Chapter 37: Listening

A/N: This was written probably about a year ago. It is the first in my new weekly update effort to get this story finished! I have a backlog of about 10 chapters to post, then I better get my writing hat on! Expect updates about once every 5-7 days, more or less depending on the week. Thanks to Kelly, who has graciously said she'll continue to beta for me, and to Michael who is silently urging me to get this done with already! I hope those of you that are still reading enjoy. If you're new to IandB, I hope you enjoy, too! ~TP

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My stomach flips, and I'm not quite sure what I'm doing.

Hey, Greg, do me a favor?

A shaky finger rings the doorbell on the townhouse I've only ever been to once, but seen in my mind so many times since then.

You can't run overtime as a trainee, anyway.

The cups of coffee in the carrier tip precariously, my weight shifting from side to side nervously.

It's... It's a personal favor.

She was the one who convinced me to stop doing personal favors- at least the menial ones... but Grissom's eyes were so blank, so dead... I couldn't say no. I wouldn't have said no about this, anyway.

Can you check up on Emma? She- She probably won't like it- but I'm going to be here and... and I haven't left her alone this long since...

I couldn't decide in that short moment, when his eyes bared the man instead of the supervisor and mentor, what exactly he was worried about. Deep inside a fear coiled up that maybe, just maybe, he was afraid of her hurting herself, but that was suppressed quickly. I didn't want to think about that. He'd only been back to work three days- they'd only been back a week, and already he was pulled into a serial case. It has been great for me, following the case, learning new things... but we've watched Grissom work silently, without the fervor he once had, and we can see the worry lines around his eyes and forehead are more prominently displayed than before.

The door slowly creaked open, her brown eyes and slightly disheveled hair peaking out. "Hey," she whispered. She peaks a little around the door then opens it all the way.

"Hey." I enter and look around. Her hands move over her shirt nervously and her eyes are bloodshot. I can't tell if she just woke up or she was just crying, probably both. "Gris is gonna be working at least a double... asked if maybe I'd take his place as your breakfast buddy." I shrug but she smiles knowingly.

"He's really worried about me, isn't he?" She says, taking the tray from my hands and putting it onto the breakfast bar. If this weren't such a bad time I'd let my mind linger on how adorable she looks: tousled hair, no make up, black sweat pants cut to capris, a grey shirt, cut around the neck and hanging off the shoulder touting "dancers do it turned out" and bare feet make her just about the cutest, and somehow sexiest, thing I've ever seen.

And then her smile falls, tears form in her eyes, and my heart breaks.

"He's so worried about me," she whispers, dropping onto a stool at the breakfast bar, "and I know he can't help it, but there's nothing he can do right now." I move closer, wanting to stop the flow of tears, but I don't dare. "She's dead... and short of any kind of miracle, nothing can change that."

The words come out slowly, my brain picking each carefully. Suddenly I feel like this short visit will be filled with significance: a moment when we move from casual friends to something more involved and trusting. "I'm sure... I'm sure he just doesn't know how to help." I hate this... I hate watching women cry, and knowing I can't do a damn thing to make them stop. I never want to see her cry again in my whole life.

She looks at me, wide eyed, and shaking her head. "He can't, Greg! My mother died because my step father decided to dive with too much liquor in him! I haven't talked to her in months- and I'll never talk to her again!" She swipes at the salty drops that turn her cheeks a blistered red. "We should have... I should have..."

"I know..." I say, finally reaching out a hand to hers.

"You don't!" She yells, jumping back. I'm so surprised by her outburst that I just stare as she begins pacing the room like a caged tiger. Suddenly she stops and crumbles to a heap on the floor, and I rush to her, panicking that she's passed out, but as I fall to my knees in front of her she lifts her face to mine, her eyes steely and her face beet red. "That first night in Jersey, as I was getting ready for bed in the guest bedroom, you know, because they'd gotten rid of any trace that I'd been there and turned my room into a sterile exercise room," she whispered to me, her voice low and biting, "there was a moment, maybe even a good five minutes, that I was happy she was gone– that they were both gone." Our eyes hold, hers still dripping over her matted lashes. "How am I supposed to deal with that, Greg? That I was happy she was dead?"

And when she crumbled again, I pulled her into my arms, set on not letting her fall to pieces, even if I couldn't stop her tears.

Leaning back in the couch, her feet on the table and her arms thrown over her head, she looks like a cemetery statue: her face angelic, but her expression unmoving, her eyes far away, and her soul gone. I sit across from her, wracking my brain for something to do. We've been quiet for too long now. The puppy in her lap is sleeping, and stroking his fur seems to take all of her attention.

"I didn't like her, Greg, but I loved her." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and my eyes snap back to her face.

"You can't choose who your family is," I start cautiously. "You did the best you could with what you had. Sometimes... sometimes you can't control how you feel about someone, especially if they're the ones that are eliciting those feelings. You weren't upset at her without a reason," I'm guessing now... who knows if she'll ever really tell me all that's happened.

