Aberrations Chapter 9: Trigger Happy Policing, a csi fanfic

A/N: First off, I took a break last week due to Thanksgiving to spend time with my family. I expect that I also won't be posting the week of Christmas, but if I have time, I will be at least writing the rest of these chapters. Second, thank you! I am enjoying the reviews everyone. I really, truly, appreciate it. And to answer some questions:

I wrote this story because I've been wanting to read a story with this concept but no one else was writing it. I just wanted to read something different. I still want to read something different. Also, Grissom's character. I wanted to write a story that was true to Grissom's character, despite the AU. It's a great compliment when I hear that you all can see canon Gil Grissom in this story. I wrote this AU with canon Grissom in mind. He's an INTP personality with rigid boundaries and who is emotionally unavailable (Sara is an ENFP personality, canon, who has porous boundaries, AU, if anyone wants to know how she's characterized). It took a lot of research to craft this man, this story, and I thank you all for noticing the hard work that went into it.

Now, back to the story.

Warning: Rated M for sexual content and explicit language (more so than normal).

Ch. 8: Trigger Happy Policing

2009

After Dr. Langston left the prison, he was escorted back to his cell. There were no bars on the door, but a window and slot with a metal door that could only be opened on the outside. When Officer Rahm was guarding the cell, he would open the slot and leave it open in case he wanted to talk. Other than those times he would be left in silence.

Tonight, Rahm was his guard and he had left the hall to go get his dinner. It would take him some time to get back, so he used the time alone to write a letter to Heather and included it with a picture he'd drawn of her with his dog Edmond. Folding up the two sheets of paper, he put them into an envelope and sealed it up and then wrote her address down. Then he grabbed another sheet of paper and a charcoal block as his mind wandered. There was only one image in his mind he wanted to put to paper that evening. A face that haunted him daily.

It was of his friend; a friend he'd lost, who died in his arms. As he drew lyrics filled his head, ones that should have made his memories grow fonder instead of building anger in his heart. That anger had been brewing for a long time, long before his friend's death.

As the face started to take shape, his eyes staring up at him from the sheet of paper, his memories went back in time. Back to when the anger first started to brew underneath the surface. There was no peace inside his head; there couldn't be, not yet.

Not until this was over.

GIL

2004 - 2005

"My blood? You're serious?"

"Yeah," he said as he took the signed forms for employment and filed them.

After years of many candidates but no takers, budget cuts, and avoiding the managerial task of conducting interviews for the hiring process, they finally got a new CSI who wasn't really new at all. She was a former police officer who had switched over to the forensic side of law enforcement and applied to be on the graveyard shift since they were shorthanded.

He went to a cabinet and removed the needle, tubes, and the pouch before walking back over to her. She was still staring at him in disbelief, but she was rolling up her sleeve.

"Is this a hazing ritual?"

"Hazing is prohibited. This is a, uh, my ritual," he said as he took an alcohol swab out of his desk drawer and wiped a spot in the crook of her elbow clean, making it sterile, before piercing it with the needle. He watched as the blood started filling up the pouch and looked at her. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"

She was watching her blood piping through the thin tubing and said, "I'm assuming it's for crime scene reconstruction. Or, you have a very unhealthy obsession with blood. Third option: vampire."

He smirked as he said, "Well, I assure you I'm not a vampire, though working on grave shift does make one feel like one every so often."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Once he had a pint of her blood, he asked, "Feeling light-headed?"

"Slightly, but I should be okay."

He got up and went over to the refrigerated cabinet and opened it to place the blood inside, he also grabbed a container and walked back over to her. Opening it, he offered her one.

She looked inside, glanced up at him. "I heard you were an odd one," she said before picking one out and looking at it. "Glad you live up to your reputation." She popped it into her mouth. He was impressed, especially when she got up, turned around, and grabbed another one. "Not bad."

"Hey, Gris-" Warrick walked into his office and stopped as he saw the woman standing in front of him eating a chocolate covered grasshopper. "New hire?"

"Sofia Curtis, Warrick Brown," he introduced them as he grabbed one of the grasshoppers and ate it as he offered one to Warrick.

"My answer is the same as the first time you offered me one: hell no."

"The weirdest thing I've ever eaten was Shiokara, a Japanese delicacy of squid intestines. This," Sofia said, holding up the chocolate grasshopper, "is actually edible." Then she asked Warrick, "Were you the one driving that Softail I saw when I pulled in?"

"Oh, yeah, what'd you know about it?" Warrick asked as he stepped up closer to her as she angled around him toward the door, like they were dancing around each other.

"I know it's a '84 Harley FXST."

"Hey, now," Warrick said, impressed, "you're gonna make me wanna take you for a ride, when you're not eating Grissom's bugs."

"Anytime," she shot back.

"Excuse me," he said, breaking up the obvious flirting. "Is there going to be a problem here?"

"Not from me," Sofia said as she glanced back at Warrick and then continued on down the hall.

He saw Warrick watch her walk away and when he turned back to face him, his grin got wider as he started to say, "She's-"

"Your new co-worker," he interrupted as he sat down behind his desk. "No fraternization."

"Ha, picture that," Warrick said as he looked around his office, taking in the new items on display. "You do know that half the people who work here have dated, or are dating, or have at least slept with each other."

He didn't know that; he also didn't care to know that. "Have you ever heard "ignorance is bliss"? Normally, I would disagree, but when it comes to workplace relationships, consider me a believer." He watched as Warrick picked up the jar containing a human heart.

"I don't get you, man."

"Whether you get me or not, isn't my concern. What can I do for you, Warrick? Shift doesn't start for another half-hour. I asked Sofia to come in early because of paperwork-"

"And blood collection." Warrick grabbed the chair and turned it around and straddled it as he sat down. Leaning on the backrest, he told him, "My grandmother passed."

"Oh," he said as he thought about why Warrick would be there telling him that. His only conclusion was..."You want time off-"

"Nah, I'm good. I've been preparing for this for a while. Her health's been fading for some time now. I was uh…" he looked away from him as he picked up a framed case with a spider inside it off his desk. He looked at it before sitting it back down as he asked, "I was wanting to know if you'll go with me to her funeral?"

Leaning back in the chair, he shook his head as he tried to figure out why. Nick was Warrick's friend, surely he was better suited, or Catherine, but he was asking him. Even though he didn't understand, or know why, he told him, "Okay. When-"

"It's this Saturday."

He gave a nod as he told him, "I'll make sure we're both not on-call that day."

"Thanks, Gris." Warrick got up, flipped the chair back around, and then walked out of his office.

He watched him go, still wondering why Warrick wanted him to go with him to her funeral. Warrick's grandmother had raised him, and he'd always spoken fondly of her and her influence on him as a man. After a while thinking about it, he felt oddly honored to accompany him.

That Saturday, Sara stood behind him in the bathroom and he watched in the mirror as she trimmed his beard for him. "I don't know Warrick but if you want me to come-"

"I'd hate for you to have to spend your time at the funeral of someone you've never met."

"It's not anyone's idea of a good time, but…" she said as she ran the trimmers down his neck. She had gotten really good and no longer needed his assistance. "I want to be there for you and your friend."

His eyes shifted to hers and he realized that this was something she wanted to do for him. "I'll ask Warrick if it's okay."

She softly smiled as she finished and rubbed his jaw before kissing his neck. "I'll find something to wear in case he says yes."

As she went through the closet, he started the shower and then went to grab his phone off the nightstand. Going back into the bathroom, he called Warrick, who was planning on picking him up on the way, so he could have been driving. Hearing the phone ring, his mind was racing over what to say, how to ask the question. How did he ask the question?

"Hey, Gris," Warrick said as he answered, "you're not backing out on me are you?"

"No. That's not why I was calling." His mind still hadn't figured out how to word this correctly. "I'm...I have-" This girl, a friend? She wants to be there for moral support? "Um…"

"Are you okay?"

He closed his eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and over his head. "I'm fine. Listen, there's this girl-"

"Yeah?"

"And, uh...she's here..."

"Okay…"

"And she wants to be there, for you, and me, today…" Was that even a sentence? Help me out here, Rick, he thought as he struggled to form anymore words.

"I'm picking up what you're dropping down. Yeah, that's fine," Warrick said and he swore he heard laughter in his voice. "I'm ten, fifteen minutes away if I keep catching these red lights. Can't wait to meet your girl."

He snapped the phone shut and sighed heavily as he tossed it on the counter. Shaking his head at himself, he yelled out the door as he pulled his shirt over his head, "He said it's okay!"

"Good. I found something."

He jumped into the shower as Sara walked back into the bathroom and applied her makeup.

"What necklace do you want me to wear?" she asked.

Giving it some thought, he told her, "The gold one with the, uh, pendant-"

"I know which one."

He had just gotten out of the shower and was toweling off when he heard Edmond barking.

"I got it," she told him as she left the bedroom.

As he got dressed, he could hear their voices traveling up the stairs. He couldn't tell what was being said but he knew they were doing an awful lot of talking to one another. Having only one suit, he put it on and grabbed a tie Sara had bought him and tossed it around his neck as he shoved his feet into his dress shoes. Then he headed down the stairs.

Warrick was sitting at the kitchen counter as Sara stood behind it; she was sipping on a glass of water as Warrick had a glass of what looked like bourbon in his hand. He'd told him that he was fine and had been preparing for his grandmother's death, but that didn't mean the man wasn't hurting.

After he took a sip of the whiskey, he heard him say, "My parents weren't around much, if it weren't for her, I don't know where I'd be right now. The only other person in my life that has come close to being like a parent to me, keeping me on the right path, is Grissom."

He stopped moving as he heard those words. Warrick thought of him as a parent...A father-figure? Thinking back over the years of working with the man, he tried to figure out how that was possible. All he did was mentor him and give him a second chance when he'd messed up. Taught him the job.

"Is that why you asked him to go with you?" Sara asked him.

"Yeah. He's like a rock, you know. Always steady. I need that."

"I think we all do," she said with a soft smile before she looked up and saw him standing there. "Hey."

He felt his feet moving again as he walked over to them as he tied his tie. "Hey," he said back as Warrick turned to look at him.

"'Bout time, Cinderella. Normally it's the girl that takes forever to get ready to leave."

