophetic, you wonder if you would have still walked this path just to know the secrets of her body that only you will know. You know you've ruined her, ruined her for any man left out there, and that makes you feel absurdly, shamefully proud. You won't ever be with another woman, so why should she be allowed to be with another man?

All those things people said about divorce was true. If it wasn't amicable, it was downright nasty and ugly. She's so angry at you, furious with you because she bought into the lies. You were a lie, she tells you. All those things she believed about you; your integrity, charm, wit, were all a lie. She says she hates herself for being so gullible again, and you remain silent. What can you say in the face of truth? Denial would just make her angrier, after all.

There is a folder she always has. It is her proof, her key to get away from you, rip out your heart and force feed it back to you once and for all. You've never seen inside it and a part of you wants to know what's inside. What did you do so wrong that she would freeze you out for three months and then file divorce papers?

But you know she's lying too. She says she'll never forgive you. That she loves you. And that she doesn't know how to hate you. And that is your salvation. Because she doesn't give you a chance to lie to her again, to tell her that you love her and that you don't hate her either. Because that lost, angry little boy inside you hates her; for abandoning you in the darkness and the cold for the demons to devour. Childish maybe, but you won't forgive her either. Fair is fair, after all.

You sign the papers, give her a final bitter smirk and grab the wheels by your side. It's been over three years since you walked, the longest three years of your life. As you wheel away, your lawyer tells you to stop, that you have to negotiate the settlement; you tell him to give it all to her because everything you have belonged to the bitch anyway. You don't see the tears that run down her face and frankly, there's nothing left in you to give a shit.

Oh, and you also forgot to tell her that she's pregnant and it isn't yours.

CSI - NP - In the End

Sun, 16 Oct 2005 01:15:09 GMT

More fic thingies. It's not a fic until it's beta'd and posted. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

♥ Coke.

It was all over and for the first time in his life, he felt free.

The music was haunting. It was played on an old-fashioned organ and for some reason, it both irritated and amused him. He hadn't been in a church outside the context of work since childhood.

He didn't relish returning, but it was fitting for this occasion, he supposed.

People were filing in; the church wasn't too big, and it reminded him of the years he'd spent in Sunday school, choir, confessions and Mass, silently standing by his mother, translating when necessary, but otherwise silent. Every time the organ started to play, he had jerked; it was the only time outside of school that he could hear anything.

Special occasions such as this required a certain dress code. She looked resplendant in that dress, though he was pretty sure that if anyone really knew what he was thinking about, they'd be horrified. Musing about how her long, long legs would feel wrapped around him as he took her wasn't the kind of thing you thought about during service.

The flowers and the plants were beautiful, and he was pretty sure that he could name most, if not all of them in the arrangement.

Edelweiss, Camellia, Aloe and Borage, some Magnolias and Tea Roses. It was as if someone had brought a garden of meanings into the church, wrapped in flowers to whisper to him, taunt him of things he did not know, yet should. Frustrating, but at least he could sit and admire the lovely flowers.

She reminded him of calla lilies, christened with morning dew; beautiful and deceptive. Calla lilies were also highly poisonous and fatal if ingested. The irony of that almost, almost made him laugh out loud, but he managed a smirk and kept the thought to himself. It was true; she was a beautiful woman and everything he could ever want. But to have her would mean that something integral in him, a foundation would have to be destroyed and that frightened him. Terrified him.

It was too late now though.

Because as he listened to her words, voice strong and even despite the tears running down her face, he knew that it was all over. All over and as painful as it was, he was more than satisfied.

She called him a man of integrity, of strength, of uncompromised ethics. She talked of San Francisco, of Vegas, and history. Words about beauty, about experiments and dead pigs, of secrets little known to everyone but her, the only woman whose eyes had been able to strip him naked. She spoke about love and how much it hurt, of how much she needed it because it had been the only constant in her life for a long time.

