See Prologue for Disclaimers and Other Notes
Thank you to my two wonderful betas: Stephen Greenwood and BeckyCSI. And to Greg for all his help in other areas.
Until the Epilogue, this story is a Flashback told by Grissom to his therapist. Please make note of this while reading.
Also there is a good bit of foreshadowing contained in this chapter, so if you spot something that looks familiar, then it probably is. Shout outs to the following Episodes: "Toe Tags", "Pilot", "Burden of Proof",and "A la Carte". If I left any episode out, let me know and I'll try to make it right.
Quotes from Proverbs, William Shakespeare and Alphonse Marie de la Martine.
My undying gratitude to all who have reviewed the previous chapters and thank you to all that have read.
Remembering The Good Ole Days
Chapter Three
January 1999
Dr. Gilbert Grissom had just finished his presentation on the effects of green blowfly pupal casings, how bullets could be determined as cause of death even if a chainsaw had mutilated the bodies after death and had closed with his 'if the evidence changes, so must the theory' speech and had asked for questions from the audience.
A few of the participants began to shift expectantly in their chairs and after a pregnant pause, no one had spoken.
He was glad. He was about to say Dismissed, when a small feminine voice spoke out:
"How does an entomologist feel about putting insects to death as you do in your timeline regressions?"
Grissom stood open mouthed for a moment, searching the large classroom for the speaker. The young woman, with her dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, stood up to bring attention to herself as she made her way to the aisle of the auditorium.
"And you are?" He questioned, as his brain searched for a plausible answer to her question.
"Sidle, CSI San Francisco PD." Her voice stronger now than before, barking almost.
"Ms. Sidle, I tend view them as martyrs in a scientist's holy war."
The room erupted in laughter.
"Are you a Catholic, sir?" The woman continued to question him.
"Mostly." Grissom responded as he began to gather his note cards and was clicking off the projector.
"Do you find the interests of those in that religion are often at odds with the scientific methods you have described in crime scene analysis?" She spoke before he had recovered from her last question.
"Yes." He responded weakly.
She became silent.
Her voice rang out again as he was again about to dismiss the class.
"Do you belief there is a necessary dividing line between science and faith?" She had began walking toward him, as if she were personally challenging his belief system.
"Ms. Sidle, absolutely."
"Why?" She was personally challenging him.
"There is the separation of church and state. I work for the state, providing them a good day's work filled with scientific methods on the analysis of crime scenes. I cannot accept anything on faith, I can only accept hard evidence as truth as it relates to my profession." Grissom looked her in the eye. He could tell her eyes were brown.
Again, he started to dismiss the class.
"Dr. Grissom, is religion about what standard practice or is it about the relationship between an individual and what he holds most dear?"
"The former is very relative concept and as for the latter, the rituals and traditions of any given religion remain dogmatic to that particular sect." He noticed her fists slightly clinching at her sides. And the way her face flushed when she was angry.
She replied quickly. "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad."
He answered without thought: "The devil can quote scripture for his own ends."
They stared at each, willing the other to back down, unaware they had an audience, anymore.
Grissom looked at the young woman. She couldn't be more than 20 or 21. She's smart as a whip, but how could she be a CSI at that age? And why is she so mad at me? What have I done? He thought to himself.
She was dressed in casual blue jeans and a maroon t-shirt bearing the word 'Harvard' stretched tightly across her chest. He could tell, even from his distance from her, she was not wearing a bra.
Gil Grissom had never considered himself a voyeur but he could easily see her hardened nipples straining against the thin fabric.
Gil Grissom had never considered himself a pervert either, but he wanted to taste the skin surrounding her nipples.
Where the hell did that come from? He wondered. He was surprised at himself, never had he been so strongly sexually attracted to anyone in his life. He swallowed, hoping to quash the sudden lust he felt for this woman.
He slowly became aware of the other members of his audience: some were looking forlornly to the door, others were surreptitiously eyeing their wrist watches, some were leaning forward in their seats, ready to bolt out; others looked asleep.
"Ms Sidle, would you care to debate after the class is dismissed? Your classmates do not seem to share our affinity for the sparing of words on our anthropological argument."
The brunette nodded in affirmation, surrendering for the moment.
He dismissed the class, much to the others' relief. He gathered his briefcase and packed his projector into it's sturdy container.
She stood her ground in the aisle; sensing, rather than noticing the hostile looks from some of the other attendees, waiting for the room to clear before continuing her discussion with the instructor.
Just as she was about to open her mouth to question him, he cut her off.
"Ms Sidle, I am going to lunch if you'd like to tag along, because I am scheduled to attend the class, "Trace Analysis: Picking through the Rubble" at 1:00 with Dr. Whittington from the New Orleans Crime Lab."
"I'm scheduled to attend the same class. May I sit with you?" Her face flushed a bright pink before she grinned, showing a lovely gap toothed smile.
He swallowed again. He wanted to kiss her lips and explore her gap fully with his tongue. He again attempted to block his body's strong attraction to her.