He rolled his eyes and heard Sara laugh as she said, "He's always the last to get dressed. I have to tell him we have to be somewhere an hour before we actually have to be there so he's ready on time."

"It's that mind of his," Warrick said. "Once he starts thinking about something, might as well just leave him alone until he comes back down to earth."

He looked between both of them as he said, "I'm standing right here."

They both laughed and Warrick downed the rest of the whiskey as he tossed him the keys to his car. "You're driving."

He caught the keys and said, "All right, let's go."

As he drove, Warrick put in a CD and hit shuffle play. As the music started, and he recognized the song as "Inner City Blues", he heard Warrick say, "My grandmother loved Marvin Gaye, I mean, she loved him."

He smiled as he turned right, heading towards East Street, and said, "What's not to love? He had a great voice, charisma, and cared about people and the environment."

Warrick was looking at him as he said, "You listen to Marvin Gaye?"

He glanced over at him and gave a nod. "Yeah."

"Gil listens to everything," Sara from the backseat. "However, I have yet to hear him listen to any rap music."

Warrick looked back at Sara and said, "I should put in Tupac. What'd you think?"

"I like Tupac," she said.

"Uh, I don't know if I'll like rap," he said as they stopped at a light.

"See, Gris, Tupac was more than a rapper, okay. He was an urban poet."

"That may be the case, but I prefer to listen to this while I'm driving," he said as the light changed to green as Marvin Gaye's voice filled the car.

~"Rockets, moon shots

Spend it on the have nots

Money, we make it

Before we see it, you take it-"~

It was a nice service, and short, and it was held at the burial site at the Baptist cemetery on East Street. There weren't too many people there as Warrick explained that most everyone who knew his grandmother had already passed away themselves or had moved away. Sara was next to him, holding his hand, as Warrick introduced him to the Preacher who had conducted the service.

"Reverend James, this is my boss, Gil Grissom and his girlfriend Sara."

He shook Reverend James's hand as Warrick's words entered his head. Girlfriend. Why was that word so hard for him to get into his vocabulary? Sara was...his girlfriend. That didn't sound right. He didn't like that introduction, but it was appropriate. He'd never had a girlfriend before and now that he did, his mind was very slow to accept that term of endearment.

"The Rev has known me since I was knee high to a duck, as my grams used to say."

Reverend James smiled at him and said, "Warrick's talked about you. He considers you a good friend. You should be proud of this young man and all he's done for the community since he became a public servant."

"I wasn't aware he was doing any community service work," he said as he looked over at Warrick who appeared suddenly embarrassed.

Warrick said as he shook his head, "It's nothing-"

"Nothing? He made sure that the Rec Center on 26th Street got reopened after it was shut down last year. He volunteers there every off day he has."

"Really, Rev, stop, alright, you're embarrassing me," he said, and he could tell that he was having a hard time with the praise. Warrick never did like the spotlight, and neither did he.

Sara leaned into him and said, "I think he's blushing."

"I am proud," he said as he looked back at the Reverend. "Of everything he does. Warrick's a good man, and a great CSI, I'm sure his grandmother was more so than I am. I have to give her credit, in a lot of ways he's a better man than me." And he meant that.

~"Oh, make me want to holler

The way they do my life (yeah)-"~

As they headed toward the car, Warrick told him that he'd like to be buried next to her. "Believe me, I'm not rushing to get into the ground, but it's best someone knows."

"As much as I appreciate you telling me,"he told him,"Maybe you should tell Nick or someone else. I hope I'm not around for your funeral."

"Like I want to go to yours, or anyone else's. You know what, no more talk about death and funerals. I need a drink. Sara?"

"Yeah, uh, I could use one," she answered as she looked at him for approval.

"Cool. Grissom?"

He gave a nod as he opened the backdoor for Sara. Warrick watched them as he slipped into the passenger seat; he had a smirk on his face.

~"Make me want to holler

The way they do my life-"~

They ended up at some bar he didn't know even existed and never wanted to know existed. It was dark, and very blue due to the lights running around the trim of the ceiling. There were sports games on the televisions and a jukebox against a wall, a pool table and dart board.

"Johnny, what's goin' on?" Warrick said as he walked over to the bartender and shook his hand. "Last I checked, this was a blues club. What happened?"

The bartender, Johnny, said as he gestured around, "With new ownership comes new ideas. We're now a sports bar. What'd you think?"

"If I wanted to go to a sports bar, it'd be one in a casino. I come here because you have a blues band," Warrick told him as he eased up to the counter. "Please tell me you still have live performances?"

"Does karaoke count?"

"No."

Johnny shrugged as he said, "I still serve alcohol. Whatcha having?"

"Whiskey." Warrick looked back at Sara as he asked, "What're you having?"

"I'll have a beer, thanks," Sara answered. When he didn't say anything because he was too busy craning his neck to look up at the mirrors on the ceiling, she asked, "Gil?"

He looked back at them and pointed up, "Why mirrors on the ceiling? Who's looking up?" He was so confused.

Warrick stared at him as he sat at the bar while Sara headed over to the jukebox. "Have you ever been in a bar before?"

"Plenty of times," he said as he took a seat next to him and then ordered a beer too.

"Without it being part of an investigation?" Warrick asked.

He picked up one of the two beers placed in front of him and took a drink as he thought about it. "Last time I was in a bar as a paying customer was...1988, in Los Angeles."

Warrick stared at him in disbelief as his glass of whiskey was placed in front of him. "You're kidding?"

"No. I've been to casinos, restaurants...a strip club. Never a bar."

"Strip club?" Warrick said with a laugh.

He took a sip on the beer and turned to him and explained, "Catherine dragged me to a few when she was with Eddie."

"That sounds like it would've been awkward for everyone."

"Tell me about it. I got a few drinks tossed in my face before I learned to keep my mouth shut." Looking across the bar, he watched as Sara made a few selections on the jukebox before going down the hall to the bathroom.

"She's fine," Warrick said as he took a sip of the whiskey. "You two serious? You look serious."

He looked at Warrick as he took a drink of the beer. "I take every relationship seriously."

Warrick smiled. "Yeah, you don't seem the type to be with someone just to have a good time."

"We're having a good time together."

"That's not-..." He looked at him, saw his confusion and said, "Forget it. I'm happy for you."

"Tell me, uh...about the rec center," he said as he wanted to get the conversation away from his relationship. "Was that the one that Matthew Phelps worked at?"

Warrick gave a nod as he told him, "It hurt the community when the police shut it down. That rec center saved my life and many other lives, I couldn't let it go. You know how many kids are now off the streets and out of trouble since I got that place back open? Fifty. That's a lot, and it's only been a year. A few of the kids are graduating high school this year, and a couple of them are going into the police academy because of me. There's um, Devon Jackson and Alan Lovos, oh, and Araf Rahm. All looking into public service careers, police or corrections. I'm telling you, Gris, neighborhoods need places like that, or else kids are just gonna run around finding out ways to kill one another or how to end up in prison fast."

"Then the Reverend was right, you are doing good work."

Warrick's smile was genuine, and it held gratitude as he told him, "Thanks. I appreciate it."

He looked away as Sara came back down the hall. She smiled at him as she crossed the floor. Watching her, he took another sip of the beer.

Feeling Warrick leaned into him, he dropped his voice as Sara got closer and said, "Let me tell you something about love, Gris. It's like invisible evidence, just because you can't see it, or don't say it, doesn't mean it's not there. And you two have been speaking volumes. I like her. She's good with you."

He wasn't looking for anyone's approval regarding Sara, but he did appreciate Warrick's opinion.

Sara sat down next to him, picked up her beer and asked, "What'd I miss?"

He shrugged as he thought of what to say as Warrick said, "Nothing much, just me and Gris talking guy stuff, you know. Hey, Sara," he said as he leaned on the counter to talk around him, "have you ever been to a strip club?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. This was going to be the death of him. And it was exactly these types of situations that he wanted to always avoid.

"I am not going with you guys to a strip club," he heard Sara say as Warrick started laughing.

He really hated going out to bars.

~"This ain't livin', this ain't livin'

No, no baby, this ain't livin'

No, no, no, no-"~

Sara sat her bag down as they entered his townhouse and asked, "What do you call me then?"

"Sara," he answered.

He made Warrick take a cab home and left his car in the parking lot of the bar. They had also taken a cab and during the ride he had mistakenly told her about how odd it was to hear someone call her his girlfriend. Next thing he knew it became an issue or debate. Whatever it was, it made his head hurt.

"Even when you talk about me with other people?"

He didn't talk about her with other people. Shaking his head, he tossed his keys on the table as he turned to face her. "I don't say anything about our relationship to other people. It's personal. You're part of my private life. No one else needs to know what we do."

She stopped in front of him and reached out to touch his face. Again, he thought maybe he was making a mistake not talking about her to other people. Did she want him to?

Sara and Warrick had spent most of the time at the bar talking, playing a few games of pool together, all while he watched. They seemed like they could become really good friends. Even though he wasn't much of a friend who hung out with anyone often, he didn't mind that Sara did or wanted to. Occasionally he and Catherine would have dinner together, or he would have a drink with Jim after work, but it wasn't a regular thing they all did together.

Then he saw her smile. "If you did, and you talked about us, about me, what would you say? My girlfriend and I…?" she questioned.

What would he say? "I uh...I guess I'd introduce you as...In my head, you're…"

"Go on…"

His brain wasn't working right apparently because it could not connect the word girlfriend to his mouth. It was like his mind was fixated on trying to find that perfect word to describe the essence of the woman standing in front of him.

He didn't like any of the normal terms. None. Trying to find that correct embodiment for Sara other than her name was confusing and overwhelming. Girlfriend sounded temporary. Partner, too subjective. Business partner? Romantic partner? It left a question about the nature of their relationship. She wasn't his spouse because they weren't married. Even if they were, he didn't like the word "spouse", it sounded too formal. Significant other? His better half? Lover?

Why in the hell did there have to be so many?

She was his darling Sara. His life. The woman he loved. She was..."I would say, um, this is Sara, my girl Sara," he said simply. "I don't know how else…" Was that okay? He hoped it was okay because no other introduction would do and-

She kissed him and his mind stopped thinking.