Her words painted a picture of a man that he thought dead; the man that teased and joked, the man who once knew how to love but then somehow forgot how along the way. A man whose vision was so narrow that he had continued forward without knowing the location or destination. She made him sound like a tragic hero; tragic he was, but a hero he was not.

Gil Grissom had been many things. But never a lover, a husband or a father. And he never would be.

The city and the forensics community mourns the loss of Doctor Gil Grissom, one of the leading authorities in forensic entomology. He was brutally gunned down at a crime scene and died en route to Desert Palms Hospital. The gunman is still at large.

CSI - GS - (Untitled)

Fri, 14 Oct 2005 16:03:05 GMT

Fic thingy. Yay?

And I've been secretly falling apart...

She could taste the rain; the faint smell of ozone and the post-rainfall dampness curling her hair. She wondered if it would contaminate the scene; the amount wasn't substantial for a robbery of this size, but it was still more than enough to get a good, solid lead. Or so she hoped.

It was the rain that drew her here, to a place that her memories didn't taint, couldn't tarnish. The coppery tang of blood in her mouth and feeling the oppressive pressure of being ostracized, of standing out when all she wanted was to blend in with the crowd, be lost in the monotony. But something in her wouldn't let her do that, she would always stand out, always be a cut above the rest. And while she held a perverse sense of pride in it, she couldn't help but wish she was normal.

But what was normal, really?

Though she knew that the real reason for being here wasn't just because she could see cast-off on the walls of every house she entered and the sight of a ghost standing tall and proud, glorified and victorious over its kill. It was rather the shadow of a man that lay motionless on the floor that made her run, made her scream in technicolor and surround sound in her beautiful nightmares. Dreams were frivolous and based in fantasies (oh god gil oh fuck); her nightmares were from memory, they were real and she knew, she knew that they were real, would always be real (its okay sara baby its okay i don't know what to do about this).

She missed the desert. The emptiness, its ability to mete out death to the poor, unprepared fool, its ability to engulf lives in silence and squirrel it away until another poor miscreant stumbled upon its secret, she missed it. She envied it; she wished she was like the desert, able to exist in silence and mystery.

But here, here she didn't cry at night, didn't feel that heavy weight of loneliness and longing for a man who was like a desert, only he was encased in ice and darkness. A frozen tundra that ensured destruction, (since i met you) pain and a certain death to all but a precious, select few. Of which she was not, though God knew she had tried. Tried damn hard and failed utterly, miserably.

Failure stung.

Would he remember her, would he say her name in that low, gravelly tone that sent shivers up her spine? Would his eyes flicker, however briefly, behind the translucent diamond curtain of his eyes? Would he smile that sensual half smile that spiked estrogen levels all over the lab? Would his beard still be that delicious dichotomy of sandpaper and velvet?

She hoped so.

But why was it that everytime she closed her eyes, she dreamt of him, encased in black and red, cast-off on the walls (daddy wake up), overshadowed by a figure almost familiar (mommy? why mommy?), spattered in the same red? She classified it as a dream, because it had never happened. Her last memory of him was standing in the airport, offering her a broken smile full of resentment and wishing her the best of luck. And she had been tempted, so tempted to just slap him across the face and scream that it was his fault, all his fault and he had no right; no right to hate her and hurt her like this. He dug his grave, she told herself bitterly, he dug his grave so he should lie in it. (emotionally unavailable inappropriate validation we go to movies you were always more than just a boss to me why do you think i came to vegas)

Though she did wonder from time to time who really dug that grave in which he slumbered in.

She stared into the face of this man, a face nearly blown apart by a bullet, but a face nonetheless. The barest remains of a blue-eyed, fifty-maybe sixty-year old man lay in front of her and she wondered if this was Fate's way of twisting that knife in her heart a little more. The coroner-medical examiner was prattling on about John Doe #23 (a large caliber bullet entered under the left orbital bone, through and through at close range god his face is just gone cause of death is a gunshot wound to the face defensive wounds on his hands no id) but all she could see was shadows and red.

