Conscious About Mabon, a csi fanfic

Disclaimer: It's been a year; hopefully by now everybody knows CSI: Crime Scene Investigation does not belong to me.

Author's Note: For Mr. Hathaway, b8kworm, and the people who force me to strive and to become a better person. Suzanne, you are incredible; thank you. Always, thanks, Angie for the read through. Strangely enough, I'm beginning to think there's a motif to all this.

Summary: Although Eddie had said he controlled this dream, Grissom knew he would probably not wake until Eddie was finished. A part of Grissom was not sure he wanted to know the exact gist of their current appointment.

Rating: PG

Archives: the Graveyard, mine. Anybody else, email me. I like to go visiting.

Pairing(s): G/C

Spoiler(s): Anything after LHB that involves Eddie.

Sequel to Business On Samhain.

***** ***** *****

Title: Conscious About Mabon

Author: Laeta
Email: ladylaeta@yahoo.com

"When's she coming home?"

"It'll only take a few hours to collect evidence. After that, maybe forty-five minutes, she'll have it logged."

"And she'll come right here?"

"I believe she will."

All of Lindsey's pre-teen exasperation showed as she scowled. Grissom smirked, recognizing the expression as one of Catherine's; however, he rubbed his upper arm. Had she been here, she would have smacked him good with her spatula - just after it mixed the pot's boiling contents.

He looked Lindsey in the eye, serious.

"You know you're all she has left now, right, Lindsey?"

The girl nodded. Then whispered, "But she has you, too, doesn't she?"

And Grissom's responses limited themselves to one rather innocuous, "Of course, sweetheart. Of course."

Lindsey did not catch any deeper meanings beyond the one truth she had always known - Grissom's presence for as long as she could remember. A place of safe refuge, she associated warmth and comfort with him.

If she had to pick a room to represent him, she would have to choose a kitchen, like the kind they toiled in this Thanksgiving Day. With the lights on and the radio switched to a random station, Lindsey savored the feeling of closeness, peace. The only thing lacking was her mother who, hopefully, should be arriving in conjunction with dinner's start.

The kitchen looked as though it had self-combusted. Pots, covered dishes, enticing aromas filled every available surface - flat countertop and not. Utensils were scattered in random places; she could see salad tongs abandoned on a seat, whoever sat there would have an unwelcome surprise. Catherine grimaced when her gaze shifted to the stove, which told her at least one dish actually had exploded.

And, damn it all, who would have thought the impeccable Gil Grissom would be a willing consort in a culinary disaster?

He, currently, had an arm stretched into the oven, meat thermometer close to popping if the wafting odor was reliable. Forearm muscles flexed as he turned the small chicken - no, turkey, Catherine was not willing to eat turkey casserole until Christmas. Even from this distance, she saw the picture perfect gold of the poultry's skin and imagined it would taste just this side of heaven.

From her vantage, Lindsey stirred something on the stove and Catherine smiled. Within seconds, Grissom closed oven door and peered into Lindsey's pot. Lindsey, meanwhile, had spotted her mother and the welcome had Catherine grinning. Not being able to step off the stool with Grissom in her way, Lindsey enthusiastically motioned Catherine towards them.

That was when Grissom turned his head in Catherine's direction. His welcome was all in the face: a relaxation of the fine lines across the forehead, slight wrinkling of the crow's feet at either temple, upturn of lips. Then he motioned with his spoon and Catherine stepped completely into the room, joining the two accomplices in the war room.

"So, is it done?" Grissom asked, motioning to the stovetop.

The gravy inside obviously had thickened and bubbled contentedly on the outer edges. Routine told her that gravy always was made last; her stomach growled at the thought of eating soon.

Even if it took a few hours to transform the kitchen into a disaster, it took Grissom about fifteen minutes to arrange it to some semblance of normalcy. Once he had the tabletop clean, Catherine pitched in and set the table, arranging the plethora of dishes into an amazing presentation. Lindsey watched, safely out of the way, and recapped every incident for the newly arrived.

Catherine was right; the chicken was perfect - not too dry and taste simply exploded. All the dishes prepared mutually by Grissom and Lindsey had her pleasantly drowsy by the meal's conclusion. There was time for dessert; now they would rest. It was overindulgence at its best.

The radio still played, not for background noise but for lulling Lindsey into a deeper repose. She commandeered the worn armchair, its size perfect for her curled body. Kitchen now completely spotless, Catherine crossed into the living room, took the fleece blanket kept there, and draped it over her daughter. Lindsey stirred, opened happy eyes, and yawned. Also mumbled something, which brought a smile to her face.

Well versed with her daughter, Catherine smoothed the hair back from Lindsey's face. Kissing the small forehead, she whispered, "My favorite Thanksgiving, too, Baby. Sleep now."