It wasn't often that she wore a dress, and despite her walking around in it all day, his mind never immediately strayed to anything sexually implicit when he'd looked at her wearing it, until now. Even though their relationship had gotten more physical and sexual, it didn't change the way his brain or body worked. He still needed the prompt, or inclination, before his mind detoured and went in that direction. Otherwise, it never did.

He had to seriously work at it in order to remember that she wanted and needed the physical contact to know that he did want her; and she was the only one he wanted.

Her hand had already undone his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt as she kissed his chest as his hand slid up her thigh. She grabbed his hand and he followed her up the stairs and watched as she laid down on the bed.

He didn't know how most, okay all people, viewed sex, but for him it was a science. Knowing human biology went a long way in helping him know how to please the woman he loved the most in the world. He also loved experimenting and had tested and tried many different ways of pleasing her and memorizing everything she liked and didn't like. He told her years ago that he'd read books, and he had. Numerous books on sex and sexuality and the female body and erogenous zones.

There were many erogenous zones in the human body, he'd read up to thirty-one, but people respond differently to each one, and Sara responded pleasurably to twelve erogenous zones so far. He wanted to stimulate every single one of them; making her orgasm once was the easy part, multiple times took patience, and he had lots of it since he was never in a hurry for his own pleasure. Women were meant to experience multiple orgasms during sex, while men weren't. At the most he could have two orgasms, but it wasn't often. Men were meant to come close to the edge and then back off, building the intensity until it couldn't be held back any longer. It created a much more powerful release, and it was well worth the wait.

Leaning over her, he kissed her mouth as he rubbed a hand over her inner thigh and up around her hip to her back. Her lips, neck, inner thigh and her lower back were four of the zones. His lips, tongue and teeth played with her lips and mouth, exciting moan after moan as her body tensed and shivered against his hand. A shiver ran up her spine as he caressed her lower back, making her push up into his body. The scalp was another zone, and the reason hair pulling was common during sex. His fingers slid through her hair, massaging her scalp before he grabbed a handful and pulled back as his lips attacked her neck.

She gasped in pleasure as her hands rubbed his back under his shirt, nails digging into his flesh. Her fingertips felt over the light scarring on his back, but she never said anything about it, even while she gave him a back massage. The ears were another zone, and his hand left her hair and rubbed down over her ear before going lower, down her neck and to the top of her dress.

She only liked him rubbing her ears so far; the last time he tried anything else, she nearly smacked him before laughing about it. However, he liked his ears kissed and licked, and bit and right then she bit his ear and then ran her tongue along it, making his breath catch in his chest. Her hands left his back and ran up into his hair, over his scalp, and he felt a shiver run down his own spine.

He eased the strap of her dress off her shoulder before placing a kiss on her exposed skin. Pushing the top part of her dress down all the way to expose her chest, he placed a trail of kisses to her right breast; erogenous zone number seven.

He read that a woman could actually come just by nipple stimulation alone. A theory he's tested many times and the results so far were inconclusive, but that didn't mean he'd stop trying. She was panting under him, hands in his hair, on the back of his neck and ears, scraping and rubbing, and making him lose his own mind in the process. After taking a moment to steady his own breathing, he went back to sucking, licking, and biting gently at her nipples until her squirming became too much and she reached down between them.

The reason for his inconclusive results; she had to take matters into her own hands and bring herself to climax. Looking down at her as she rode through the wave of orgasm, his hand moved up her inner thigh to erogenous zone number eight as he lightly smacked her hand aside.

"Mine," he told her as she smirked.

"Yours?"

"Better not be anyone else's" he told her as he rubbed over her clitoris with his thumb.

She gasped as he brought her to climax again.

"Say it."

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down for a kiss before telling him, "Yours. All yours. I'll let you do anything to me," she said breathlessly. "Anything. You can take me however you want, you can smack me-"

"I'll never smack you-" he went to tell her when she cut him off.

"Gil, I know the difference between abuse and sexual-"

"I won't ever smack you," he said again, stressing the point. He didn't care what it was for, whether to excite pleasure through pain or not, it was absolutely out of the question.

She saw it in his eyes, his resolve, and that put an end to it.

He leaned down and kissed her lips again as he got his thoughts back on track. He didn't want to think about it, where his mind was going with the images of women, of his mother, being beaten. Shaking his head, he sat back and closed his eyes.

"Gil?"

Letting out a breath, he opened his eyes and stared down at her, at Sara, as he lifted her leg up on his shoulder. He kissed and licked her foot, her tattooed ankle, her calf down, the back of her knee, which was number eight, and to her inner thigh. Hiking up the dress all the way above her stomach, he kissed her abdomen, another zone, until she started squirming for him to go lower.

The area below the stomach but above the labia was number eleven. He kissed her there before rubbing his thumb over the area, applying pressure as he inserted two fingers into her.

Her head dropped back, mouth panting for air as he felt for the bump and moved his fingers in a "come hither" motion until…

"Oh, God, fu-" her voice broke as he rubbed her g-shot, erogenous zone number twelve, until she came again, choking back a breath, body flushing red as she tensed and gasped.

He couldn't take it anymore. Unbuckling his belt and zipping down his pants, he turned her over onto her stomach and scooted her up onto her knees as he positioned himself behind her. Grabbing her hips, he slid in as she pushed back into him, taking him deeper as he closed his eyes and fought back a groan. It was getting harder to control his breathing as he moved while his hand left her hip to rub and play with her body as she struggled to breathe under him.

Then she was screaming for him to go faster, harder, right there in that spot. "Don't stop," she begged him as her hands dug into the sheets.

She choked back a sob, burying her face in the pillow as she screamed out again as she came, her body tensing and jerking. He quickly followed after her as he gasped out loud as he spilled into her, his body constricting and releasing. Nearly collapsing on top of her, he had to catch himself as he fought to breathe. His mouth panting for air, his back and head sweaty. He felt light-headed as his ears felt like he'd gone deaf from the rise in blood pressure. It was the most intense orgasm he's had yet.

Through all the reactions in his body, the feel of the orgasm, there was a dominant emotion that gripped his chest and heart. As he laid down next to her, lazily kissing Sara's lips, he knew what he was feeling was love. It tore at his heart, took up ownership of his mind, and made him completely vulnerable to it; to her. She could do anything to him. She could strengthen him and lift him up, or she could beat him down and rip him apart. He had let her in, passed the wall he'd built, and let her pierce his heart.

She made him hurt.

That's what love was, wasn't it? Letting someone in? Was that the correct conclusion? Was he doing this right?

As her hand massaged the back of his neck, her other hand in his hair, she pulled herself over top of him and he felt their hearts beating together.

Then she told him, "I love you," before kissing him.

He let out a breath, then another, as he looked into her eyes and saw the truth in them. He saw her honestly.

Answer: He could love, and she could love him back.

His brain was slow to get words to his mouth. Any words. He had to tell her the same because he knew it to be the truth. His mouth just wasn't working. The words jumbled in his brain lost direction as they travelled down to his tongue.

It was still hard to properly understand what love meant to him, but he knew it was there in that moment. It had always been there but not always as clear as it was right then. It felt strong and definitive and no longer a question.

Rolling her over onto her back as he kissed her, he laid his hand flat over her chest, over her heart, as his middle and ring fingers bent down and left the thumb, index, and pinkie up. The ASL sign for "I love you".

Resting his head next to hers, he applied pressure as he pushed the sign into her skin. She saw his hand, felt the sign it made, and knew what it meant. His head was just having a hard time making it into words. It didn't seem real. But it was real. The most real emotion he'd ever felt in his life.

With her, he felt, finally, like he was alive. This was what living felt like.

It hurt.

~"Inflation no chance

To increase finance-"~

He received a phone call as he pulled up to the lab. Placing the car in park, he answered the phone. "Grissom." At hearing the call from Brass, he hurried out of the car as he grabbed his field kit from the back. "I'll be right there."

Catherine was out to Henderson on an assault case and Nick had the night off. Searching the lab, he spotted Warrick and Sofia as he passed the locker room door; they were both just getting in.

He pointed to them as he said, "You two are with me. We have an officer involved shooting with an officer down. We have to hurry."

Warrick grabbed his field kit as he yelled after him, "I'll grab a truck and meet you out back."

He got into the passenger seat of the truck as Warrick shifted it into drive as the radio came to life from dispatch. The 422 was now a 420. It was the "end of watch" for Officer Clay.

"Damn it," he heard Sofia say in the backseat as Warrick sped through the streets towards the supermarket where the shooting had taken place. "He took my assignment when I transferred over. That could have been me."

Looking in the rearview, he told her, "It wasn't. I'm going to need you to be focused on scene-"

"I'll be good," she told him.

He gave a nod as he refocused his eyes on the road as he felt something grip his chest. It felt almost like...guilt.

His cell phone rang. It was Sara. Answering, he told her, "Good evening."

"Good morning."

"I wish I could talk but I'm on my way to a scene."

"It's okay. I'm exhausted anyway." She sounded disappointed but she knew this was his job. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last time, that he didn't have the time to read to her before bed. "I'll be lucky if I'm not asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow...I miss you."

He smiled into the phone upon hearing those words. Not being alone, he hesitated to tell her the same; instead, he said, "Me too. Sleep well, and...I'll text you in the morning."

As he flipped his phone shut, he heard Warrick ask, "Sara?"

"Yeah," he said as he pocketed the phone.

"Sara?" Sofia asked from behind him.

"Girlfriend," Warrick told her.

"Ah, well...Good to know that maintaining a relationship can actually be accomplished with this job."

Warrick smiled slightly as he said, "Ya lookin' to maintain a relationship with someone?"

He saw the looks being passed through the rearview and shook his head. He did not want to know. Glancing at Warrick, he told him, "Eyes on the road."

~"Bills pile up sky high

Send that boy off to die-"~

Through the swirling of lights, he spotted Officer Fromansky sitting in the back of an ambulance with blood on his hands and shirt. He looked dazed as his unfocused eyes followed him. His thoughts were elsewhere. On his fallen partner, maybe?

"Body count is five," Brass told him.