Everything was spinning, she could hear voices (sidle sidle sara someone get help she just collapsed hurry the fuck up) and she could taste blood in her mouth, and damn if it didn't taste like him. When she got home tonight, she would turn off that damn little light that blinked on her desk. It was probably a telemarketer anyway; who would call her? Certainly not him, anyway. It would only take a second to hit the 'Erase' button anyway; why didn't life have a button like that?

(sara can you hear me sara where the hell are the paramedics tell them to hurry up goddamit)

Shadows and red all around her, over her, in her. Darkness.

"This is Sara. I can't come to the phone right now; please leave a message after the beep."

"Hey Sara, uh, it's Greg. Um, I don't know how to say this, but since we, that's me and Nick, haven't heard from you in months, and I know I, we should have called earlier and said something, but um, there's been an accident. I'm sorry Sara. We didn't get him there on time. Uh, God this is hard, shit, um, he uh, he left you some stuff so I thought you'd like to, to uh... maybesomedaycomepickitup... yeah. You know my number. Call me back, okay? And I'm...I'm really sorry Sara. And so's Nick and Warrick and everyone else. He really did l--"

CSI - GS - Ghosts of Desperation

Thu, 08 Sep 2005 04:31:43 GMT

More fic goodness, and just because scullyseviltwin said I should. :P That and she said it'd appease her for that angsty stuff I wrote. But uh, this is even more angsty, so um, ha? o_O

Tendrils of pain flash and trickle through his brain.

In this moment, he is no longer himself, but a vague abstraction of desperation, anger and loss. A shade that just doesn't know how to let go, doesn't know how to die, not understanding that he is dead already.

By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?

"Give me the gun."

Why do they want it? It is of no value to them; but to him, it is the only thing he has left. The only thing that can help him, that can offer him the peace and rest that no one else is willing to give.

He knows that they know what a gunshot to the head, whether he eats the gun or fires it from under his chin, looks like in the aftermath. There would be blood and brain and bits of skull everywhere, there would be blowback spatter and the lifeless corpse that he will vacate. It would be fatal and nobody could save him. That's the whole point; didn't they understand that he didn't want to be saved?

"Just give me the gun. It'll be okay."

They don't know what the hell they are talking about. It wouldn't be 'okay' it would never be just 'okay'. Ever. She's a liar, a fucking liar, just like the rest of them. All he asked for was a little honesty, was that really too much? This isn't the first time women lied to him, but if he has anything to say about it, it would be the last damned time. Lying bitches, the lot of them.

"Please, give me the gun. We'll find her, you can see her again, please, give me the gun."

No, no, he wasn't going to give them the gun and he will never see her again. Good riddance; she's like them too and he would bet a year's worth of pay that she'd be here, doing the same damn thing, asking the same shit, give me the gun. No, he wasn't going to give her the fucking gun, and she knows it, so why is she asking the same fucking questions over and over?

"She's here now, she is. Here, here, she's here. Talk to her, okay? She's here."

Liar.

"Hey sweetheart."

Damn. Shit, she really is here. What the hell is she doing here, why did she come back? She isn't supposed to be here.

"You…you aren't supposed to be here."

"Well, you aren't supposed to be holding a gun to your head, either."

"Says who?" He asks sullenly. She still knows how to get under his skin, how to push his buttons and drive him straight up the wall, across the line to sobriety. Stupid, stupid girl.

"Give me the gun."

"And if I say no?"

"I'll take it from you."

Always so confident, always so sure, so damn cocky. Smirking, he unlocks the safety and cocks the hammer. The 'cli-click' of the action thunders in the small room and she isn't so confident anymore. She's sheet white, eyes wide, looking scared and frightened and pained. Serves her right, for coming back.

"Please, just, just give me the gun."

