Summary: GC implied Gil Grissom ponders over the word.

Notes: I just realized that I haven't posted anything in nearly two weeks! But no worries; here I am with another fic. :) Hope you like it; it is a little more contemplative than the things I usually write.

Rating: PG, to be safe

Disclaimer: Things have not changed since 2005; I still do not own CSI.

--Perfection--

"It has to be perfect."

Should one sentence that is so small really be able to lead to such a long mental contemplation?

Well, I suppose it is possible, as men and women have mulled for years over such questions as "Why are we here?"

But I am not thinking about that. I am simply concentrating on the one sentence.

Or, to be more specific, the last word of said sentence.

Perfect.

Perfection. The dictionary defines the word as "being without flaw or defect." But is there really such a thing?

Some people want a "perfect" life. They want a few million dollars, a limo, an expensive house, and an attractive spouse. Then they think their life will be perfect. But it won't. There are so many people that have all that, yet they hate their life, because they want more.

Perfection is, I have decided, really more of an idea; a goal. A distant horizon that, no matter how hard you try, cannot be reached.

You do try, though. You try so hard, always convinced that it is just over the next hill. You keep going and going, avoiding all obsticles, and you can see it; you long to feel the excitement and satisfaction that comes from reaching the long awaited destination. But, as you come upon the home stretch, adrenaline pumping through your veins, you get closer and closer, until suddenly, it moves. Like a dream, it jumps a few hundred feet farther away, but you keep going, knowing that this time you will reach it. But it happens another time and another, and another, yet you keep at it. Keep running because you know that somehow, eventually, you will reach it. You go and go as long as your body lets you, until you finally drop to the ground, defeated, too exhausted to go another step. The bitter taste of failure is in your mouth, and you hate it; wishing with all your might that you could stand up and keep running. But you can't, and finally, you are forced to stay, and, if you make the most of it, be happy or at least satisfied with coming as far as you have.

And I might add, before you go labeling me as a hard cynic - which I am not -, that I do believe that everyone knows perfection.

I know that this might seem to contradict what I have said so far, but it doesn't really.

Because though I do not think that a person can actually reach perfection themselves, they can see it in other things, if they really look.

They can see it in the beauty of a sunset; in the vibrant strokes of a painting that took years to finish.

But I am more lucky than most people; I see perfection nearly every day.

It is not my job; there are definitely things I would change about that if I could.

Perfection, for me, lies in the form of a five foot six inch strawberry blonde, by the name of Catherine Willows.

Now, don't get me wrong. My love for her has not blinded me; I know that, as a human, she is not perfect. She is no where near it, in fact. But she is the perfect woman. No, scratch that. She is my perfect woman.

I see perfection in her smile, and it makes my heart warm.

I see perfection in her body, and though by some standards, it is not truly perfect, it most definitely is to me.

I hear perfection in her laugh, the melodic note infectious, and often drawing an answering smile or chuckle from whoever might be the lucky recipient of such an occurance.

Her voice is perfect, though I can not really explain why. I just love it.

I know there is perfection in her heart, though I cannot really see it. But I have come close at times. Through her eyes.

Her eyes. A lot of times, you can know a person, simply by looking into their eyes. I see perfection in hers. And not just that beautiful shade of blue. I am talking about what is there when you delve deeper; when you really truly look. It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul, and I know that most of the time, that is true. I have seen her eyes shining with love as she looked down at her newborn baby Lindsey, and I see the love amidst the frustration when they have had another fight. I know by looking into her eyes while she talks, that she really does love her mother, though the tension between them is more often than not, very high. I have seen those eyes steely blue with determination, when looking for just that one more key piece of evidence that will put some criminal behind bars for good. I have seen them burn with hatred and disgust, watching a someone shamelessly admitting to raping or killing another human being. I could go on: compassion, sympathy, curiousity, the list is endless.

So what is perfection? I suppose that is up to a person to decide for his or her self.

But as for me, I know where perfection lies, and I appreciate it.

I appreciate her.

My perfect woman.

THE END