Flood
Author: nightshade
Disclaimer: Thank goodness they don't belong to me. I'd screw up the whole thing with my limited knowledge of science and the sort.
Rating: PG-13 borderline R (language mostly, mild sex)
Pairing: [C/G]
Author's Note: Takes place before the show. It's pretty cliche.
She dropped herself onto the wet, cold stone steps that led up to Gil Grissom's townhouse. Even in the rain, Catherine Willows wore her sunglasses. She watched cars roll by, splashing through the scattered, murky puddles on the road. She cursed audibly and swore it never rained so much in Vegas. The experimental flowerpots Grissom had sitting on the windowsills overflowed with the excess water, drowning the roots and weighing down the soft petals of bright jasmines.
She checked the time on her wristwatch. She waited; she had no choice. In her utter boredom and impatience, she began humming Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks" like she always did when it rained. When it was one hundred plus degrees in the shade, she hummed "Kashmir". Today, the obvious choice was the former. The rain tapped along in its own way, providing an awkward, clumsy background beat to replace Zeppelin's driving percussion bass drum.
"If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break
If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break
When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay...."
She glanced at her watch again and shook her head. She considered leaving; she was getting cold and her clothes were sticking uncomfortably against her back. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, wondering if she really should leave or wait another five minutes.
"Screw this." She steadied herself on her feet and made her way down the stairs to the sidewalk. She should've never tried coming here. It was an omen of some sort. She shivered at the combination of rain and wind and pulled her sodden, worn jean jacket around her. It was no help, for underneath, she only wore a thin shirt.
"Catherine?"
She quit walking and whirled at the familiar voice and her name. "Jesus Christ, Gil, where the hell have you been?"
He parked the car at the curb and stepped out. She glared at him; he could tell despite the camouflage of her dark glasses. He shrugged it off and while picking out the proper key for his house, strode up the steps by two with Catherine close behind him. The door swung open with a soft creak and she brushed past him, going in first.
His townhouse was just the way anyone would've expected: orderly and strangely logical as if he had planned it out with a scientific equation beforehand. His bookshelf was lined, row after row of hard-covered books alphabetically, beginning with Agee and finishing with Woolf. The walls were decked with frames of numerous butterfly species. Otherwise, the house was actually quite plain. It wasn't necessarily plain in a bad way, just in a Grissom way.
She peeled off her jacket and he hung it on the coat hanger for her. She pulled her dripping hair away from her face and peered over the rim of her sunglasses, throwing him an odd look. "If I get sick, I'm blaming you." She teased half-heartedly.
He put the coffeepot on and turned to her again. "What's with the glasses?"
"Why? Do I look bad?"
Grissom studied the faint water rings on the kitchen's island counter. He didn't answer. She shrugged, a single fluid motion that could be traced down her spine. He stepped around the counter and stood in front of her, eyeing her with suspicion. She didn't move.
With trembling hands, he reached up and carefully removed her sunglasses to reveal her closed eyes, the left one bruised with a deep gash under the swell. He swallowed, and when he caught his breath again, he whispered, "Open your eyes."
She followed his demand and looked at him fearlessly. He dropped the glasses on the counter and walked around to stand across from her. He watched the coffee brew silently and listened to the machine gurgle and sputter while she slumped into his couch and flipped through the National Geographic that was lying on a nearby table.
Neither said anything until the coffee was made and they were, once again, standing opposite each other at the counter. He passed her a mug and she sipped it. She scowled at the bitter aftertaste and scraped her tongue against her teeth. He could never for the life of him get her coffee right - some cream and one sugar - while she always made his coffee perfect - milk and two sugars.
"Grissom, this tastes like shit." She announces as she stirs in more cream.
"Don't knock it. It's come a long way," he looked at the crumpled foil packaging, "from Kenya." He held it out to her. She snatched it from his hand and began reading it aloud.
" 'Golden Empire Kenyan Blend - As you brew this coffee you will enjoy the intense aroma of lush, ripe blackberries. These larger than average beans produce a full-bodied coffee, dry and winy, rich and lively. The flavor is richly acidic with no bitterness. This bold, balanced taste is sure to be a favorite.'"
She glanced up at him. "Seems to me you got conned." She flashed him a thousand watt smile that next-to killed him.
She raised the coffee mug to her lips and studied him over the rim of the smooth porcelain. He was wearing the blue-gray Polo shirt she had given to him two Christmases ago. The color was beginning to fade, she noted.
"You're not going back to him, are you?" He asked her cautiously.
She didn't meet his eyes. "You know I have to - "
"No, you don't."