"Do you always stutter?" He'd mock her a little, toy with her, just like she'd done to him.

"No, no, I-I, just, please, give me the gun. I won't hurt you, please, I want the gun."

"You have your own, this is mine. Go play with your own." Her gun is on her hip, so why does she want his? Was she so blind? He waves with his free hand. "You have it right there. Why do you want mine?"

She blinks and steps closer. He steps back, evening out the distance between them. He doesn't want her anywhere near him, her proximity makes him boil, makes him want to throw her down on the floor and take her, rape her, make her scream out her hatred for him, mark her his and leave her there, filthy and dirty.

"Please, give me the gun."

"You step closer again and I'll take you with me. Do you want to die?"

"No, no I don't. I can't, there are people who need me. Who need you."

He scoffs. There she goes, lying again. Always lying, always. "I need you," she says, pleading with him. Damn liar. Lies, all lies. "Please?"

The metal presses harder now, and he feels a perverse pleasure as she flinches, the softest of sobs leaving her pretty lips. Yes, that's right, feel the pain and know that you're helpless. You can't do anything, you can only watch; his own thoughts make him want to laugh. Laugh at her face. He smirks again and takes another step backwards. She doesn't follow, and the gap is bigger now.

"I hope the new paint scheme will be that nice shade of red you always liked."

"I'm sorry!" she shouts, hands shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't do this, I'll go with you, please, I promise!"

"Your fucking 'sorrys' are too late. You weren't very 'sorry' when you ran into his arms, so forgive me if it's a little hard to believe you. I hope the taste of this irony goes down smooth."

"No! No, please. Don't do this. I'll tell you everything, I won't lie to you again, please, I promise, I promise, I'll be good. Please."

"Is he worth it, Debbie? He'll never be good enough for you, you stupid bitch! So why?! WHY?!!" The pressure must be hard enough to leave a good bruise, and it makes him angry and excited at the same time. Angry because it's not enough and happy because it won't be just a phantom memory. It will be real, unforgettable.

She sobs and doesn't answer. A liar who thinks she knows all, but in the end knows nothing, can't answer any of his questions, can't ever tell him why. She doesn't even know why and that makes him so angry. He wants to know, he needs to know. Otherwise, he'll go insane.

"Why what?" She's whispering, shaking, barely holding herself together. This is a first, seeing her without that arrogant, sensual composure she always had. It's a well-earned memory he'll relish.

"Why him? I loved you, loved you more and better than him! So what was it about him that you wanted so much? I gave you everything!" He pushes the barrel harder, wanting to pull the trigger, squeeze and let it all end, but no, not until he gets his answer. "Answer me!"

"I can't! I love him, I don't know why, I just do. I can't explain things like that, I don't know how. Please, please stop this."

She infuriates him; always had. Once upon a time that might have been a precursor to something more, but no longer. It just pisses him off, makes him wish she'd die. Die and leave him in peace. But no, she'd never die, would never leave him alone; she would always haunt him, awake or asleep.

This will never stop, not until something or someone gives. He knows that, and he won't give her the satisfaction of making him give, of making him surrender. He had pride, and he would never let her or anyone else do that to him again.

He's still here. He's still here but he doesn't want to be. He tired of being here, being himself because apparently, being himself isn't enough, and won't ever be. In order to be with her, he has to be somebody else, somebody younger and better looking. And since that's not possible, there is nothing else left to do. She's a lost cause, so is he, and it's all hopeless. So goddamn hopeless.

It finally dawns that she's never carried a gun before. He never remembered her having one, and he's pretty sure that she isn't the type. She's the love-peace type of girl, so why did she carry one? Was this a recent development? Did something happen in her neighbourhood? There's something about her that doesn't seem quite right, something that is bothering him.

"Why…why are you here?" He's calmer now. Calm, but still so infuriated; he has to control himself, control everything.

"Because you asked me to be here. You want me to be here, don't you?" Stupid, thinking she knows everything.