Entering the store, he saw the chaos: multiple suspects down, debris of food and containers everywhere from bullet impacts, running customers, and then he saw the blood pool on the floor around the uniformed officer. Officer Clay was on his stomach gun out of the holster but not fast enough.

"Officer Clay entered the store unaware of a robbery that was in progress," Brass was telling him as he got out his camera to start taking photos. "Officer Fromansky came in after he heard a shot fired. Engaged two suspects. Lit the place up. The ski masks are John Does. The rest have wallet IDs. Woman at the back is Julia Reed, cocktail waitress at the Tangiers. Man on aisle four is Rufus Sanders, cab driver."

Warrick walked over to him after taking photos as he asked, "How do you want us to handle this, Grissom?"

His mind was already working, taking in the bullet casings, the blood splatter, and he hadn't really heard the question.

"The same way you assemble a car," Sofia said from behind him as she dropped a marker and took a photo of a shell casing. "One piece at a time."

He smirked at Warrick as he nodded to Sofia and said, "What she said." His eyes spotted blood drops on the floor, and they were leading under a display table. "Hey, Jim," he said as he started walking toward the blood drops and display table. "Did you know that Charles Manson is only 5'2"?"

"Yeah, little guys tend to overcompensate," Brass said, confused as to why he was asking before he saw the blood on the floor.

"Do you remember the, uh, story about how and where the marshals found old Charlie when they raided Barker ranch?"

Brass pulled his gun as he answered, "I always liked that story" and knelt down to aim it under the table.

He grabbed the cloth and moved it aside. When he saw a little boy huddled on his side, shivering and bleeding from a gunshot wound, he yelled, "We need a medic!"

As Brass holstered his weapon, he dropped to the floor as he looked the boy over. He didn't want to touch him until he knew where and how he was shot. The boy blinked at him, his eyes wide with fear. Reaching out, he touched his skin and felt how clammy it felt in his hand. Just like Sara had been in the hotel room after shooting Hank. The boy was in shock.

Seeing the medical unit rounding the corner, he started to move away when a small hand reached out and grabbed his hand in a death grip.

"Sir, you're going to have to move," one of the medics told him.

"I'm trying, but…" He tried to pry the fingers off his hand, but the grip got tighter as the boy started to shake harder. He was terrified. "Okay, okay...Let's, uh-Can we possibly move the table?"

They worked to clear the display table, making sure not to disturb the scene too much, before it was lifted away. Once they all got a clear view of the boy, the medics were able to treat the wound on his shoulder and head properly before lifting him to the stretcher; the boy's hand still wouldn't let go of him until they were in the ambulance. The boy was given some pain medication and as he watched his eyelids drop as he fell asleep he picked the hand up off his and laid it down at his side.

"Kid probably thought you were his hero."

He glanced up at the EMT before getting out of the ambulance and spotted Brass who was waiting for him. "Where are his parents?"

"The store's clerk is his mother. Sofia's talking to her now. I'll let her know he's out here."

The next night, while he was working over the case at his desk, reviewing the photographs from the crime scene, he heard someone walk into his office. Looking up, he saw Officer Fromansky standing just inside the door.

"Before this goes any deeper, I want to hear it from you. Are you going to try to screw me on this?"

Brass had asked him earlier if this was personal and he'd answered the truth; it wasn't. Some cases got to him, mostly those involving children, but he never let any case get too personal. His mind didn't focus or fixate on subjective emotions. Everything he did was always based on objective information. The evidence and the truth, and not how he felt, drove his actions and decision making.

But right then, he felt angry and vindictive. Officer Fromansky had made it personal. It was almost like he wanted a fight. And he didn't like that, especially since it was coming from a cop. Was that the way he acted on the job?

"Well?" Fromansky impatiently asked.

That made his jaw twitch. He wanted to hit him for even thinking that he would do anything other than his job just out of spite. He couldn't help but remember Officer Fromansky's words to him a year ago during the vigilante case he had worked on with Warrick.

Setting the photos down on his desk, he finally addressed him as he said, "I guess it depends on whether I get stuck in traffic on the way to your hearing."

They stared at one another for a moment and he knew Fromansky saw his anger as he backed away and left his office.

Shaking his head, he went back to work.

That morning as he was getting into his car to go home for the day, he spotted Warrick in the parking lot standing next to his motorcycle talking to Sofia. Their interaction was lively and flirtatious. They were laughing and smiling as he handed her a bike helmet.

Turning his attention away from the two of them, he backed out of the parking space and headed home. Once there he could relax and let the stress from the night before fade away. Or, at least he hoped. Before he got home, though, he received a phone call. There was a break in the case. He had to go back to the lab.

Tossing the phone onto the seat next to him as he made a U-turn, he cursed under his breath. He wouldn't be relaxing anytime today.

~"Oh, make me want to holler

The way they do my life (duh, duh, duh)-"~

An early roll out had interrupted his viewing of the Championship of Poker. Turning off the TV, he grabbed the dog leash as Edmond jumped up to go outside. He also grabbed his jacket, keys, and field kit before leaving his house. On the way to the scene his phone rang, and he saw it was Sara.

"Good morning," he answered the phone.

"Good evening. I was going to text you but-"

"It's okay. I've been busy lately and missing your voice." And so many other things.

"Yeah, I've been sleeping horrible without hearing you read to me."

He heard the teasing but knew she was missing their nightly ritual. His mind immediately went to a poem as he told her, "Maya Angelou wrote: "In all the world there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world there is no love for you like mine."."

She was quiet on the end of the phone before she told him, "I love you too. I'll see you this weekend, won't I?"

"Yeah." If he didn't end up with a case.

Getting to the gated community with million-dollar houses, he got out and pulled on his jacket as he saw Catherine arrive. Then a while later, he saw Greg. He looked like he was on his way to a Black Flag concert instead of a crime scene.

As he approached him, he saw Greg's eyes widen and face drop. "What're you wearing?"

"I-I came right from home; I-"

"You're not in the lab anymore, Greg. This is a crime scene. The victims' families are here, their friends, the press...What if you had to conduct an interview? Sometimes it's not what you know to be true, it's how you're being perceived that becomes the truth. How you look and what you do matters. In this job, perception is everything."

"I got it," Greg said as he gave a nod. His face had completely fallen.

"I hope so. Go help Catherine inside the house. I don't want you out here," he said as he shook his head. At spotting Warrick who was about to go inside the house with Catherine, he called out, "Hey, Warrick. You're out here with me. Greg's with Catherine." Looking back at Greg, he said, "Since she called you, you're her problem."

Walking away, he left Greg staring after him. As he got to the victim's car, he saw Warrick watching him as he walked over.

"I told Greg if you saw him dressed like that, he'd catch heat. I set him straight."

He looked at him as he pulled on his gloves. Warrick had come a long way since he first became supervisor. After several missteps and second chances, he learned from his mistakes and took it upon himself to be a mentor to everyone else, especially Greg. If he were to ever leave, Warrick would make a great replacement as supervisor.

And that thought was still on his mind as he filled out employee evaluation forms. He sucked as a supervisor when it came to paperwork. He hated paperwork.

Catherine sat across from him as he finished filling hers out as she told him ways to help her advance. Hell, he didn't know what to do or offer her. She was a better CSI than him and should have been the one made supervisor a long time ago. For him, this was punishment.

"Gil, how do you do this? Honestly, how do you juggle scheduling and vacations and…"

"The goal of any supervisor is to teach someone how to take his place someday."

"Are you going someplace?"

He leaned back in his chair as he thought about that. His mind drifted to Sara in Los Angeles as he said, "You never know."

"Are you considering me?" she asked.

He was considering a lot of people, but mostly her and Warrick were the top two candidates for the position. "Why not? You're certainly qualified. But a CSI who uses the DNA lab to establish her own paternity...calls into question her judgment, don't you think?" He grabbed the evaluation file folder and put it in front of Catherine.

She read the form over as she said, "You've left that out. Are you covering for me?"

"I believe that we've dealt with this issue, handled it internally. As far as I'm concerned, it's dead. Besides…" he said as he handed her a pen so she could sign, "you'll never do it again. So just sign your name next to the red "X", and we can be done."

"Before I sign, um, since we're putting all of our cards on the table," she said, "there's something you should know. Sam Braun wrote me a check, and...I cashed it."

She did what now? He stared at her as he realized how that could be perceived. It could be viewed as her taking a bribe. "For how much?"

Catherine hesitated before saying, "Enough to where Lindsay and I can do anything and, not enough to where we can do nothing."

He shook his head as he said, "Sam Braun was a murder suspect in one of your cases. How does this not look like a payoff?" Was it a payoff?

He couldn't think that; he had to trust the people he worked with, and he's known Catherine for a long time. He didn't want to question her judgement, or her honestly as a CSI, but now he couldn't help it. She has known him for a long time as well, and he knew there was so much she didn't know about him either.

"I consulted an attorney," she defended herself and actions, telling him, "It is a check from a father to a daughter. It is completely out of departmental jurisdiction."

"What about conflict of interest? Not just for you but for this lab." And since when did he think about bureaucracy?

"Gil, I would never compromise you or the lab."

"Maybe not legally, but ethically?" Wasn't he compromising the lab both legally and ethically? Was this even about her anymore? Shaking his head in disappointment, at her and himself, he asked, "What else should I know, Catherine?"

"That's everything," she said defensively as she grabbed the pen and signed her name.

After she left, he put his head in his hands and let out a breath. There was anger coursing through his chest, aching his head, and it wasn't solely directed at Catherine. He'd always known what he was doing. Always had justifications and that what he did had to be done, and he had to do it. And he wanted to do it.

It was like a compulsion.

It was hard for him to admit that it felt like that, like killing was an addiction that he didn't want to quit. His desire burned in his head every second of the day and it had been for a long time. Lately, however, Sara had been helping him starve off the need for it. Helped him to refocus his thoughts and energy into another different kind of compulsion: his love for her.

But would her love be enough to keep him from killing again?

Question: Could he stop killing for her?

He didn't know if wanted to, but he had to consider it.

~"Yeah, make me want to holler

The way they do my life-"~

As the days passed, everything started to hurt a lot more than before. He told Sara once that he repressed himself for a reason; all his emotions that tried to build up and overflow had been pushed down to the point where he didn't feel anything. He told her it was because sometimes everything hurt.