"He's still my husband."
Grissom looked away and shook his head slightly. "I can't believe you still refer to him as that." He growled.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Isn't that the way it always is."
"You can be so fucking aggravating." She slammed down the mug, though she didn't really mean to. The contents of the cup slopped over the brim and splashed angrily on the swirling marble counter. "For god's sake, why do you have to be like this?"
"Be like what?" He asked blankly.
"Forget it, Gil." She twisted away from his intent gaze and returned to the comfort of his black leather couch.
He watched her. She didn't come to him for this. He pulled open a drawer roughly and searched for cream to tend her wounds. He knew there was more than just what he saw on her face. He just knew.
He kneeled in front of the couch and took hold of her arm, rolling up her shirt sleeve. He inwardly cursed as he saw more bruises and scratches. He tenderly applied the cream to her lesions in silence. He knew if he said anything, they would be words she didn't want to hear; there was no point in that.
She closed her eyes and allowed him to smooth lotion under her puffy left eye. When he finished, she reopened them and their eyes met for a moment, but he broke it by standing up and moving away from her. She didn't belong to him; she belonged to someone else - someone he was jealous of.
"Where's Lindsey, anyway?"
"Not at home." She replied, shaking her damp head of golden hair.
He stood next to the window and opened it. The rain dripped through and fell quietly on the hardwood floor. He exhaled loudly.
"What are you going to do, Cath?"
"Do we have to talk about this?"
"We have to sooner or later."
"Later, then."
"When?" He blurted out. His anger rose. "When I get a call from Brass telling me that you're the D.B. on Franklin Street? When Doc Robbins opens your body up in the autopsy room? When one of us has to tell your daughter that her mother's gone?"
She stood, looking him squarely in the eye, their faces inches from each other. "Fuck you." Her voice was low.
She turned on her heels and headed for the door, but before she could reach it, he grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. He felt her bicep contract under his grasp. She fought his tight grip. "Get your hands off me!" She snapped, trying to wrench away.
Before she could get a handle on the situation, his mouth collided into hers, drawing a long, forceful kiss that sucked the oxygen out of her. Grissom pulled away first. He showed her what he wanted, what happened next was going to be her decision.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she couldn't, but that was her mind. Her heart and body wanted something else that her head was condemning. She pressed her lips against his. "Gil, I can't. I can't do this." Yet even at the bleak words, her physical actions were welcoming. Her mouth never moved away from his and her hands were running up his chest, feeling every contraction of his lungs as they gasped for air. He kissed her harder, pushing his tongue into her mouth.
"Gil, stop." She half-moaned, half-pleaded. "Don't. I can't do this."
He pulled her body close into him and dared himself to make another move despite the words she spoke. He dragged his mouth down her throat and kissed the curve of her neck as he began undoing the buttons of her shirt.
She made no effort to stop him.
He undressed her and quickly undressed himself, then slammed her against the wall as if he were trying to knock a hole through to get to the bedroom. She felt herself being lift from the floor and instinctively put her legs around his waist. With his hands at her back, he carried her, stumbling to the bedroom, their lips not separating even once.
They staggered through the door and collapsed, limbs twisting together, into a stormy ocean of navy blue bed sheets. He trailed his lips down her neck to her shoulders. His tongue poked out and traced the sharp contour of her collarbone. Her spine curved up to him and he eased into her body.
*
She fought her eyes open though fatigue still weighed her lids down. She sat up and found herself next to Grissom, whose back was turned to her. He shifted in his sleep, facing her, and opened his eyes. He didn't know what to expect to happen next.
Catherine got out of bed with a thin bed sheet wrapped around her naked body. She looked back at Grissom and bit her lower lip. "I better go." She said softly.
"Please," he was nearly begging her, "don't leave."
"I have to."
"No, you don't." He shook his head. "Just stay."
"Don't make this so hard, Grissom." She turned away from him.
"Catherine, I love you."
She didn't answer.
"Did you hear me, Cath? I love you."
"You shouldn't be saying that."
"Well, I don't give a shit anymore. I love you. And I've known ever since we met that one day I'd be saying those words to you."
"This was a mistake."
"Don't say that. It wasn't."
"I shouldn't have even come here in the first place. I have a family. I'm married."
"That doesn't mean you're happy." He paused, then, "Are you happy?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
She pulled on her clothing as he watched helplessly.
"So, you're going back...." He whispered.
"Did you think a couple rounds of sex would change that?" She replied harshly.
"No." He studied the folds of the bed sheets, then looked up to meet her eyes. "Well, maybe."