Yet, Lindsey persisted to flight sleep. "What about dessert? We made apple pie!"

"We'll wake you. Promise."

With Lindsey quickly drifting to sleep, she returned to Grissom in the kitchen. "Apple pie, huh?"

Amusingly enough, Grissom looked like a thief caught red-handed.

Catherine laughed. "Hey, where's the cookie jar, Gil? I'm just asking."

Rather than relax, he withdrew from her. Accustomed to him and his behaviorisms, Catherine waited; whatever conclusion he arrived during his internal debate, she was prepared to accept.

Grissom stood in the middle of the kitchen, rewinding back to Halloween and the weeks since, trying to decide if he had a logical starting point.

He called Catherine the afternoon following his morning conversation with Eddie, offering Lindsey an alternative way of spending Halloween. So since then, every Friday, Lindsey would spend the beginning of her weekend with him, and he altered his schedule to take his night off on Fridays. Sometimes, like on Halloween, they would watch movies together; during others, Lindsey would read or trudge through homework.

Initially, Grissom intended his offer to be for the night only, but as it progressed, he realized Lindsey needed him, or to be less particular, a father figure. She naturally fitted him into the role.

Then somewhere along the line, Lindsey convinced him to host Thanksgiving Dinner, surprising both Catherine and himself. She planned every dish, researched biscuit and apple pie recipes, and browbeat him to the supermarket the Friday before Turkey Disaster Day as he called it privately to Catherine.

Every change in Lindsey, he and Catherine discussed, checking each other from going too far towards one extreme or the other. They drew on their long friendship and alternated the roles of good parent/bad parent whenever the need arose. Between the two, they managed to narrow Lindsey's extravagant meal into something more manageable for a family of three.

Then one morning had him and Catherine discussing their favorite home-cooked dishes. Apple pie was one point Lindsey lividly refused to budge because she knew it was her mother's favorite dish. The desire to impress was evident, but Catherine recognized the difficulty in making it for someone who rarely baked. So, she gently suggested to buy it since the sentiment was really all that mattered.

Grissom compromised by promising Catherine they would buy the pie; in his mind, he tacked 'crust' onto the end. He and Lindsey would peel and core the apples themselves. The memory of the activity brought Grissom out of his reverie.

Catherine looked patiently expectant.

He simply said, "I made a promise."

Catherine savored the homemade apple pie with every forkful and later thought it was the nicest gesture anybody had ever done for her. She readily forgave Grissom for his tiny transgression, admitting it was the perfect middle ground. She and Lindsey left soon after dessert when Grissom fell asleep as all three lingered together to watch Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street.

She left him a note thanking him for his hospitality, hoping he would catch the words between the lines. Promising to call later to discuss dinner's leftovers, she dimmed the lights and locked Grissom's front door. Lindsey buckled her seatbelt and they left for home.

Meanwhile, Grissom had fallen asleep so gradually that he still thought he was awake. Walking along the salt sprayed Santa Monica Pier, he soaked up the sights and sounds of his youth. When Eddie fell into step beside him, it felt natural, like old times.

That was the instant Grissom knew he dreamed. Automatically, his memory recalled the number of lucid dreaming articles he had read; verifying and dispelling the facts they laid out. This was a different sort of lucid dreaming, however, and it was all under Eddie's control.

They stopped along a random spot along the boardwalk and leaned against the wooden railing that vainly separated pavement and sand. Looking all the world like two friends watching the suspended sun, Grissom filled in the rest of the details of this sun drenched city while he dreamed.

Eddie spoke first. "When was the last time you saw this?"

And Grissom finally allowed his full attention to encompass Eddie. "I did what you asked. Why are you here?" Suspicion stressed the last four syllables.

"I'm getting to that. First, Gil, I just want to know how you are."

That threw him. Even in his dream state, Grissom could not reconcile the Eddie he once knew, the man he had become, and the one standing with him. Yes, people change for the better or worse, but nothing could ever explain the past.

"Gil. Don't go there."

Grissom was thrown again. "Omnipotent?" he asked.

Eddie gave a raw smile to Grissom. It was all in the countenance: no, but Grissom clearly expressed his emotions in his body language.

Eddie was silent, not yet broaching the topic for this visit, if one even could call this encounter a visit. Patience had always been Grissom's strong point so he waited and into the quiet, he asked himself if he too would have unfinished business when he died. The answer he found dug itself a grave.

Furious, Grissom grew tired of Eddie and felt the number of his years. He looked at his companion to force things along and found the point of the conversation.

Last time, Eddie had asked him to create a new tradition with Lindsey to cast a light over her loss of Halloween. Grissom had agreed because, for once, they had the same goal in mind: Lindsey's happiness. She embraced Grissom's slow, tentative movement into a fundamental keystone of her life. No longer feeling adrift in the world, she made Grissom's purpose easy by instigating Thanksgiving Dinner; all he had to do was encourage the excitement.