He also remembered thinking that with Sara, all her anger had been coming out sideways due to her inability to properly manage it. And now, the same could be said for himself. It was coming out all wrong, sideways, and it was starting to make him regret ever letting himself feel anything.

Since he started loving Sara, since he opened himself up to let her in, the pain had quadrupled. It was hard to keep his patience, especially at work. He was getting angrier. He didn't know how to deal with the anger. He didn't know how to deal with feeling so much, so deeply, all the time.

He felt exposed. Like an open wound not being properly treated, and he was getting infected. Any touch, any emotional situation directed towards him, felt like shrapnel was spreading throughout his body and slicing him all up on the inside.

He was being torn apart.

~"Oh, baby

Dah, dah, dah

Dah, dah, dah-"~

Going to the only place he felt safe aside from Sara's arms, he knocked on Heather's front door and she let him in. It was early in the morning and the place was quiet. He heard a noise in the kitchen and saw Sally making breakfast. "I'm interrupting."

"Nonsense, you're always welcome. You and Edmond," she said as she sat down in the chair in the room with the fireplace as Edmond walked over to her.

Sally walked into the room and handed her a cup of coffee. He caught the look between the two of them and he was reminded of their happiness. "Would you like a cup?" she asked him.

"Thank you. Uh, black.". He watched Sally go back down the hallway to the kitchen before addressing Heather. "If I'm interrupting-"

"Grissom, sit down," she ordered and he sat down.

Sally walked back in and handed him a cup and then went over to Heather and gave her a kiss before heading upstairs.

He watched her go as he took a sip of the coffee.

"Checking out my girlfriend?"

He looked back at her as he said, "No. I was thinking about your relationship. How happy you two are together. I saw that when I took pictures of you two. I remember being a little envious of that happiness."

"You have happiness now with Sara."

He gave a nod as he looked into his cup of coffee, like it was telling him something. It wasn't.

"Did I make an inaccurate assumption?"

He shook his head. No, she wasn't wrong. He was happy with Sara, she made him happy. But she also made him open. Exposed. And he didn't like that. So, that's what he told Heather. "I haven't felt like this since I…" Giving it some thought, he realized he never felt this much. Shaking his head, he told her, "I have never felt so much before in my life."

"Felt what, exactly?"

He shrugged as he tried to put it into words. Settling on one word, he told her, "Everything."

She regarded him as she drank her coffee and petted his dog. "How does it feel to...feel so much?"

Again, there was only one word that he could think of. "Painful. I can't stop it, and it makes me angry. I yelled at Greg over not being dressed appropriately at work. I yelled at Catherine over something…I almost hit a cop-"

She laughed.

"It's not funny."

"Come on, that's a little funny," she said with a smile before taking a drink. "Would he have deserved it?"

"What difference does that make?" he asked but then answered, "Yes."

"Maybe you should've."

"That's not productive," he said as he shook his head and rubbed at the pain behind his eyes.

"Maybe not, but at least it would have been an outlet. You're repressing these intense emotions that you're not used to experiencing and sooner-or-later, you're going to explode. So, we need to find a way for you to handle them, now, productively, before you end up getting charged with assaulting a police officer. There are several different ways-"

"Why is it happening to begin with?" he suddenly asked. Hoping she had an answer that was different than the one he concluded.

Instead of giving him a reason, she turned it back to him as she said, "You tell me."

He let out a breath as he sat back on the couch and stared up at the portraits that he'd drawn for her. Heather was remarkably patient as she took another drink and waited. Despite being the one in control here, she was the dominant in their relationship. She was the one guiding him, leading him, and gathering all the information in response to him and then giving him exactly what he needed.

She knew he needed to be the one to work it out in his own head in order to understand. She couldn't tell him anything because he would question it. He would find the flaw and disregard it as untrue. However, if he came to the conclusion himself, he would know it to be true and accept it.

His answer was love. This was happening because of love. "I let her in. I...opened a door and now…"

"It's stuck open and you can't shut it."

He shook his head. "I want to, but-...What if by doing so I shut Sara out completely? I could lose her."

"Grissom, you've spent most of your life ignoring your emotions, living inside your mind and behind a wall. Now, with that wall open, you're vulnerable. Not just to her but to everyone. Since you're not used to it, it feels…"

"Chaotic," he said as he thought about what it all felt like. It was like his mind and heart were at war.

"You are going to have to learn how to deal with these emotions and regulate your boundaries. Learn when and how to shut things out and when to let things in. Right now, it feels like chaos because you never had to do that before."

He took a drink of the coffee as he thought about that. She was right. He never had to because he had always hid himself away. He always let his mind rule over his heart. His thoughts were always his and never anyone else's.

"Have you talked to Sara about any of this? Have you told her how you feel?"

He shook his head.

She sighed in annoyance, but she wasn't angry. It was because he wasn't communicating with Sara. He was supposed to be communicating with her more as their relationship built in intimacy. Edmond walked over to him and pushed his body against his leg. Reaching out, he petted his dog.

"Grissom, talking with her about all of this is a way that can help you regulate your emotions, but it can also help you understand what's going on inside your mind. She's your girlfriend."

He didn't want to regulate his emotions; he wanted to stop feeling. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted the anger to stop. He liked it better when he felt nothing, when he felt dead on the inside. "I don't know if I can do that. I just want it to stop."

"Emotions aren't the problem."

Then what was the problem? People weren't the problem because they were all the same. They were illogical, irrational, emotional, and unpredictable. He was a constant that became a variable. He had changed. So, if emotions weren't the problem, and people weren't the problem, then that left the only remaining logical answer…

"I'm the problem," he said in realization. "I wasn't built for this."

"Grissom-"

"I need to think," he stressed; it was his way of telling her to stop. He was so tired.

"It wears you down, doesn't it?" When he only looked at her as he tried to figure out what she meant, she told him, "Thinking."

"It's exhausting."

"Well, it would be for anyone if they considered it an activity like you do. I bet you could spend days doing it without a break. We all need a break every now-and-then, even from thinking. If you need to rest, or to lie down, you're welcome to my guest room. I'll make sure no one interrupts you." She stood and left him alone with his thoughts.

A while later, he got up and headed for the stairs. Edmond followed.

~"Hang-ups, let downs

Bad breaks, setbacks-"~

Warrick was driving as they headed out to the No Vacancy Motel where their suspect, Walter Darian, had lived. It wasn't too long of a drive, but long enough to where Warrick felt like he had to play some music to keep from being bored. He never was much of a talker, and very rarely did small talk. Unless it was about the case, then they weren't talking. His mind was too busy anyway to pay any attention to Warrick, or to the music he was playing.

His mind was on the autopsy of their victim; the man Walter Darian had killed: Tony Sciarro from Philadelphia.

Doc Robbins asked as he peered into the victim's mouth, "How many teeth did you find at the scene?"

Without having to even think about it, he told him, "Two".

"He's missing six. I found one in the back of his mouth. He probably swallowed the other three."

He grimaced slightly as he thought about that. He remembered how much his hand hurt after beating Syd Goggle. "Bare knuckles?"

"Officially, COD is diffuse axonal injury. Unofficially...it's the most brutal beating I've ever seen in a while. The last one that was this brutal was Syd Goggle."

He flinched. Inside, he felt the rage that he had in his body when he'd killed Goggle. As he thought about the rage inflicted on the victim, he wondered how much rage the killer had in him. "Maybe there were no other attackers."

Robbins was surprised and stunned as he questioned him, "One guy did all of this?"

"I think so."

Robbins sighed as he looked down at the victim and asked, "You sure you aren't looking for the same guy who did Goggle? Both beatings were brutal-"

"No," he suddenly said before catching himself. Robbins' eyes were on him as he pulled off his gloves and headed for the door. "I don't think so."

The music was turned down as he heard Warrick say, "You gonna act like nothing happened?"

What? He looked over at him as he tried to understand the question. "Act like what didn't happen?"

Warrick glanced over at him behind his sunglasses. "That you were attacked."

"It's done. He died."

"Yeah, but…Gris, you're wearing a scarf around your neck, man. I know what you said before, about not showing any tells because you don't want to be exposed, but…This is taking it to a whole new level. I thought you just meant figuratively. I'd hate to see what you'd do if you got a blackeye or something. You gonna wear sunglasses all night, an eyepatch?"

Maybe he was taking it a step too far, but he didn't like it when Walter Darian's sister kept looking at the burned bruise on his neck. He didn't like the questions it raised. The eyes that turned toward him when he entered a room. Nor the attention it brought.

He really did like being a ghost. He liked hiding. It was safe. This wasn't safe. Nothing about this was safe.

Question: Was it still safe to hide?

~"Natural fact is

Oh honey that I can't pay my taxes

Oh, make me want to holler

And throw up both my hands-"~

It wouldn't stop.

The hits just kept on coming. Day after day and week after week.

Sam Braun stood in the room that Brass had called "the box" as he took a bottle of luminol and sprayed it around the table, the chairs, and the walls to see if there was any blood to be found. As he worked, Sam asked him, "I'm curious. What bothers you more? The fact that you couldn't pin a murder on me or that Catherine cashed my check?"

Straightening, he looked at the casino/hotel owner and a man whom he believed committed murder and had gotten away with it and felt the anger in his chest again. Why did everyone think he wanted to implicate them in crimes they swore they didn't commit? First Fromansky and now Sam Braun. The difference was that Fromansky was innocent. He didn't think Sam was, and he knew it.

"There were no strings on that money."

He was reminded of what Warrick had told him about invisible evidence and love as he told Sam, "Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it's not there."

There were stings on that money because everything came with strings. Money, friendship, love…It was all conditional. It all had a price.

And someone always had to pay.

Getting to the lab, he hurried through the halls and to his office and shut the door. As he dropped into his chair behind his desk, staring at his collection over the shelves, he was reminded of Lieutenant Mendez from L.A. SES when he asked him why he'd spiked Tim Coleman's energy bar that ended up killing him. He had done it because he was being replaced. Someone new was coming in, raising the ranks, and Mendez was being passed over.