"No. No, I don't want you here. I want you dead. I want you to die." He can't control himself, god, not when she was concerned. He remembers her gasps and moans as he took her roughly in that storage closet during his break. Her nails had dug into his shoulder, his rough cheeks scratching hers as she choked on his name, choking on him and his cock. As much as she pisses him off, he has to admit that she's a damn good fuck.

More voices now; clipped, angry ones. This is a trap. He is so pissed, so incredibly pissed. "You bitch."

There is no time left. Whoever is outside, most likely cops, are calling him, telling him to come out with his hands behind his head. Fuck them. And fuck her. He isn't going to let them get him without a fight. He won't go down without leaving a lasting mark. And he has just the means to do it.

Guns are so powerful. One single shot can kill a man. He loves it. But he prefers his scalpels; they could cut so deep without much effort. But guns have their own appeal; he squeezes the trigger and there's a small explosion of red. A strangled scream and then bright lights. Someone is screaming, and he's pretty sure it isn't him or her.

Pain explodes; god, what the hell was this? There's suddenly no strength left in him, he falls to the already blood-slicked floor with a thump. His strings are cut, he has no life left. There are holes, and lots of people suddenly stampeding into the room. Who were all these people?!

She is suddenly standing over him, eyes wide and dark and wet with tears. Those eyes are sad. "Dr. Lurie, my name is Sara, not Debbie. Debbie's dead, you killed her."

Oh.

---

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

CSI - G/S - Beauty Thus Become

Tue, 30 Aug 2005 22:12:08 GMT

I was on a Tantric kick awhile back (still am, actually, but still), and then after I finished writing the first CSI fic I ever published, I was listening to the song Mourning by said band and then this thing all came together. That was one hell of a run-on sentence. Yay. Yeah, anyways, I think the fic's sort of incoherent, but really, um, woot? o_O I have nothing else to say about it.

Icons. I need to make more icons.

And Dana, why you put me in charge of running the CSI Music Video Awards, I'll never know, or why I agreed to it, but it's cool. Pimp it out, yo. LOL.

Beauty Thus Become

In the mourning I can see the sights
No wonder I could never keep you satisfied
In the mourning I can see inside
Myself and all the things that you were trying to hide
Tantric – Mourning

There was something soothing about the darkness. Ever since childhood, he had always thrived in the darkness, feeling a certain kinship with the creatures and legends of the night. His peers in grade school had always shuddered at the talk of boogeymen and monsters in the closet, but not he; many nights were spent searching for them, armed with a lamp, wondering if there were ways of calling them out.

Between his precociousness and love of bugs, he hadn’t had many friends. There was no need for them.

When his father left, he remembered his mother’s sobs in the night, forgetting that it was she who was deaf, not him. His childish logic had told him that something was wrong, that he had done something wrong to make her cry and make his father leave. To this day, he had yet to answer the question that had been burning in his mind for over forty years.

Why?

In the cover of darkness, buried beneath his blanket and pillow, he wondered why his father left. Why his mother cried, why he himself didn’t cry. When his father had been home, it had been nice; he got presents and his mother cooked his favourite; chicken casserole with rice. But one day, he left and never came back.

Perhaps that was when his love of the darkness truly began. His father had left in broad daylight, and there were no painful memories associated with the moon. The sun burned, harsh and bright in its ability to spot the smallest of flaws and expose it to the naked eye.

The moon was soothing comfort to the harshness of daylight, a salve to the first of many cuts to his soul.

When college came, he had already withdrawn from society; the town pariah, raised by a handicapped single mother, doing animal necropsies for the police department. Prowling in the morgue, becoming a shade that observed the human condition, but never quite able to practice it. It paid off: early entrance to UCLA on an academic scholarship, paving the path to freedom and knowledge.