THE END
Author: nightshade
Disclaimer: Thank goodness they don't belong to me. I'd screw up the whole thing with my limited knowledge of science and the sort.
Rating: PG-13 borderline R (language mostly, mild sex)
Pairing: [C/G]
Author's Note: Takes place before the show. It's pretty cliche.
She dropped herself onto the wet, cold stone steps that led up to Gil Grissom's townhouse. Even in the rain, Catherine Willows wore her sunglasses. She watched cars roll by, splashing through the scattered, murky puddles on the road. She cursed audibly and swore it never rained so much in Vegas. The experimental flowerpots Grissom had sitting on the windowsills overflowed with the excess water, drowning the roots and weighing down the soft petals of bright jasmines.
She checked the time on her wristwatch. She waited; she had no choice. In her utter boredom and impatience, she began humming Led Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks" like she always did when it rained. When it was one hundred plus degrees in the shade, she hummed "Kashmir". Today, the obvious choice was the former. The rain tapped along in its own way, providing an awkward, clumsy background beat to replace Zeppelin's driving percussion bass drum.
"If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break
If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break
When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay...."
She glanced at her watch again and shook her head. She considered leaving; she was getting cold and her clothes were sticking uncomfortably against her back. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, wondering if she really should leave or wait another five minutes.
"Screw this." She steadied herself on her feet and made her way down the stairs to the sidewalk. She should've never tried coming here. It was an omen of some sort. She shivered at the combination of rain and wind and pulled her sodden, worn jean jacket around her. It was no help, for underneath, she only wore a thin shirt.
"Catherine?"
She quit walking and whirled at the familiar voice and her name. "Jesus Christ, Gil, where the hell have you been?"
He parked the car at the curb and stepped out. She glared at him; he could tell despite the camouflage of her dark glasses. He shrugged it off and while picking out the proper key for his house, strode up the steps by two with Catherine close behind him. The door swung open with a soft creak and she brushed past him, going in first.
His townhouse was just the way anyone would've expected: orderly and strangely logical as if he had planned it out with a scientific equation beforehand. His bookshelf was lined, row after row of hard-covered books alphabetically, beginning with Agee and finishing with Woolf. The walls were decked with frames of numerous butterfly species. Otherwise, the house was actually quite plain. It wasn't necessarily plain in a bad way, just in a Grissom way.
She peeled off her jacket and he hung it on the coat hanger for her. She pulled her dripping hair away from her face and peered over the rim of her sunglasses, throwing him an odd look. "If I get sick, I'm blaming you." She teased half-heartedly.
He put the coffeepot on and turned to her again. "What's with the glasses?"
"Why? Do I look bad?"
Grissom studied the faint water rings on the kitchen's island counter. He didn't answer. She shrugged, a single fluid motion that could be traced down her spine. He stepped around the counter and stood in front of her, eyeing her with suspicion. She didn't move.
With trembling hands, he reached up and carefully removed her sunglasses to reveal her closed eyes, the left one bruised with a deep gash under the swell. He swallowed, and when he caught his breath again, he whispered, "Open your eyes."
She followed his demand and looked at him fearlessly. He dropped the glasses on the counter and walked around to stand across from her. He watched the coffee brew silently and listened to the machine gurgle and sputter while she slumped into his couch and flipped through the National Geographic that was lying on a nearby table.
Neither said anything until the coffee was made and they were, once again, standing opposite each other at the counter. He passed her a mug and she sipped it. She scowled at the bitter aftertaste and scraped her tongue against her teeth. He could never for the life of him get her coffee right - some cream and one sugar - while she always made his coffee perfect - milk and two sugars.
"Grissom, this tastes like shit." She announces as she stirs in more cream.
"Don't knock it. It's come a long way," he looked at the crumpled foil packaging, "from Kenya." He held it out to her. She snatched it from his hand and began reading it aloud.
" 'Golden Empire Kenyan Blend - As you brew this coffee you will enjoy the intense aroma of lush, ripe blackberries. These larger than average beans produce a full-bodied coffee, dry and winy, rich and lively. The flavor is richly acidic with no bitterness. This bold, balanced taste is sure to be a favorite.'"
She glanced up at him. "Seems to me you got conned." She flashed him a thousand watt smile that next-to killed him.
She raised the coffee mug to her lips and studied him over the rim of the smooth porcelain. He was wearing the blue-gray Polo shirt she had given to him two Christmases ago. The color was beginning to fade, she noted.
"You're not going back to him, are you?" He asked her cautiously.
She didn't meet his eyes. "You know I have to - "
"No, you don't."
"He's still my husband."
