Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.

Rating: T - for occasional graphic imagery (of the type commonly seen on CSI)

Chapter 1: "Why do you like bugs so much?"

"Why do you like bugs so much?"

He was asked that question often. Sometimes by co-workers. Sometimes by family. Sometimes by people he barely knew. It was not a question he enjoyed being asked. It instantly put him on the defensive, demanding that he justify what others saw as eccentricity on his part.

There were many different ways in which the seemingly simple question could be asked. Sometimes the tone used was straightforward and matter of fact.

Grissom flipped through Eva Crane's World History of Beekeeping and Honey Hunting, fully absorbed. The book had arrived in the mail earlier that day. Nick stood in the doorway of Grissom's office, leaning slightly against the frame with a bemused expression on his face. Gil eventually slid the book onto the shelf next to his copy of Holldobler and Wilson's The Ants, and looked up. Nick shook his head. "Why do you like bugs so much?" he finally asked.

Occasionally the question could be tinged with horror and disgust.

Grissom bent down near the newly discovered corpse. With his forceps he carefully lifted several fly larvae that were clustered around the edges of the deceased's mouth. He placed them in appropriately labeled plastic vials. Grissom stood up, stepped back, and lifted one of the vials up to get a better look at the larva inside. Grissom smiled slightly as the larva wriggled and tried to burrow down. He was almost sure that the larva was Calliphora vicina, but he'd have to look at the spiracles under a scope later to be certain. When he turned around to leave, he noticed that one of the policewomen had a look of pure revulsion on her face. "Why do you like bugs so much?" she demanded.

And on the very rare occasion the question would actually be asked with genuine curiosity.

Gil knelt down on the sidewalk and carefully lifted the stag beetle into his hand. The beetle struggled to clumsily move its large body along Gil's palm. When he looked up he saw a young boy staring down at him. The boy cocked his head to one side and asked, "Why do you like bugs so much, mister?"

~o~

Grissom had no easy answer.

The first reply to come to mind, of course, was the standard scientific answer: "Insects are amazing creatures, and we can learn a lot from observing them." But people never looked entirely satisfied with this answer. "Oh." They would reply as if they understood. But Grissom noted the slight narrowing of their eyes. The second glance when they thought he wasn't looking. He arrived at the conclusion that this behavior meant that the questioner felt somehow cheated by such a scientific answer.

Eventually he realized that most people were not trying to discover some elusive quality that the insect in question possessed. After all, they were viewing the same creature that he was. No, they weren't asking about the bug. The real question was "Why do you like bugs so much?"

In light of this revelation, he often answered, "I just do."

That was close to the truth. But it was still inadequate, unsatisfying, somehow. There were no words that he knew to describe what he felt. He struggled to somehow find a way to convey the true depth of his feelings in terms that the questioner could understand. Not that he really cared what others thought of him. But maybe if he could accurately express his as yet indescribable feelings, other people might be more open to the possibility of viewing insects in a different light. But what words could be used? Whenever he thought about it long enough, all he came up with were a few over-used clichés.

Time stopped. For a few minutes he would be aware of nothing else. Just himself and the bug. He felt as if he was being drawn into its minute world.

And even then, those clichés were inadequate. And far too wordy to turn into a succinct answer.

Grissom was also aware that the fact that the questioner felt the need to ask such a thing obviously meant that he or she did not share Grissom's feelings. This presented a problem, and it often made him feel as if his perspective of the world was separated from the questioner's by a deep, uncrossable chasm.

Because the truth of the matter was that he had absolutely no idea what other people felt when they looked at a bug.

Their shrill shrieks and looks of contempt puzzled him. And made him wonder just what it was that they saw or felt. What exactly was so terrifying about a cockroach? Didn't they notice how perfectly the wings folded across its back? How the antennae swayed so delicately? How the insect would lift itself up, poised to flee at the slightest disturbance?

Maybe it was just another incomprehensible by-product of cultural conditioning.

True, cockroaches were dirty and could spread diseases. But so could many other animals, including birds. And he had never observed anyone scream and run at the sight of a Cedar Waxwing. Just because something was dangerous did not mean that its beauty could not be appreciated.

And as Grissom thought more about the paradox that was presented, he came to realize that the only logical response to adequately answer such a question would have to come in the form of yet another question.

"Why do you like bugs so much?" Grissom paused slightly at the question. Then he lowered his glasses down on his nose, so that his eyes could look directly up at the questioner. He stared, firmly and intensely with his blue eyes, never wavering in his show of determination, returning the unspoken challenge as he prepared to meet the spoken one. Then he asked his question:

"Why don't you?"

Author's Note:

Thanks for reading!