He lost his virginity at age twenty. He had been drunk, and to this day, he couldn’t recall her name, but he did remember that she was an English junior, and pickled to the gills. At least he remembered to use a condom. He never saw her again. Yet another slice to his damaged soul.

Adulthood was mundane; he wasn’t sure whether he had ever been a ‘child’ but he knew that when he could no longer be called a ‘teen’ he was absurdly glad. He had never been young enough to be a teen, or so he believed. His internship at the LA County morgue taught him that all the monsters came out at night. Beauty did not exist during the day, but rather flourished and thrived in the darkness. Ironically enough, so did evil and violence.

But when he met her, it had been in broad daylight.

California. He had been asked to lecture at a forensics seminar at the request of an old friend of his. A forensic psychologist, specializing in violent sexual crimes, that was Tom Randall. He had asked to come and do a series of lectures and seminars on crime scene reconstruction and forensic entomology. He had readily agreed; teaching was something that he loved to do, and really, what harm could it be?

Spirited, quick and intelligent, Sara Sidle had thoroughly impressed him that day.

Hours of lingering talk over cappuccinos, coffee and scones, he honestly believed that he didn’t know the significance of ‘beauty’ until he saw her smile; the adorable, infectious gap-toothed smile that had lurched some foreign mass in his chest into motion.

It was within the illumination of a light in his darkness that he learned of beauty. The beauty that was known as Sara Sidle.

And never had he felt so inadequate, so naked and vulnerable, seeing himself for the first time as the flawed, unworthy mortal that he was deep inside. Bumbling, awkward; too inept to ever consider himself as someone she could love.

Thirty going on thirteen, it seemed. She was his antithesis; energy and life and brightness to counter, overshadow his calm, his placid hibernation that he hadn’t known about. She was life, she was beauty, and he was death and darkness.

But he had smothered it, snuffed out the golden quality that was so inherently Sara, the only thing worth protecting in this godforsaken world. She had become a different beauty, a haunting one that would bring tears to those who looked upon her. He had to take responsibility for what he had done, killing the most beautiful of lights.

“Put it down.”

“Are you going to make me?” What made her think that she could convince him?

“Yes.”

Now he was curious. “How?”

And suddenly he was staring down the barrel of her service weapon, the aim steady and true. She wouldn’t hesitate, not when everything was on the line. Her hands did not shake, and for that he was grateful. She was strong, always and forever.

He hadn’t realized how loud gunfire really was until now. He wasn’t sure who pulled the trigger, but one thing was for sure; someone was dying.

“Grissom!”

Dumbly he looked down; he was bleeding. There was a hole in his abdomen and blood was leaking from it. He hadn’t even felt it, he was so focused on her. He turned his head to look behind him and as sure as the sun rising, the suspect was also bleeding his life away, condemned to die just like he was.

She was speaking, he was pretty sure because her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. His stapedectomy had worked, so why couldn’t he hear her? This was quite peculiar. He could see other people rushing towards him, but there was nothing to be done. He would be dead in ten minutes or less.

Was she crying? He couldn’t be sure, because his vision was a bit fuzzy; maybe he should go see an optometrist.

There were hands grabbing him, trying to pull him to his feet, but it wouldn’t do anything, getting him into an ambulance. He pulled away, he wanted to stay and watch her, stare into her eyes until she was the only thing that remained in his memory. Burn everything else away but her, his salvation.

And while chaos surrounded him, he was in the eye of the storm, staring into the lovely velvet depths of her eyes, glazed with tears and fear, but she was still so damn beautiful. He reached out and marveled at the softness of her cheek. Warm and smooth as silk, creamy pale now marred with his crimson blood, transfer from his stained hands. It felt wrong, desecrating perfection with the evidence of his mortality.

She was still talking, he caught his name somewhere in her silent words but whatever else she was saying might have well been Greek; he couldn’t understand. Come to think of it, he never did.