Grissom looked away and shook his head slightly. "I can't believe you still refer to him as that." He growled.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Isn't that the way it always is."
"You can be so fucking aggravating." She slammed down the mug, though she didn't really mean to. The contents of the cup slopped over the brim and splashed angrily on the swirling marble counter. "For god's sake, why do you have to be like this?"
"Be like what?" He asked blankly.
"Forget it, Gil." She twisted away from his intent gaze and returned to the comfort of his black leather couch.
He watched her. She didn't come to him for this. He pulled open a drawer roughly and searched for cream to tend her wounds. He knew there was more than just what he saw on her face. He just knew.
He kneeled in front of the couch and took hold of her arm, rolling up her shirt sleeve. He inwardly cursed as he saw more bruises and scratches. He tenderly applied the cream to her lesions in silence. He knew if he said anything, they would be words she didn't want to hear; there was no point in that.
She closed her eyes and allowed him to smooth lotion under her puffy left eye. When he finished, she reopened them and their eyes met for a moment, but he broke it by standing up and moving away from her. She didn't belong to him; she belonged to someone else - someone he was jealous of.
"Where's Lindsey, anyway?"
"Not at home." She replied, shaking her damp head of golden hair.
He stood next to the window and opened it. The rain dripped through and fell quietly on the hardwood floor. He exhaled loudly.
"What are you going to do, Cath?"
"Do we have to talk about this?"
"We have to sooner or later."
"Later, then."
"When?" He blurted out. His anger rose. "When I get a call from Brass telling me that you're the D.B. on Franklin Street? When Doc Robbins opens your body up in the autopsy room? When one of us has to tell your daughter that her mother's gone?"
She stood, looking him squarely in the eye, their faces inches from each other. "Fuck you." Her voice was low.
She turned on her heels and headed for the door, but before she could reach it, he grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. He felt her bicep contract under his grasp. She fought his tight grip. "Get your hands off me!" She snapped, trying to wrench away.
Before she could get a handle on the situation, his mouth collided into hers, drawing a long, forceful kiss that sucked the oxygen out of her. Grissom pulled away first. He showed her what he wanted, what happened next was going to be her decision.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she couldn't, but that was her mind. Her heart and body wanted something else that her head was condemning. She pressed her lips against his. "Gil, I can't. I can't do this." Yet even at the bleak words, her physical actions were welcoming. Her mouth never moved away from his and her hands were running up his chest, feeling every contraction of his lungs as they gasped for air. He kissed her harder, pushing his tongue into her mouth.
"Gil, stop." She half-moaned, half-pleaded. "Don't. I can't do this."
He pulled her body close into him and dared himself to make another move despite the words she spoke. He dragged his mouth down her throat and kissed the curve of her neck as he began undoing the buttons of her shirt.
She made no effort to stop him.
He undressed her and quickly undressed himself, then slammed her against the wall as if he were trying to knock a hole through to get to the bedroom. She felt herself being lift from the floor and instinctively put her legs around his waist. With his hands at her back, he carried her, stumbling to the bedroom, their lips not separating even once.
They staggered through the door and collapsed, limbs twisting together, into a stormy ocean of navy blue bed sheets. He trailed his lips down her neck to her shoulders. His tongue poked out and traced the sharp contour of her collarbone. Her spine curved up to him and he eased into her body.
*
She fought her eyes open though fatigue still weighed her lids down. She sat up and found herself next to Grissom, whose back was turned to her. He shifted in his sleep, facing her, and opened his eyes. He didn't know what to expect to happen next.
Catherine got out of bed with a thin bed sheet wrapped around her naked body. She looked back at Grissom and bit her lower lip. "I better go." She said softly.
"Please," he was nearly begging her, "don't leave."
"I have to."
"No, you don't." He shook his head. "Just stay."
"Don't make this so hard, Grissom." She turned away from him.
"Catherine, I love you."
She didn't answer.
"Did you hear me, Cath? I love you."
"You shouldn't be saying that."
"Well, I don't give a shit anymore. I love you. And I've known ever since we met that one day I'd be saying those words to you."
"This was a mistake."
"Don't say that. It wasn't."
"I shouldn't have even come here in the first place. I have a family. I'm married."
"That doesn't mean you're happy." He paused, then, "Are you happy?"
"I'm not going to answer that."
She pulled on her clothing as he watched helplessly.
"So, you're going back...." He whispered.
"Did you think a couple rounds of sex would change that?" She replied harshly.
"No." He studied the folds of the bed sheets, then looked up to meet her eyes. "Well, maybe."
THE END