He had told him that everyone got replaced. It was what happened. Once you were no longer useful…once you got wore down, incapable of performing your job, someone else comes along and–

Leaning his head back on the chair, he grabbed his cell phone as he noticed the time. Flipping the phone open, he saw her text: "Are you at work?"

Texting her back, he told her: "Yes." Setting the phone down, he rubbed his head as he thought about leaving. He could just go. Clock out and get in his car and drive away. Simple. But he couldn't.

The phone rang on his desk. He flipped it open as he smiled into it as he said, "Good evening."

"Good morning," she said. He heard the disappointment in that greeting and frowned. There would be no reading to her tonight. He was at work; he'd been at work. "You sound distant. Are you doing okay?"

He closed his eyes as he thought about that. He wasn't doing okay, but he didn't tell her that. Instead, he said, "Just tired."

"Well, I thought for once I can recite you a poem." That got his interest as he waited for what she had for him. "It's quick, it won't take long, and then I'll let you get back to work."

"I'm all ears. Let me hear it."

"I hope I get this right; it took me all day to memorize it. Here goes…"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." When heard her voice quoting Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, he couldn't help but smile. "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height, my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight, for the ends of being and ideal grace". That was–"

"Sonnet 43," he said. "Elizabeth Barrett Browning."

"Of course you would knew it."

"If you haven't noticed, I have an entire row on my bookshelf dedicated to poetry."

"Oh, believe me, I've noticed," she said, and he heard the humor in her voice. "They're sandwiched between the row dedicated to art and photography, and the one for entomology."

"Have you been reading my books?" he asked.

She nearly laughed as she said, "You're telling me that you didn't notice?"

Wait, she's been reading his books? He thought back to the times she was there and the books he'd seen her reading. "I don't remember–"

"I've been swiping a book of yours every time I leave town and returning it when I get back." He hadn't noticed. How did he not realize she'd been taking his books home with her to Los Angeles? "Guess your mind's been elsewhere," he heard her say.

"I guess so." Speaking of his mind being elsewhere, he had to get back to work. "I have to go. I am at work and this paperwork isn't going to get done all by itself…unfortunately."

"I'll text you in the morning and will be awaiting your email."

He'd already had it in his drafts ready to send once he looked it over and made sure he hadn't missed anything. "How have you been?" he finally asked. It took him a while to remember he was supposed to be asking those types of questions.

"I've been good. Better than I've been in a long time, thanks to you." He shook his head as he closed his eyes. It wasn't him. He was only her guide. She was the one doing all the work. Before he could tell her that though, she told him, "Have a good night, Gil."

"You too, darling. Sweet dreams." He flipped the phone shut and sat it on his desk as he let out a deep breath.

She was his only relief. He felt more grounded than he had all day. She made him think that maybe he could do this. He just had to figure out how. Heather was right, talking to Sara was a must. Since he had let her in, what she had to say to him mattered more now than it ever did before. And he valued her opinion before, but now it was different.

He was reminded of what he'd thought before about Sara and their relationship; how she could either build him up or knock him down. So far, she was giving him so much strength to go on that he actually believed he could. Turning to face his desk, he picked up a file and flipped it open.

Later that evening, Catherine had made a comment. It was poignant and directed right at him as she said, "Then have it come from you. Warrant shouldn't be hard to get, especially if the call comes from someone whose character is above reproach."

Staring up at her, he couldn't help but think she was needling him on purpose. "I already told you once that I'm not perfect, Catherine."

"Then why do you have to make everyone else feel like they've got to be." That reminded him of something Sara had told him years ago; she called him perfect before throwing a dish towel into his chest. "You're always walking around here ready to criticize when someone doesn't live up to your expectations. We're all human, Gil–"

"What am I supposed to do, Catherine? Let everyone run around here doing whatever they want to do and put into question the integrity of this lab, our work–"

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it!" He had no idea what set it off, but the next thing he knew, they were yelling at one another. She had her finger pointed at his chest telling him, "You're one of the most condescending, insensitive–"

"I don't have to be sensitive, all I have to be is your boss. I expect you to respect that and to not jeopardize a murder investigation–"

"I have never jeopardized an investigation–"

"You jeopardized it when you took a payoff–"

"It wasn't a payoff–"

"You know that, and I know that, but IA or any defense attorney worth their pay could make the accusation–"

"Hey!" They both stopped and turned to look at Warrick who was standing in the doorway. "This office isn't soundproof, you know. The whole lab can hear you two."

He glanced out the windows and saw everyone in the lab, all the techs and Nick and Sofia, staring at them.

Catherine threw her hands up as she turned to walk out. "I'm done with this, Gil."

He shook his head. "You were already off the case."

"I wasn't talking about the case," she shot back as she turned to face him.

He saw something in her eyes he'd never seen in them before: disappointment. She was disappointed in him. He didn't do anything, say anything, that wasn't the truth. It was that what he had said was what she didn't want to hear. He didn't understand. How did he end up hurting her that badly? "Catherine–"

"Don't apologize–"

"I wasn't going to apologize," he said before he took another breath but before he could say what he wanted to say, she cut him off.

"You want to help me advance, Gil, I heard Swings is going to be needing a new supervisor. Put in a recommendation for me so I can get off this shift."

In other words, to get away from him. He watched her go as Warrick looked back at him and shrugged before walking after her. "Cath," he heard Warrick say as he caught up with her down the hall.

He stayed in his office and shut the door.

~"Yea, it make me want to holler

And throw up both my hands-"~

Sara was in the kitchen, making a crockpot vegetarian chili, as he sat at the kitchen counter and worked on a crossword puzzle. His mind was racing through the events of the last couple of days, with Catherine's impending move to Swing Shift, the cases he worked on, the case he was currently working on, that it was hard to concentrate on words.

He needed a word…"Ten letter word that means "merciful or kind in judging others"?"

Frowning at him, she sat the knife down and reached over and felt his cheek with the back of her hand, and then his forehead.

"What're you doing?"

"Making sure you're feeling okay. It's charitable."

"You making sure I don't have a fever is charitable?" he asked in confusion.

"No, Gil, that's the answer," she said before going back to chopping up the vegetables.

He looked back down at the crossword as he saw she was right. It was the answer. He filled in the word and then dropped the paper to the counter as he buried his face in his hands.

"Seriously, are you feeling okay?" she asked again.

No, he wasn't feeling okay. He hadn't felt okay in a long time. Staring over at her, he thought about what Heather had told him. That he needed to communicate better. He had already let her into his heart, now he had to let her into his thoughts, his life, and that included not only the present, but his past. How did he do that? What did he say?

Those were the questions that were on his mind most of the day. He tried to fall asleep, but those questions wouldn't let him sleep. Sara was next to him, her arm over his chest. Edmond was at the foot of the bed, and he was staring at the ceiling lost in thought. His head hurt.

Letting out a sigh, he tossed the blanket off as he gently moved her arm so as not to wake her up. Edmond jumped off the bed and followed him down to the living room. He let him outside before pouring himself a drink and going down to his art studio. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well do something.

He opened the patio door, leaving the screen door closed as Edmond walked around to the patio and laid down. Edmond would let him know when he was ready to come inside. After taking a drink, he sat it down on a table before grabbing a canvas and a charcoal pencil and block. He wasn't a sculptor like Paul Milander had been, but he'd been practicing his portraits more and more lately. There were many faces that flooded his mind, in many different contortions and expressions. All of them were expressing some sort of pain, or fear, or horror.

They were never at peace. Never in a state of solace or happiness.

Whenever he drew or painted a portrait, he always showed what was going on within instead of what was being shown on the outside. There were always two sides, he told himself. Good and evil.

The face that formed on the canvas was his own and how he saw himself. Ever since he turned investigative attention inward, trying to figure out how to solve the problem of himself, he'd realized that before he hadn't really seen himself at all. Before, he had no image. There had been no interest in ever doing a self-portrait. It would've been a blank canvas.

Seeing himself for the first time, he also realized how much he'd been paying for it. The denial of what he truly was, the justifications he gave to every kill he ever committed, and the blocking off of his heart, his life, from the outside world, had truly been damaging. On the inside, his mind was infested with spiders, picking and prying at his brain, his heart pierced and mangled with bullet shrapnel, lungs constricted in a vice grip, and his eyes…Behind his eyes stared back the monster. He was dark and dangerous and wanted out.

The killer within was threatening to kill him.

He was the problem. There had to be a way to fix this. There was always a solution. And death wasn't the answer.

Staring at the drawing of himself, he tilted his head at the image and felt nothing.

It was better than the pain.

~"Crime is increasing

Trigger happy policing-"~

They had found Linley Parker's body. Nick and Catherine were working the scene as he went with her body back to the morgue. Linley had been raped again before she was killed.

"Rape is just foreplay with this guy. He really gets off on killing."

Staring down at her body on the metal table in the morgue, he remembered the woman who'd died at the hands of her abusive boyfriend, Samuel Reitz. It was the case that made him question whether or not evil could be killed without it being considered murder. He tested that theory not just with biblical documentation and scripture, but by killing Father Thomas and then Samuel Reitz.

He never felt anything when he killed other than a spark of life that filled the emptiness. He didn't get off on it. It never made him excited. It only made him want to do it again.

Like an addiction.

"The doctors explained it. I'm a creature of myth," Todd Coombs told him after he discovered that Mr. Coombs was in fact a rapist and a murderer.

Sitting in the jail cell, and collecting his blood, he told him, "A chimera. Head of a lion, body of a goat, tail of a dragon. You're a genetic anomaly. One person, two completely different sets of DNA."

They stared at one another, and he didn't feel anything for Todd Coombs, but he felt a lot for Linley Parker. He regretted not finding out sooner what Mr. Coombs was on the inside. He regretted letting him go. He regretted not being able to kill Mr. Coombs before he could kill Linley Parker.

Todd Coombs had no idea how close he'd come to being his victim, and he never would. He got up and left the cell.

A day later, he stood behind the glass in the observation room as he heard Brass's voice say through the speaker, "State your name for the record."

Mr. Coombs sat on the other side of the table, looking into the camera that recorded his confession. "My name is Todd Coombs. I raped and murdered Emma Dobbins and Linley Parker. There are more, but we'll talk about those later."