He felt heavy, fatigued. The blood loss was the cause of that, but he also felt light. His pending death was probably what was causing that sensation; he didn’t have to fight anymore, didn’t have to live. Living was so difficult, having to put effort into providing, surviving, pursuing. Death was so easy, a welcome relief after years of living.

All of a sudden, her words penetrated the fog of silence. Her words rang in his ears now, but they did not register; he could not understand why she was speaking. The paramedics were still there, waiting and waiting. But he shook his head, vaguely waving them off. Medical assistance couldn’t help him. His life was slowly seeping away and he would cease to exist. His knees would eventually stop screaming, he was sure of it.

Reciprocity. He owed her something, something that would comfort her in the times that would come. Questions would be asked, investigations would begin and he would be leaving behind a handful of people who would never know why he didn’t fight, didn’t want to live. He would take that secret with him to his grave, and it comforted him that even in death, he would always have something that was his, only his.

He smiled at her, closing his eyes in utter bliss as her body clenched around him, arching in ecstasy, calling his given name in that husky voice. He murmured her name, falling onto her just as his arms gave out.

Sated. Complete.

17 ICONS

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 07:29:59 GMT

Uploading these while I remember. Will update progressively.

[9] CSI:LV
[4] Roswell
[4] House

CSI:LV
01. 02. 03.

04. 05. 06.

07. 08. 09.

Roswell
01. 02. 03.

04.

House M.D.
01. 02. 03.

04.

12 ICONS

Sun, 14 Aug 2005 03:36:18 GMT

Yeah, it's been awhile. LOL.

I finally started making House M.D. icons and strangely enough, I sort of got addicted to making them. :P If I had more caps, which I will soon enough, I will be making more.

Oh, and in this batch are the icons that were submitted for the sidle_stillness icon challenge. Believe me, it's been over a week and I'm still shocked. That's how stupid I am; I don't have skills. At all.

[6] CSI:LV
[5] House M.D.
[1] iharthdarth icon

CSI:LV
01. 02. 03.

04. 05. 06.

House M.D.
01. 02. 03.

04. 05.

Misc.
01.

CSI: 04 won first place in the sidle_stillness icon challenge.
CSI: 05 won mod's choice in the sidle_stillness icon challenge.

CSI - NP - Confessions

Fri, 12 Aug 2005 03:20:01 GMT

Gonna use my brand spankin' new iharthdarth icon that I made. :)

Oh, and good news! I actually won the sidle_stillness challenge! OMFG! I was like, "...I won? Is this a hallucination?!" But I went back and checked and it wasn't. LOL. I actually won. All those icons that I said sucked, didn't suck after all. They didn't suck enough to actually win.

Yay!

It had been months since he had last worked the graveyard shift, but working this particular shift was comforting. He knew what to expect, knew that this was when crime thrived, the most interesting cases falling into their laps. And most of all, the presence of a certain man had given him a sense of pride.

The same man whose absence was overwhelmingly evident right now.

He and Catherine were wrapping up a hotel murder of a wealthy businessman; she had come straight from the hospital to the scene three days ago, looking more than a little preoccupied.

He had wisely chosen to keep quiet about the smudge of mascara, no doubt from crying. He wasn't stupid nor suicidal, and the same discretion had been exercised by Warrick and even Sara. Then again, Sara was lost in her own world of pain and fear to really notice much right now. So far, every case that she had been assigned was worked with either Warrick or Greg.

Everyone in the lab and their mothers knew that bringing up the car accident was like signing your own death warrant. Especially near Catherine, who would quietly mutter obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

It was his turn to visit his mentor in the hospital. Catherine and Lindsey had sat with him, and now it was his turn. He didn't know what to expect, didn't know what to say or how to really digest the fact that Grissom's life was hanging in the balance. One stupid decision, one decision by a man to drive intoxicated had ruined their lives. Nothing would ever be the same.

He hated ties. But this was important to him; this was his only chance at getting out of Dallas, out of the influence of his parents. He loved them, he really did, but this was something that he had to do. He wanted to prove that he didn't need any help, not anymore.