Emma shrugs, flips on the TV and leans into the arm of the couch. "Maybe that's true." A deep, heavy, and guilty sigh falls from her lips. "I just...haven't figured that out yet."

We're watching a random Saturday Night Live rerun when Griss slips into the living room. Emma and I turn, both staring at the large bag of fresh lemons he's holding as the puppy bounds off of the couch to lick at Gris' feet.

"Sara's decomp," he says by way of explanation.

For a moment we all just kind of stare at each other, not really sure what to do while the puppy's exuberance is ignored. So, being the odd man out here, I get up and slip out, with just quiet waves and goodbyes. The door clicks shut behind me and I stand outside on the steps, trying to figure out just what happened in there. It felt like I just stepped out of a time warp, out of some kind of black hole where nothing existed but that small living room.

I shake my head and get into my car. I have to get rid of this uneasy feeling if I'm ever going to get any sleep tonight.

"You wanted to see me?"

Looking up from my paperwork I see Greg, nervously hovering in my doorway. "Yeah, um, close the door." This almost makes him more fidgety as he sits across from me. He avoids my stare for a few seconds before trying to make conversation.

"So how's the paperwork?" He nervously asks, a facade of interest falling into place.

I cut to the quick, "Greg, what did Emma tell you yesterday?"

"What?" He asks, clearly surprised as she sits up straight. His eyes go wide and I see almost fear in them.

"I need to know what you guys talked about..." I sigh, leaning forward. Maybe this shouldn't be done here, but... I'm lost, and I'll do anything to find my footing again. "It… It made her look better, and I need to... I need to talk to her myself, Greg."

His face changes and suddenly we're talking man to man, not nervous subordinate to boss. "So why do you need to know what we talked about?" I start to talk, but he stops me before any sound can get out. "I mean, have you even tried to talk to her by yourself? Or just listened?"

I can feel the guilt on my face. "Why do you think I need to know what you talked about? Of course I tried talking to her!" I feel like I'm almost yelling, but my voice is nothing more than an angry whisper. I drop my head, surveying my desk. "Nothing I said was right..."

"Did you try just listening?" Greg cocks his head, and isn't as judging as I'd expected him to be. I guess maybe I just automatically expected him to see me as wrong, or some horrible parent. "She's go a lot to say."

He holds my gaze, looking at me like the answer is somehow right there, and he can't understand why I haven't found it yet. It's ok, Greg, I don't know either.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you what we talked about. I wouldn't betray her trust like that."

"Greg, I need..."

"Maybe... Maybe you should tell her how you feel." He raises his eyebrows at me. At first I'm inclined to ignore his comment, to yell and scream and throw something across the room to get him to understand what I'm saying... and suddenly it occurs to me that he does. He's just showing me a different way to get there. I tilt my head, and he continues. "I will tell you that she's very upset with herself right now, for a lot of different reasons- some of them I'm sure you can guess, and some I don't think you ever could." He pauses. "How did you feel when her mother died, Grissom?"

Silence.

I can feel it inside. I can feel every emotion I felt, but I can't separate them.

"I was upset."

He doesn't believe me. "What kind of upset?"

"I–" I stutter, and stop. It's so easy to say I'm upset... but to really explain it? I look at him as I try to sort it out.

"Don't tell me," He whispers, leaning forward onto my desk as he gets out of his chair. "Tell her... she needs to hear it." And with a talent he must have learned from Sara, he's gone before I have a reply.

"Where's Sara?" Emma asks as I hand her a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs before slipping into a seat across from her.

"Still running with her decomp. She's got a lot of day work with this one." Emma just nods, and drops a few pieces of egg on the floor to appease the begging Bailey before eating a few of her own.

We eat in silence, and I follow her into the living room when we've cleared our plates. "Can– can we talk?"

"I don't know, can we?" She smiles as she parrots back the smart-aleck comment her mother used to use to make her remember the difference between 'can' and 'may.' A small smile quickly fades as we sit on the couch. "What's on your mind, Dad?"

I take a deep breath, and just start talking from my heart, " Emma, when your mother died, I was very upset. But even more than that, I was worried about you."

The door clicks. Clothes rustle. The bed creeks. A warm arm snakes around my middle.

"How'd it go?"

"Why are you still awake?" Grissom whispers.

"Can't sleep without you. Stop avoiding the question." Sleepily I roll into his embrace, feeling the tiny hairs on his chest tickle my skin as I snuggle against him.

"It went well. I think." He says, burying his face in my hair, his hands caressing my back.

"You think?"

"We talked a lot. We made progress, I just hope it's as much as I think it is." In the dark his lips search out mine and he softly possesses me. "Stop talking." he silences me with another kiss as he slides his hands under my shirt.

(TBC...)