Disclaimer: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation does not belong to me. The characters are full of inspiration, intelligence, and intrigue that I can't help but borrow them a short while. I heartily enjoy the show and its premise. The events of this story are mine, but the characters are definitely not.
Author's Note: This is for b8kworm. Thank you for watching CSI in the first place. Thank you for getting me hooked. You know that I'll make you sorry for it.
Archives: ShipperworldCSI, Working Love, mine. Anybody else, email me. I like to go visiting.
Pairing(s): Gil/Catherine
Spoiler: "A Little Murder"
***** ***** *****Title: To Lose Control
Author: Laeta
E-mail: ladylaeta@yahoo.com
Chapter 1: Therapeutic Behavior
The quiet purr of an engine cut into the strains of classical music playing softly in the early morning light. Grissom did not have to look out the window to know who his intruder was. He could hear the car roll to a halt and the loud contrast of a car door shutting. Gauging his timing nicely, he opened the front door to reveal Catherine.
She looked to be more on the side of worse for wear since the wound to her face was startling. He had read the report a number of times before his shocked mind could register the facts. No matter how many times he accepted a similar situation could occur in the course of their work, he could not help but feel guilty that he could not keep his people safe.
Wordlessly, he registered her tired frame and opened his arms. It took barely a nanosecond for her to decide to give herself over into the safety he offered. Her arms came around him as she walked into his embrace and they stood in his doorway giving and taking comfort.
"Thanks."
Her slightly muffled reply was accompanied by the growling of her stomach as they disentangled their limbs. She gave a rueful smile; he noted that she looked a thousand times better than when she was walking up to the door.
"Guess the adrenaline rush wore off now?"
"Yeah. Nothing like the good old flight-or-fight response to starve off an appetite."
"Come on. I've made some pancakes."
As they ate, Grissom could not help but notice the lingering signs of stress on Catherine. Although their initial conversation held all the tokens of normality, it was just to cover his worried concern and her state of shock. He could see the tension in her shoulders and the tiny shakes in her hand as she wielded the fork. She also failed to mention anything about the prolonged silence. However, the crux of the problem was that if he asked, "Are you alright?", she would only reply with, "Fine". Even when the evidence told otherwise, especially when it showed otherwise.
So, he did the only thing he could. He let her set the pace of the morning and would try to anticipate her needs. Generally, this was a difficult task since he was not into people, but Catherine made it easy for him. Their long friendship also gave him the experience he needed to accomplish his self-appointed task.
Getting up, he opened the freezer and pulled out some vanilla ice cream. He responded to her look of question by brandishing an ice cream scooper. They both grinned as she reached out for the utensil. Yes, there were things to be said for being long-time friends. Over the generous helping of ice cream heaped over the last of the pancakes on her plate, Grissom drizzled a healthy offering of hot butterscotch syrup.
Sparing a glance at her coffee cup, Grissom decided that she did not need any more stimulants circulating in her bloodstream. The best thing for her was sleep; it was the best way for her body to restore its equilibrium. Instead, he handed her a glass of cold water; it would help with flushing out her system.
She showed her appreciation for the breakfast, his company, and his care with a smile that took the air out of his lungs. It was a painful reminder to how close he had come to never seeing her treasured face again. To avoid bombarding her with questions, he began the process of clearing and cleaning their meal. In the still silent room, the process was carried out with the efficiency that only comes with repeated occurrences.
Eventually, he shooed her away and finished the last of the dishes on his own. With his back turned, he knew she had made her way to their favorite chair. It was a comfortable piece of furniture; he for reading and her for lounging. She usually claimed the chair for herself whenever she was at his place, and he realized that he never gave a fight. He could rarely refuse her anything, an unknown weakness on his part.
Her eyes were closed as she sprawled over the chair. Crossing the room to her, he nudged her into a sitting position and began a much needed and desired massage.
"I feel like pudding now, Gil." Her voice resonated loudly as it broke the silence for the first time since she entered the house.
"Good. You feel like sleeping yet?"
The shake of her strawberry-blond hair worried him so he tugged her gently across the room to the larger couch so both of them could sit more comfortably. Her movements were lethargic, caused by a combination of the after effects of the adrenaline and of his massage. He settled her at his side with her head on his shoulder. Hesitating only briefly, he took her hand while he mentally tried to fortify his mind for the conversation ahead.
"Talk to me, Cath."
Like a petulant child, she muttered, "I know what you're trying to do."
Smiling for the first time since he had read her report at the end of their shift, he only said, "That's reassuring. Then, I don't have to tell you that there is a reason why we have psychologists and psychiatrists."
He felt her amusement as she relaxed more at his side. The characteristic quiet of his voice did its job to persuade Catherine into a zone of comfort and care. By nature, Grissom was a patient man and felt no reason to rush his friend. They sat on the couch as the music reached a crescendo and wrapped its listeners around its emotional tale. Her eyes were closed as she carefully heeded the message in the music. The sonata was winding its way to an end and she desperately wanted her own story to end.
"I felt like I had lost control. When the - suspect - returned to the scene, I felt like everything just spun out of my ability to - grasp. It was all gone."
The best thing for Grissom to do was to remain silent. She needed to get everything out, even if he did not want to hear or know. If he interrupted her, she would stop and all his efforts would go to waste. So, he did the only thing he could: tighten his hold on her hand as his other arm snaked around her shoulders. She snuggled closer to his body in search of reassurance and warmth.
"When it was all over, I couldn't think. I couldn't remember anything. All I know is that I saw Lindsey's face; Gil, I'm really not afraid of dying. I would just regret not spending more time with her. Then I started shaking. At least, now I've stopped shaking."
He watched as she held up their entwined hands and contemplated them with her.
"But the problem is not that I needed closure by IDing him."
"What's the real problem?" He could not resist her unspoken invitation; he asked the question she could not voluntarily bring herself to answer.
When no answer to readily forthcoming, he reached out and tilted her face so he could read her eyes. The emotions expressed there broke what was left of his heart, but he forced himself to prompt, "What's the real problem?"
"That I'm still not in control."
TBC - Chapter 2: In An Act Of Faith
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© RK 10.Nov.2002