When the word about an entry level CSI position available in Las Vegas, he had leapt at the chance that it offered. Which was why he was anxiously awaiting his shot at the interview. From what he had heard so far, Las Vegas was home to a big-name forensic entomologist, a Doctor Gil Grissom, one of the three senior CSIs on staff at the Criminalistics department.

"Stokes, Nicholas?"

A tall man is sitting behind the desk, and next to him stands a man dressed in black, glasses framing his eyes. Curly salt-and-pepper hair and wearing the barest of smirks. He wondered which one was Doctor Grissom; the man behind the desk gestured for him to sit. He smiled as he did so, hands clasping. God he wanted to throw up.

"I'm Andrew Connelly, and this is Gil Grissom," he said, hefting a folder. "Grissom's in charge of training rookies like you, so you'd better get to know his face real well, son."

"Call me Nick," he said, holding out a hand. Grissom took the proffered hand, shaking it. Nick noticed the firm grip and for some reason, felt strangely calm and relaxed. "Nice to meet you, Nick."

"Your hand felt like my grandfather's," he said quietly.

The drab hospital room smelled sterile, just like how it had smelled when his grandfather had passed away, lying in a bed while lung cancer slowly robbed him of his life. He had spent many days after school, sitting by his dying grandfather's bed, listening to stories about the war, about being a cop, about honour and duty and justice. Even as his strength waned, Nick had never forgotten that his grandfather's grip had been strong, firm, warm. Wrinkled and calloused; the hands of a man who had worked hard for his life.

He wondered what kind of cleaning agents they used in the hospitals. It must have been a universal constant, because every hospital he had visited, whether it was in Texas or Nevada, it always smelled the same. Associated with suffering, pain, death. He hated this smell. "Man, I was so nervous when I applied for this job. Sure, I had been a cop, but applying to the number two lab in the nation is a little different, you know? I mean, Dallas ain't nothing to sniff at but this was different. A whole new level of game. I was terrified."

Nothing had felt sweeter than when he had been told that he had beat out the other thirty-nine applicants, many more qualified than he, to become the newest addition to the Las Vegas CSI lab. Grissom had met him on his first day, handing him his badge and clapping him on the shoulder before introducing him to his new co-workers.

"I had the hots for Catherine back when I started," he chuckled, the heel of his hand coming up to swipe at his eyes. "But as luck would have it, she was already married."

The first time he had met Warrick Brown, he had felt an instant connection of friends. The black man had an easy, relaxed air about him that had made it easy to like him. They were the two newest additions to the graveyard shift, being carefully trained and prepped under Grissom's tutelage. Their first beer together, he had found out that Grissom made everyone nervous.

"Gruesome Grissom. Warrick told me that one, and Catherine laughed at me. I didn't really understand why they called you that; sure you were a little weird with your bugs and all, but I didn't really get it until that experiment with the blood, bugs, a pinata and the hockey stick. I nearly lost my lunch. Man, I never saw anything like it before."

Nearly seven, almost eight years working with this man and he wondered if what he knew of him could fit a business card. Grissom was enigmatic to the point where it was hard to tell whether he had a life outside of work. It was a sticking point with him; he knew so little about the man he had worked for and worked with for. Grissom knew about his parents, his siblings, his experiences as a cop and some of his college life.

But all he knew of Grissom was that he was born in Santa Monica, went to UCLA, was a coroner at LA County for four years before moving to Minnesota as a CSI. Oh, and that he knew sign language (courtesy of Warrick) and he raced cockroaches. It wasn't much.

"But...it's different now, you know? I'm not that rookie anymore, and I've learned a lot. Still a long road ahead, though. And I just hope you'll be there to see me at the end, yeah? You're like my father, well, better than my father, really. And, I hope that I can make you proud."

I can't write Nick's voice to save my life. *sobs*