Before them, a window opened as Grissom thought over the past four weeks remembering Lindsey's progression. Eddie watched entranced, seeing his daughter for the first time in over six months, without tears, a smile gracing her youthful face, and gemlike eyes. Grissom chose the best of his extensive memory to slideshow: that afternoon in the supermarket, the detail to which Lindsey planned dinner, debating which movie to watch.

Then Grissom shifted to Catherine, who watched all this with teary surprise. He showed Eddie her pain, the weight of responsibility that depressed delicately shaped shoulders. He recalled nights where all he could do was imagine how she would weather the walls life built against her.

That was when Eddie shoved against the railing, walking away from the beach; Grissom followed.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know; it's your dream. We can go all the way to Minneapolis if you really wanted to."

"By walking?"

"Yeah. Why are you so surprised? You've already figured out this is a lucid dream."

Grissom had to acknowledge that point. So, they walked; their path aimed toward the residential neighborhood where they had grown up. The sun looked as though it was in no hurry to set so he felt no need to rush toward any destination. Although Eddie had said he controlled this dream, Grissom knew he would probably not wake until Eddie was finished. A part of Grissom was not sure he wanted to know the exact gist of their current appointment.

Per the normal course of their conversations, Eddie broached the subject.

"I've learned a lot of things - since I died."

Grissom found an iota of humor in the tone Eddie used, but something told him support was what Eddie needed. As much as he loathed the man at the end of his life, Eddie deserved something.

It was not so difficult; Grissom craved knowledge and who would not try to glean information about the afterlife? So he prompted, "Such as?"

"Well, I can't tell you everything exactly, but I'm finding holidays interesting."

"Holidays?"

"Yeah. It's strange, really. You never stop to think about the meaning behind them, but they have loads. Of course, they're all commercialized today, but some of them have really strong ties to the - dead."

"Like Samhain?"

Eddie nodded. "Day of the Dead, too. Memorial Day. But most of our holidays were derived from the celebration of the seasons."

"Most of the Christian holy days were chosen specifically to be near days of Pagan celebration to hide the old practice."

"That's a powerful statement coming from you."

This time, Grissom nodded. "As a Catholic? Yeah, probably, but that doesn't detract from the reality." He paused. "Yeah, well, the old pagan religions, of course, were based on the movements of the sun, which was the primary deity."

"Have you come across Mabon in your internet insomnia wanderings?" Eddie abruptly broke through the oddly comfortable silence.

Grissom shook his head too stunned by Eddie's knowledge of his personal habits.

"Really?" Surprise was easy to detect. "I would've thought that you, of all people, would know about Mabon."

Gil did not respond, and they walked a length of asphalt in silence.

Eventually, Eddie continued. "Mabon - It's - well, it's - I suppose it can be described as the celebration of new beginnings. It's actually the autumnal equinox, so the ideas of the holiday mirror it."

He gave Grissom a moment to absorb his words, but Grissom shook his head.

"Remember, I'm dreaming here. Spell it out for me, Eddie."

They stopped at a park, which appeared on their right practically out of nowhere. The convenient bench faced east, so they watched the first stars twinkle in the night sky.

To sum, Mabon is the occasion that marked the beginning of conclusions as well as the ending of prologues. Like the time of year it falls within, it marks a period of change and the intertwinement of life and death. In autumn, flora shed their leaves in anticipation for the winter, saving their energy for the spring; bountiful harvests are gathered to survive the winter.

It sends the message to celebrate that which is plentiful and to always remember that which has died in sacrifice. Years ago, worshippers used to show this appreciation by feasting; this transmogrified, in spirit, into November's Thanksgiving Day.

As Eddie explained what he could of Mabon, they had restarted their walk and meandered their way into an extremely familiar neighborhood. Grissom could see Catherine's house only a little ways ahead and wondered how they walked from Santa Monica to Las Vegas in only a few minutes. Or was it hours?

Eddie stopped at the front walk that led to the entranceway. Grissom could see Eddie's desire to see his family one last time, but before he could bring the dream inside the house, he awoke on his own couch.

The air still contained the aromas of dinner, and the glow from the kitchen reflected off the white paper. Rubbing sleep from his face, he could not remember the exact details of whatever he dreamed. Not being able to shake off the feeling that he had forgotten something so fundamentally important, he read the note Catherine left for him.

He reached for the phone as he clicked the television on for background noise and caught the very end of Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street. He stopped mid-dial as it triggered a portion of that errant dream memory.

Just before he woke, Eddie had said four life-altering words: "Show her a miracle."

Information on Mabon: