Title: Manus in Mano
Summary: He was here because of Sara, who was wearing a burgundy pantsuit and looked so drawn and on the verge of breaking that he had a responsibility to be here; with her, for her. Not a character death.
Disclaimer: I can't think of anything witty, just know that I hereby disclaim any rights to CSI, CBS, Viacom and the likes. That good enough?
A/N: For Leslie. You deserve it. Thanks to Dev for the quick read-through.
Carnations and lillies were arranged in elegant patterns which would have seemed more in place at a wedding celebration than a funeral, their colors soft and pale with an occasional yellow gerbera lighting up the display. Fragrant and rich the colors were, slinking around the room and tickling the sensory buds of the people present, a pleasant scent that somehow helped to transform the devastation and pain into something more manageable. The how's and why's of death were dropped in favour of the when's and rememberings of her life. The how's of impersonal bullets turned into the 'when's of laughter, the why's of macho behavior left behind and became memories of her pride at her daughter's first day of school.
Silent tears flowed, as intangible as the scents in the air, but just as honest. There was pain in the eyes of her now grown-up daughter, of her teenage son who stood tall yet broken in a corner wearing the sweater his mother had told him looked so good on him.
There were no photographs, no portraits of her in the room. Most were glad for that; it allowed a recollection of mental images that were more carefree and heartfelt than any studio-picture could portray. Her mother remembered her as a little girl, cake batter spread around her mouth, eyes that twinkeled brightly in ways only children's eyes could.
Her husband (the one who had asked her to marry him at the top of the Stratosphere) was seeing her in bed, her lips skating over his shoulders before snuggling up to him all drowsy and insouciant.
Her boss saw her hunched over a microscope for long moments, jotting down observations onto the notepad in her clear handwriting before looking over her shoulder and raising her eyebrow in a silent invitation to ask.
The brunette in the corner only had the memories of her lying dead in the parking lot, eyes seemingly staring into infinity. Recalling the family photographs which had been dotted around the rooms when she first came to inform the husband of her death, she smiled and envisioned someone who thoroughly enjoyed the life around her.
The man leaning next to her against the wall had looked at her face in detail while she rested on the stainless steel autopsy table, and now imagined what she had looked like when she'd been alive. Vibrant and smiling perhaps, if he listened to the conversations around him.
Grabbing two champagne glasses from the plate a waiter carried around, Grissom handed one to his companion. She accepted it with a slight lift of the eyebrow; what she was surprised at he didn't know. Thoughtfulness? He didn't think of her as an alcoholic. He had drunk his fair share in the past, and he still did on occasion. Life was a thorny rosebush, and alcohol an effective glove. Sometimes. Neither of them were addicted to alcohol. Caffeine, yes. But not alcohol.
Being here, at a funeral that resembled more a chique cocktail party than a burial, was uncommon for the two criminalists. Involvement with the dead and their living families after a case had been closed was something that Grissom, especially, tried to avoid. But this time he couldn't. Not because he felt a need to mourn a woman he had never known. No, he mourned her together with all the other hapless victims he had encountered, right there in his sleeping days and hours alone. He was here because of Sara who was wearing a burgundy pantsuit and looked so drawn and on the verge of breaking that he had a responsibility to be here; with her, for her.
A responsibility to himself, to honor the meanings of true friendship and caring and love.
Lizzy; not Elisabeth, Lizzy had been been yet one more victim whose life had been robbed from her within moments, another Pamela Adler. Raped and murdered because some prick wanted to show his 'worthiness' of belonging to his favourite gang.
Underage, not enough substantial evidence to detain him for manslaughter. He copped to rape, and got away with murder.
The justice system seemed to be falling apart under their hands, and he'd seen how Sara had grown more and more withdrawn, livid and exhausted at the futility of it all.
When she had shown up at his office and hesitantly informed him that she was going to the funeral, he had frowned and asked if that was such a good idea. In other words, he botched up as so often before.
She had sighed and shrugged, telling him that she had promised the daughter to go. That she needed to go as a way to close that chapter of compassion and exhaustion. Maybe this time, seeing the casket lowered to the ground would do the same for her; allow her to bury the case and everything it entailed into the dark recesses of her mind where ghosts still lingered and taunted but wouldn't come out to play every single time she closed her eyes.
So here they stood, side by side, outsiders who were welcomed by the insiders. The daughter, Emily, had thanked them when they had walked into the chapel, and not just for coming. Sara had smiled uncomfortably and apologised for not having convicted the perpetrator for murder, but that unleashed a spark of stubbornness in Emily that rivaled Sara's. She had stood and stared Sara in the eye for several long seconds before telling her to stop. Stop apologising and feeling guilty. Hadn't she done all that she could? Yes. Was there a reason why she should feel guilty? Well… no. What was she apologising for? For letting… No, she hadn't let the killer go free. Emily had been firm and wouldn't budge. This wasn't Sara's fault. It wasn't Grissom's either she said as she looked at him. It was the perpetrator's fault, the justice system's fault. The bastards who represented the scum of the society, but not theirs.
And with that Emily had nodded briskly and thanked them again before walking back to her younger brother.
Their champagne glasses stood empty on a nearby table and by some unspoken agreement both Grissom and Sara walked towards the son who had wandered off onto the lawn outside of the elegant home where the reception was held. They had said their condolenscences to him earlier, and the anguished look in his eyes from before was still there. No tears, not even a trace of red in them. Only a raw pain that both criminalists wished they could have prevented.
There was a strange silence around them as they walked back towards their car. Not entirely unpleasant, but it felt heavy with their own memories and musings. Sara's thoughts drifted back to her childhood, the funeral for her father. How different it had been, with no mother there to give her a comforting hug and a wobbly smile. Grissom's memories were about his mother and how she had tried so hard to buffer his dad's absence, but never really managed to take away the bitterness her son felt towards him.
When they reached the car she stopped and kissed his cheek, a single 'thank you' conveying all that needed to be said. He took her hand and lightly held it, thumb running over her knuckles softly. The beep of the cental locking device sounded and he opened the door for her, a last squeeze before he withdrew to the driver's side of the car.
Backing out of the parking lot he looked at her a single time, and threaded his fingers through hers. Maybe a funeral could be the start of a new relationship this time.