But as she moved closer to him, he could smell the fragrance of her body lotion; it reminded him of his mother. It was the same brand she had used for years. Gil moved closer to her to inhale her scent. Thoughts of his early years sprang instantly into his mind. She smells like home.
This young woman, by her mere presence, was bringing out things in him that he had suppressed for years, both intentionally and unintentionally.
He brushed lightly against her arm with his body as she brought her hand to meet his; his body felt as if it were on fire or that possibly she had branded him.
"Sara Sidle." They shook hands.
"Gil Grissom." Their hands were still joined.
"Yeah, I know." She laughed, not willing to let go of his hand. "I'm not sure why I lit into you, after all I am a physicist, a scientist; I work for the State and am really not religious at all. I really don't know why but I felt I needed to push your buttons. You are an excellent speaker. How on earth did you come up with the conclusion: If the evidence changes, so must the theory; What were some of the other cases that made you reach such a logical conclusion? Please tell me more.
Oh God, she's sexy and smart.
He fell in love with her then; he just didn't know it yet. He knew he was in lust, but he didn't quite know how to put the name love on the other emotions he was experiencing.
He had taken her out to dinner that night, following their shared class.
"Would you mind if we stopped in this store?" Grissom pointed to the children's bookstore as they walked together down the street, close, but not quite touching, after sharing a comfortable meal at a quaint Italian restaurant.
He wanted to lace his fingers through hers, but he had only just met her earlier that day at his lecture. He had spent the reminder of the day with her hovering at his side.
She had sat beside him during the conference on Trace, but truthfully, he didn't hear a word his friend, Zack Whittington had said, because he was far more aware of the beautiful brunette only millimeters away. He had impulsively asked her to dinner afterward; she had volunteered her services as a tour guide when he asked her where the best place to eat was located.
"Do you have to buy something for your children?" She looked him up and down as they removed their heavy winter coats. It was below freezing outside. She knew he didn't wear a wedding ring or she wouldn't be escorting him on a tour of the city in which she lived.
They had not really discussed their personal lives; they had only discussed things they had learned at the conference, keeping their conversations on a professional level.
She knew wearing or not wearing a wedding ring didn't indicate he was married, but she hoped he wasn't. He could be divorced and/or have children. How could he have reached his age of 42 without a woman claiming him? He was so attractive, for an older guy. Sara wanted to carry him back to her apartment and ravage him.
Her question startled him. "No, I'm supposed to get a gift for a co-worker's child."
Sara breathed a sigh of relief, but realized he didn't really reveal the status of his own domestic situation. She took deep breath and asked: "Do you have children?"
He looked at her incredulously. "No."
"Do you want children?" Sara ventured.
He was quiet as they entered the small shop. They hung their overcoats on the coat rack at the entrance close to the display of the new children's book, Because I Love You.
They browsed the many books and gifts the store had to offer. Each offered a suggestion occasionally, but generally they kept their silence.
He finally decided on an appropriate gift for Lindsey: a pop-up book of insects.
He surreptitiously watched the young brunette as she stroked a plush stuffed animal as he paid the clerk for the book. A bolt of desire shot through his groin. He made his way to her and hovered behind her. His chest to her back. He inhaled the fragrance of her shampoo. He began to invision a future with her, filled with happy, smiling children.
"I don't think I wanted children until today." He whispered into her ear.
She shivered as he stood behind her.
He left San Francisco with her email address, her work number, her cell number and even her home phone number. Sara had the same information on him.
They had not progressed their budding relationship beyond anything purely platonic, but spent the remainder of the week sharing meals and exploring the city. He did, however, touch her at times, softly on the back when entering a room together or tapping her on the shoulder or arm to get her attention. She responded in kind, keeping so close to him while walking together, surely a personal space violation, but Gil didn't seem to mind.
He had thought to ask her to his hotel more than once, but he didn't see her as merely a one night stand. And that's all it could be. He enjoyed the ease of their flirty friendship.
But when he got back to Las Vegas, he tried to let the memory of her fade, but was unsuccessful. She was memorable; she was under his skin. He fantasized about her when alone in the privacy of his home and at work, wondered what it would be like to have her working a scene with him. He saw the future and she was in it. He wanted her for a lifetime.
They exchanged occasional emails. No phone calls or instant messages, because he knew where that would lead: phone or cyber sex. He tried to keep their emails straightforward with only references to work and recommendations for cases or reading materials to stimulate and improve her as a forensic scientist.
They did, however, swap real post-office-delivered birthday cards each August and September. When he received his card with her flowing love, Sara, he responded with a simple from Grissom.
The following year, she signed: Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind along with a love, Sara.
He responded with: Love is the enchanted dawn of every heart and from Grissom.
He began to think of her only as a fantasy, reasoning she wouldn't want an old man such as himself when she was so young and vibrant. He had no idea what to do about their relationship, if indeed that was what it had been. He had never kissed her, only dreamed of her lips on his. He had never held her hand, but he imagined her hand touching parts of him that few had.
He had no reason to return to San Francisco; and alas had no reason to invite her to Las Vegas.
Two years later, he finally had a reason.
TBC
Reviews are found amusing, although not entirely necessary, but they are graciously welcomed. :) chauncey
