Title: Fade to Black
Author: Bubamara
Summary: Greg, Grissom, Sara. A sort of exploration of where the three characters stood somewhere in the middle of season 5.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: practically none.
This was written for the Geekfiction ficathon, as requested by cloudedvision. Many thanks to Skiro and Universalia for the beta services. Much love.
Summer. The night's array of shadows and neon skies completely unfolded. The sirens and hurried maneuvers over now; the curious neighbors back to the safety of their homes.
Breaking and entering, burglary, homicide. One perpetrator, two victims. Any of a number of possible scenarios along those lines. A tragedy indeed; still, nothing but an ordinary tragedy. The job.
"Whoa, this guy really ran over everything in his way out, didn't he?"
Greg's eyes moved from the shoeprints left in the grass to the figures outlined in the tiled patio floor. They were working quietly, their silence owing more to their own weariness than to the weight of the events that had taken place within those walls only a few hours before.
"And I think I just found us another victim", he carried on, light-heartedly. Producing a pair of tweezers from his kit, he proceeded to lift the battered form of a small mantis. "I think it's safe to assume that C.O.D. is, uh, violent crushing?"
One look towards the patio door informed Greg that his boss was less than amused.
"Where is God?" Sara said abruptly, her eyes fixed in Greg's gloved hand, the corners of her mouth curling up in the faintest hint of a smile, causing both men to look up.
"Beg your pardon?" Grissom spoke first, as if he hadn't heard her clearly, his eyes back to the splintered door frame almost instantly.
"I'm aware that this is your second shift, Sara, but I never thought you would go all religious on me", Greg chimed in, playfully, waving the tweezers from which the unfortunate insect clung.
"Bag that" was Grissom's dry comment.
Sara rolled her eyes. "Did you have a childhood at all?" she asked, feigning exasperation, somewhat relieved with Greg's light contribution to the conversation. But then again, that seemed to always be the case lately, and she actually found herself enjoying the fact that not everything she said had to be probed, investigated, analyzed and placed in an evidence bag. "You telling me you never asked a praying mantis where God is?"
"Well..." Greg pretended to search his memory for a few seconds, more than happy to play along. "No. But pray tell me, did any of them ever answer your question?"
Sara shrugged. "We thought they did. It was a game".
"Well, see, although I didn't know that, I can tell you something else this little guy's famous for. And it doesn't really have a lot to do with praying, if you know what I mean" he carried on, his gesturing nearly causing the insect in question to fall from his grasp.
"Yeah, I had a feeling you'd bring that up."
"Mantides elevate their forelimbs when they perceive a threat, thus signaling upwards, or 'heaven'. It was a popular belief that they would not fail to answer when inquired about the presence of God" . Grissom spoke calmly, without raising his eyes. "Moufet reports in his Theatrum Insectorum that they were considered so divine that, in fact, it was commonly believed that if a child asked his way of it, it would show him the road by stretching out its legs. Some still believe that if you are lost, and you see a mantis, you should go in the direction it points. That will lead you home", and with that he looked up to meet Sara's eyes briefly.
"Well, looks like this one won't be doing much of that tonight". The movement imprinted to the tweezers caused the creature to shake in front of Greg's face, antennae swinging pathetically. He looked aside, only to meet Grissom's reprimanding glare.
"Just... bag that already, will you?" Sara bit her lip and smiled sympathetically. "If you're done casting those prints, you can get started upstairs".
The actors play their parts with infinitesimal preciseness.
Parts of the silent mechanism that keeps the hands of this clock ticking day after day.
Pieces of a puzzle that is put together and comes apart with every rise of the sun, only to be pieced in identical array the next day.
I
The hollow feeling was a constant presence in his chest. Oppressive, but a comforting reminder still.
I am not numb.
Keys on the table, the single cup placed back in the cabinet. Habits that remained even after all trace of purpose behind them was dead and gone.
I am still here, and I am not numb.
Grissom allowed himself to reflect upon the night's events briefly as he went through the motions of his routine. One last run of the evidence, the leads, the reports before putting out the lights.
After years of determination, he had come to achieve moderate success in blocking all thoughts about his job from entering the realm of his sleep. However, he was significantly less successful when it came to considerations of a different nature.
Vaguely distorted recounts of the day's events filled his mind and merged with those of the past as sleep began to settle over him. Today, five years ago, eons ago. Promises of being, of never being...
He fell asleep lulled by the uniform ticking of the clock.
II
"You go home. You hug your cat, your dog, your pillow. You have a beer, you watch a movie, and then you come back tomorrow. Rumor has it you used to be a pretty funny guy. Don't lose that."
Greg's bag traced a perfect curve in the air, followed by his coat and shirt as he tossed them to his couch on his way to the bathroom. Leaving all the lights on behind him, he closed the door and opened the hot faucet, undressing as the small room quickly filled with steam.
Home. Home and a nice hot bath, and maybe a ball game on cable afterwards, he thought to himself. The alarm clock won't go off for a good long while.
He stood in front of the fogged mirror and stared at the blurred spots of color that were his features. Bringing his hand to the cold glass surface, he wiped it clean and watched himself, eyes tired, brows creased.
With his hands still wet from the touch of the mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair and shaped several locks up in a crest. He then paused to contemplate himself in the mirror from all angles. The figure that stared back at him looked vaguely familiar, but was not him anymore.
He tossed the rest of his clothes on the floor and got in the shower.
III
The door to Sara's apartment opened with a slow creak. She turned the key in the lock and made her way to the kitchen following a familiar path in the dark. Nothing to see, nothing changed. Nothing that could have been touched by a hand other that hers. Deafening silence.
Kicking off her shoes, she opened the refrigerator and stared at its contents for a couple of seconds before closing it with an almost inaudible sigh, leaving the room in darkness again. She leaned on the counter, half-heartedly wishing she still kept that last pack of cigarettes in her sock drawer.
Her shift had just ended and it would start again oh so soon.
Her feet made no noise in her room's carpeted floor. Nor did the covers as she pulled them up and around her. Light was beginning to filter through the blinds, and she closed her eyes tighter.
Translucent. Immutable. Left to haunt. To sleepwalk through shifts, seasons, years. Her life. A blurred picture, faded by the raging desert sun.