He couldn't help but think of himself in that seat, saying nearly the same thing but differently. "My name is Gil Grissom. I've murdered many men and women, and you'd never know it." Another voice entered his head with a similar message: "My name is Paul Millander…I can't do this anymore…"

Dropping his head into his hand, he tried to rub the pain away. The sound of Paul shooting himself away. Sooner-or-later, they all had to pay the price. Didn't they?

"But when I see a woman who arouses me…" Mr. Coombs said as he stared right into the camera, "the whole world disappears...except for her. She can't say no."

Sara could say no. She could leave. She could say stop.

Question: If she knew how many he's killed, would she love him?

Staring at Todd Coombs through the glass he knew one undeniable truth: Not only did he want to kill him, but he wanted Sara to know he did it. He was tired of hiding himself from her.

Answer: He couldn't stop killing. Not even for Sara.

He didn't want to.

~"Panic is spreading

God knows where we're heading-"~

He set up his workstation in the darkroom, a task he's done so often it was second nature. The film reel, film tank, cassette opener, scissors, thermometer, at timer, plastic container, a clothesline and clothespins, some paper towels, plastic sleeves, film developer, a stop bath, fixer, wetting agent, and film cleaner. Once he had everything in its place, he turned off the lights. In the darkness he used the cassette opener to open the film. Using his fingers, he unrolled the film, feeling for the piece of tape that connected the film to the plastic, grabbing the scissors he cut the film. To the left was the film reel, and he expertly loaded the film onto the reel by sliding the film into slit in the side and then twisting the reel back-and-forth winding the rest of the film. Once the rest of the film was secure in the reel, he placed it into the film tank, covered it and made sure it was tightly secured.

He turned the red safelight and then completed his next tasks after pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He mixed the film developer and water in a plastic container as he thought about how he was going to develop the film. Dilution: 1+50, temperature: 75°F, development time: 8 minutes, 1-minute agitation at the beginning and 4 inversions each minute. Stop bath for 10 seconds with Ilford Ilfostop and then fixer for 3 minutes with Ilford Rapid Fixer. The film would have softer edges but a sharp image with fine grain and very detailed.

Going through the steps of pouring the developer mixture into the tank, agitation, stop bath and then fixer, it was finally time to remove the film from the tank. He thoroughly rinsed the film with cold water for a few minutes to ensure there were no leftover chemicals and then soaked the film in a wetting agent to rid it of excess water and to avoid the development of streaks or bubble marks. He took the film off the reel and unrolled it by twisting the sides of it in opposite directions. Then he pulled it apart, separating it into two pieces. Using the clothespins, and the scissors to cut the negative film into smaller pieces, he hung the film to dry.

~"Oh, make me want to holler

They don't understand-"~

As he hung the negatives, his eyes peering at the images he'd taken, his mind drifted back.

He was left alone in the interrogation room as Brass left to take a call and sitting across the table from him was Marlon Wayward, pedophile. Marlon was trying to tell him how it wasn't him who abducted 13-year-old Alicia Perez. "Listen...I'm, uh, I'm sick," Marlon was saying, "You know, I got this-this illness, which...Look, I don't want to go back to prison. That's why I'm being so compliant. Now, yo, I don't work near no little kids. I stay a hundred yards from the school grounds. Man, I don't even go to the park."

"It's not a disease," he told Marlon. "It's a compulsion."

He knew all about the irresistible compulsions. And just like Marlon, he knew he wasn't sick. He didn't have a disease. What he had was a desire. A deep dark urge within his own head, his soul, that was hard to control and even harder to keep suppressed, especially as he stared over at the man who liked to have sex with children.

"I stay away from youth organizations," Marlon said, "after-school programs, churches…"

"We found a pair of boy's underwear in your bedroom. Explain that."

Marlon was getting antsy and nervous as he told him, "I look at the photos. I look at the photos and I have the briefs for, um...release." He almost seemed ashamed of that fact. Almost.

"So, you fantasize, and eventually, the fantasy's not enough and you relapse," he said as he knew that was the cycle.

The fantasy was never good enough. Soon it would turn to a need for the real thing, and it would be too strong to resist. They were both addicts, and both of them would give into their compulsions. It was just a matter of time.

"Hey, they're mine. I bought the underwear," Marlon told him.

"Well, if that's true, then you were in a store where little children were shopping with their mothers," he told him.

"And what would you have me do, huh, man? What?! I mean, I even thought about chemical castration."

Shaking his head, he told him, "Medroxyprogesterone is inconclusive. It renders the subject incapable of erection, but it doesn't remove the drive." And it was that drive, the temptation, that was so hard to control. There were many ways to assault someone. And in his case, so many different ways to kill someone. "You would still be capable of sexual assault using other objects." As he said those words, his mind thought of ways to kill Marlon Wayward.

"Listen...um, I haven't done anything, uh, illegal, so you can't hold me in here forever." Then Marlon looked up at him, right into his eyes, and said, "Oh, is that killing look in your eyes a compulsion, Mr. Grissom?"

In that moment, Marlon had seen his compulsion and what he truly desired more than anything. He saw how much he wanted to kill him.

And the reason he saw it was because his wall was down. He had let him in, and in turn, the killer was coming out. Hemorrhaging from his heart, from all the million little cuts, he was bleeding out all over the floor.

Dying.

A couple of days later, they both lost the battle as their desires became too strong to resist. Marlon Wayward grabbed a young boy walking home from school, and then he castrated Marlon Wayward and then burned his house down.

In four hours, he could start developing the photos from the negatives by using an enlarger and photographic paper. As he waited, he left the darkroom and went into the art studio. He grabbed a 33 x 40-inch canvas and placed it flat on the easel. Choosing two containers of powders, one black and one grey, he scooped out some of each onto his palette and added linseed oil to both powders. He used a paint brush as he started mixing the oil into the powders as his mind wondered. In his head, he remembered how the Blue Paint Killer mixed blue house paint and motor oil to apply on the handrail at WLVU campus.

He had theorized that the serial killer was an artist. They were the same in that regard. Fulfilling his desire wasn't enough. He had to capture it, make it into art. His art. Lifting the brush out of the grey oil paint, he started painting as his mind started asking questions and making connections. He painted, but he didn't paint his subjects, or their deaths, in paintings. He took pictures. The Blue Paint Killer wouldn't have time to paint his victims before killing them and dumping them. There was no time for that. It took days to weeks to make a painting. Time the killer didn't have.

All the victims, the college girls, were bound and gagged. Bound, like...bondage? He had also theorized while talking to Brass that the Blue Paint Killer was a sadist. He liked power and control. He was dominant. The alpha. Had John Mathers been a partner, had he been the submissive?

Question: Was the Blue Paint Killer into BDSM?

If so, what kind of art…

Drawing, sketching, didn't take too much time and it could be done from memory a lot faster than a painting. All his victims were bound and gagged. They all experienced fear, had tears in their eyes because he wanted power and control...Sadomasochism? Had the Blue Paint Killer been able to deprive himself for 15 years because he had a masochistic partner? Or did he find another outlet for his sadomasochism?

What kind of art could be created with drawings that used images of BDSM or sadomasochism? Depictions of women bound and in fear, and was acceptable and could be viewed without drawing attention to the subject matter?

Answer: Graphic novels.

He sat the paintbrush and palette down as he stood and then left the room. Going up the stairs, he found his cell phone and flipped it open as he punched in Heather's phone number. His only reason to call her was because he needed to make sure he was on the right track, and he needed help to narrow down possibilities.

She answered after a couple of rings, "Good afternoon, Grissom, what-"

"Heather, listen, I need your help on something." He quickly told her what he was thinking, about a suspect, who was a sadist, depicting his victims in graphic art.

"I told you that BDSM isn't about violence-"

"I know that," he said as he paced around his living room floor. "I don't think he's into the lifestyle, but he is using it for his own sadistic needs and, I think, he wants others to see it. He wants to show other people his art. My only question to you is, if he were to create graphic novels, or a comic book, is there anywhere he can sell them for a clientele interested in seeing those images? A fetish store or-"

"Sure, many specialty shops and boutiques buy amateur porn and graphic novels from locals to sell. There are also websites-"

"Websites are too impersonal. He sticks around the same location because I think it has meaning for him, he wouldn't sell on the web to just anyone-" He stopped walking as it came to him. He would want anyone who attended WLVU to be able to view the images. It would give him a thrill. "It has to be local," he said to himself.

Without saying bye, he snapped the phone shut as he went to his home office and found his map of Las Vegas. Since he wasn't doing an official investigation, he couldn't use his laptop and login to the department database. He had to do it the long way in order to not leave an evidence trail. After pinning the map to the corkboard on the wall and marking where WLVU was located, he also pinned where Debby Reston, Marcia Reese, Charlene Roth, and Janet Kent, all the Blue Paint Killer's victims, were found. Then he grabbed the yellow pages. It took time to find all the exotic boutiques and fetish shops within five miles of WLVU but almost an hour later he had all of them marked on the map.

Picking up a colored pencil and his compass, he put the needle point on the first marked erotic boutique and then adjusted the degrees to give him a circle of five-mile radius. Then, he started drawing circles. Only one of the circles held within it the university and the locations of where the victims were found. The Erotica Boutique on Tropicana.

~"Dah, dah, dah

Dah, dah, dah

Dah, dah, dah-"~

He walked into the specialty shop as his eyes searched out a display of comic books or graphic novels. Spotting a display by the counter, he walked over to it and started thumbing through until he spotted one titled "Hot Blooded". One the cover was a girl, bound and terrified.

"That's what I thought you were going to pick. And the leather items are in aisle 2."

He looked over at the clerk behind the counter and then over his shoulder at aisle 2, confused. "Why…"

"You're a leather guy, right? At least that's what I–"

"I'm not interested in anything other than this comic book," he told him as he held it up to the clerk. "You know the artist?"

"Sure, I do," the clerk told him. "That's Zippy T."

Glancing around the ceiling and behind the counter, he asked, "Do you have any surveillance cameras?"

"That's bad for business."

He gave a nod. "How about Zippy's address?"

The clerk stared at him as he said, "Dude, I don't know where he lives. I'm not tryin' to hang out with customers, especially the guy that draws that." He pointed to the comic in his hand.

"How do you pay him?"

"Why are you so interested? This isn't the Louvre, dude, it's the love boutique. Local guys get store credit."

He sighed in frustration as he thought about how to get ahold of Zippy T. "Can you describe Zippy for me? What does he look like?"

The clerk sighed as he shrugged, "Are you the cops?"

Shaking his head, he told him, "No, I'm...an admirer. Now," he stepped up to the counter and eyed the clerk, "describe him," as he left no room for debate.

The clerk stepped back but he was thinking about it. His face got red as he told him, "White guy, shorter than you, brown hair and-" he gestured to his face, "mustache...Uh, 40, maybe 45...Average looking."

"Glasses?"

The clerk looked surprised as he said, "Yeah, well, used to. He doesn't anymore."

"Did he tell you why?" he asked.

"LASIK," the clerk told him. "Botched it though. He bitches about it every time he comes in."

"It sounds like he's a regular."

The clerk shrugged, saying, "He comes in about once a month, at least. Always with a new comic."

Looking down at the comic in his hand, he flipped through it as he saw the images, the illustrations were really good. As a graphic artist, Zippy T had talent. He stopped at the last page and saw the drawing of the girl, clothes torn and ripped open, and her eyes staring up at him. He'd seen many dead eyes staring at him, but never coming from a comic book panel. It was striking.

He tore the page out of the book as the clerk stared at him as he said, "Hey, dude-"

"I'll pay for it," he told him as he looked around the counter. "Got a pencil?"

The clerk found one and handed it to him.

Flipping the page over to the blank backside, he started to draw. The clerk watched him as he drew a picture not of a woman, but a man. A man he'd killed less than 48 hours ago. It was a detailed depiction of how he last saw him before he torched his house. But he paid particularly close to the eyes. It was hard to draw dead eyes, but he did it effortlessly, even shading in the grey around the pupils. Then he wrote down a phone number and a name. He didn't want Zippy T, or the clerk, to know his real first name so he wrote down his middle name, which was also his father's name: Arthur. The number was for a disposable cell phone that he always kept in his car for calls he didn't want on his personal phone record.

Handing it to the clerk, he told him, "When, uh, Zippy comes back in, give him that and tell him to call me."

The clerk took the page and looked at it as he said, "You're creepy, dude."

He smiled as he pulled out his wallet and took out some cash, enough to cover the comic and tip the clerk, and tossed it on the counter. "Thank you."

Taking the comic book with him, he left the store. He stood on the sidewalk as he looked around the street, taking in the neon lights and the shadows, the buildings, and people. A group of teens on the corner waiting on a bus, a couple walking hand-in-hand, a homeless man across the street in the alley, going through the dumpster as cars and trucks drove by.

There were several cars, trucks, and a van in the parking lot next door at the liquor store. If Zippy was a regular at the boutique then it was a possibility that he was also a regular at the liquor store next door. Walking over to the door, he opened it and walked inside. He spotted the security cameras immediately as he headed to the back and opened one of the doors and grabbed a six-pack before heading to the register.

Standing in a line were several men and a woman. The men weren't white and the clerk behind the counter was tall with a beard and glasses. The two men at the counter grabbed their purchases and walked out. The only person in front of him now was the woman.

She paid and grabbed her bag of vodka and left.

Stepping up to the counter, he placed the case of beer on the counter as he glanced up at the security camera as he asked, "Do those record?" while pulling out his ID and showing the clerk; his name tag said his name was Jeff.

Jeff gave a nod as he told him, "Yeah, they record."

"Good. Hey, uh…is there a regular that comes in about once a month. Short guy with a mustache, used to wear glasses?"

"Probably."

"He's an artist. Drops off comic books next door," he said as he held up the comic book in his hand to show Jeff.

"Oh, that creepier. Yeah."

"Creepier?" he asked.

Jeff rang up his purchase as he said, "He's always staring at the girls. They get creeped out by him because of his dirty hands and teeth. That'll be 10 dollars."

Dirty hands and teeth? "Like bad hygiene or…a smoker?" he asked as he pulled out a twenty.

"I don't know, both. He's just weird."

"Ever noticed what he drives?" he asked.

"A pedo van. You know, that kind with no windows except in the back and they're all blacked out."

He gave a nod as he tossed the money down as he took the case of beer and told Jeff, "Thanks, keep the change," before leaving the store.

~"Mother, mother

Everybody thinks we're wrong-"~

His right hand was nearly black as he used his hand on the monochrome painting; smuggling the edges to create shading, layering the oil paints, the black and grey and white, to create depth, he used his thumb to smooth the paint over the canvas, taking a line of grey with it as he smeared out the edges of the brown eyes, and then the red lips, and beige colored chin. Half the face he'd painted was perfect, the other fading away as the mouth twisted to form a scream, the right eye was closed as the left one held a look of anger.

As he was running his fingers down around the sides of the face, the disposable phone rang. Sitting up in the chair, he eyed the phone on the table before grabbing the towel and wiping his hands off before picking up the phone.

Flipping it open, he answered, "Hello."

"Is this Arthur?" the caller, a man, asked.

Leaning back in the chair, he answered, "Yes. Who are you?" he asked despite the fact that he knew who it was, or at least knew the alias.

"This is Zippy T. I was told you're a fan of my graphic novels."

Turning his back to the drawing, he said into the phone, "I am."

"What do you like the most about them?" Zippy asked.

Closing his eyes, he visualized the comic by Zippy T. in his head. The depiction of the bound woman, the tears in her eyes, the shape of her body...Her fear. "Her eyes," he honestly told him.

Zippy T got silent. He could hear a noise in the background. It was fast, rhythmic, and mechanical. Spinning something? Shaking something-...Blue paint mixing with motor oil. Paint mixer?

When Zippy T still didn't say anything, he asked, "When you see the fear in their eyes...what do you feel?"

"What do you feel?" Zippy asked in return instead of answering. "I have your drawing. You answer me and I'll answer you."

He knew he had to be truthful. Zippy T would know if he was lying the same as he would know if he were lying. Besides, he wasn't going to lie. There was no point. It took him a moment to focus his thoughts, to center his mind, and to finally put his thoughts, the truth that he's known for a long time but never voiced. Into words. It was the real reason why he was a killer. Not the reason why he killed criminals, but why he had the desire to kill in the first place. Why it raged inside his mind like a freight train and in his body like a beast. He chose to aim his desire to kill at evil, at criminals, but the criminals weren't the reason why it was there in the first place.

"I don't feel anything, hardly ever. I've been this way since I was a kid. Most of the time, I feel like I'm among the dead. In my work, I feel closer to the dead than I do the living. I understand the emptiness. Being cold. Alone. That was until one day, I experienced what it meant to be alive for the first time. I was sixteen years old and a girl, Ashley, was killed in a car crash. I had been in the car with her but had gotten out. If I hadn't, a second or two later...it would have been me hanging out of a busted window, my blood dripping to the ground. As dead as I felt inside. Instead, it was her blood. And as I looked down at her...I felt so alive. It was perfect and she looked so...beautiful. I had to take her picture. Then I spent years trying to find that same feeling again. Just...it was all I needed. A spark of life to keep going. I found that spark again when I killed a man for the first time. Johnny Cash has a line in a song where he says, "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die". I didn't shoot the man, but...I killed him so I could watch him die. There was fear in his eyes but..I didn't feel anything. Nothing. It's not until the fear is gone...until life is gone, that a calmness comes over me, and in that moment, I feel relief, I know my purpose in life, but mostly, I get to experience that spark of life all over again. Then I take what I see and I capture it, commemorate it, in art. Black-and-white photography. Color brings life and they are no longer among the living. And when I look at your art, at these comics, I see someone who does the same thing I do, but who, unlike me, feels something in their fear. I'm interested to know what that is. What do you feel?" he asked again.

"Power," Zippy said, a little breathless before clearing his throat. "I feel so powerful and wanted. She won't leave. She can't. Her fear, it's... You see life in death, I see life in their pain and fear. And it excites me."

"Why the graphic novels?"

"Have you seen or read any of those old crime graphic novels or comic books? Detective Short Stories or Crime SuspenStories?"

He shook his head as he told him, "No."

"They were everything to me when I was a kid. The women were all begging for it with fear in their eyes. Torn dresses, big lips, breasts spilling out...That's how I want them to look. Begging me for it with tears in their eyes as they struggle to get away..."

"But they can't," he said as he finished his thought. He had to gain his trust to get him to let him in. Once he was in, then he would have Zippy right where he wanted him: trapped in his spider web. "I envy the pleasure you experience in what you do. It sounds exhilarating. I have never shown my art to anyone before. I knew I had to show you."

Zippy smiled into the phone, he heard it in his voice as he said, "I would love to see your pictures."

"I'll uh, is there an address, or do you want to meet in person?" he asked.

"You can send it to me. Once I see them, I'll call you back."

He agreed. Writing down the address, he realized it was in a residential neighborhood near WLVU campus. He wouldn't give him his home address, would he? "Thank you. I'll be waiting to hear what you think of my work."

Snapping the phone shut, he sat it on the table as he looked at the painting of Sara. It was her two sides. One depicting her beauty and the perfection she tried to show to the outside world. The other side, her inner turmoil. Her anger and broken sense of self; how she faded into the person she was with.

And the man she was with was him. A killer. And she bled into him, faded into his darkness.

The killer in him still raged, and his head still thundered with a freight train of murderous images and thoughts, but he found that it could be settled. In his darkest of times, when he felt the most alone and dead on the inside, she had given him that spark the life that he needed to keep going. She was so full of color it seeped out of her and bled into his darkness.

They both faded into each other. Her colors mixed with his black-and-white.

She didn't color him in completely, it was more like a blood stain he didn't want to rinse out. What she made him feel weren't permanent emotions; they were fleeting and far between, but he didn't have to seek it out any longer.

He didn't have to kill anymore to feel alive. He wanted to keep doing it because it was his compulsion. He wanted to show Zippy T how he made his art.

He wanted to take his picture.

~"Who are they to judge us

Simply 'cause we wear our hair long."~

TBC…

Disclaimer Songs used/mentioned: "Inner City Blues" by Marvin Gaye and "Folsom Prison Blues," by Johnny Cash.