Illusion of Life
By Camilla Sandman
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…
~~~~~~~~
Chapter Two
The clouds sailed lazily across the sky, slowly being swallowed by the horizon. The sky breathed a quiet wind, as if the rage had gone to sleep with the night. It was a beautiful day, in the distant heat rose from the desert dunes, making the rest of the world seem hazed.
Even the floors felt hot, heat oozing up from it, leaking into the skin and the blood. Hot blood. Hot air. Hot tempers.
Sara could hear Grissom's voice long before she entered his office. It bounced through the hallways, echoing the loud heartbeats in everyone's ears. He wasn't happy.
She leaned against the doorframe as she reached his office, merely looking for a moment. The calmness that usually surrounded him was gone, instead an air of determination and steel had set upon him. They had nearly lost Warrick, hell, they could still lose Warrick. The concept was too painful to consider and too real to ignore.
Grissom dealt with it his way, she just wasn't sure quite what his way was.
"No, my shift is handling this one!" he snapped into the phone, then slammed it down hard.
"Ecklie?"
He looked up, gave a shrug that could probably mean yes and then stared down at the notes at his desk again.
"The gun I found in the sewer…" she tried not to wrinkle her nose at the memory. "Calibre matches the coroner's report on our dead John Doe. The shell casings match too."
He nodded, perhaps he had already heard.
"We found some shoe prints," she went on, speaking mostly just to fill the silence with something. Sometimes she wondered how he could wrap himself in silence so much. It was almost as if he could live in it and not mind, as if sounds were a privilege and an annoyance, not a given.
"Anything new from Catherine?"
"No."
It sounded almost like a dismissal, but she didn't leave, and after a while he looked up.
"I'm heading for the hospital soon," he said and this time, she detected the undercurrent of pain in his voice. Warrick was his favourite CSI. Even as she felt a twinge of jealousy, she wanted to hold his hand and tell him everything would be all right.
He looked at her with something near softness in his face, something almost vulnerable. His eyes glimmered as they met hers, she tried to blink back tears. How dared he tell her she needed a life and then look at her this way?
How long they looked at each other, she didn't know. It felt like a small eternity until he finally broke the gaze and got up.
"Keep me posted."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Greg is looking at some fibres we found. I'll go…"
"Yeah."
Why did the air feel so charged? Grief or fear or just raw emotion? Whatever it was, her skin tickled as Grissom walked past her, his hand brushing against hers for a millisecond.
She looked after him as he left and wondered what she'd ever do if his life would hang from a thin thread. It scared her that she couldn't even consider it. She couldn't consider losing Warrick either, the thought alone made her heart pause and her breath catch painfully in her throat. He had to live. And Grissom had to live.
Her life would feel dead without them.
*****
Somewhere between sleep and awake, Catherine tried not to think, not to feel, not to dream, just breathe and stay awake. Dreams would bring blood. Thoughts would bring blood. So she just sat in the hard chair and stared ahead.
She could feel her heartbeats echo her breathing. Two heartbeats, one breath. Two heartbeats, one breath. The rhythm had no feelings, it just was. Like life.
"Catherine Willows?"
She looked up to meet the blue eyes of one of the doctors, his face eased and exhausted. So Warrick lived. No mask of sympathy, no hesitation or tension. Warrick lived.
"Your friend is a very lucky man. We managed to extract both bullets with minimal blood loss. We had remove some of his spleen, but he will live."
"Thank God," she breathed. "Can I…?"
"He's in intensive care. We usually…"
She held up her ID and felt a strange sense of stepping outside herself. She needed to collect evidence. This was one case they had to solve.
"I'm with the Crime Lab. I have to look at him and whatever clothing he was wearing. I'm also gonna need those bullets. They're evidence."
The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "All right. Follow me."
Her steps seemed unusually loud as she walked down the white halls, as if everything else was muffled and that was all she could focus on.
She heard the machines before she saw him. Monitoring his heartbeats, helping him breathe. Telling her he was still alive.
His eyes were closed and his face was free of concern. It was almost as if he slept the most peaceful sleep. She didn't reach for him. She just stood and took in the sight of his rising and falling chest, his outstretched hand, his dark eyelids.
"Hey, Warrick," she said softly.
The doctor walked out, leaving her with the loud machines and the silent form of Warrick. She resisted the urge to reach for his hand without gloves – there could be evidence she needed to preserve.
"He looks peaceful."
She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jesus, Grissom."
"Sorry." He eased his field kit down on the floor and approached the bed carefully. His face looked blank, but only by effort. She could see lines of tension on his forehead that would be heard to ease away.
"He has something under his fingernails," he observed.
He reached for his kit, but she halted him with a hand on his arm.
"Grissom…. I'm doing this."
"Catherine…"
"I'm doing this," she said again and carefully slipped on some gloves. She could feel his disapproval on her back, not for the first time and probably not for the last. He had his ways, she had hers.
"Cath… How…. Um… Close are you and Warrick?"
She turned to stare at him. "Do I ask you if you and Sara make out in the broom closet?"
Her question threw him off balance; she could see a brief flash of something almost boyish on his face. Insecurity, perhaps.
"This is personal for all of us, Grissom. I'm doing this," she added in a softer voice as he struggled to reply.
He finally nodded, though she could tell he wasn't happy. "All right. I'll be at the lab. We're trying to identify the second victim."
Second victim. Warrick was a victim. The very word hurt to think about, as if acknowledging it made it worse. Victim. A simple word, but so much emotion.
"Let me know," she replied as calmly as she could.
"Yeah." He turned in the doorway as he began to walk out, giving her a quizzical look. "The broom closet?"
"It's very romantic," she assured him. He opened his mouth, then just shook his head and walked out.
"He's probably gonna move his roaches in there now to see if they'll mate faster," she told Warrick, smiling slightly. His heart monitor beeped in encouragement, or at least she chose to interpret it that way.
She reached for his hand. It felt warm in hers even through the gloves. Warm and alive.
And all tension died away, leaving only happiness. It wouldn't last long. Anger would come in and fuel her, determination would drive them all for a long time, but for a brief moment, she merely felt happy.
One life not dead.
By Camilla Sandman
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…
~~~~~~~~
Chapter Two
The clouds sailed lazily across the sky, slowly being swallowed by the horizon. The sky breathed a quiet wind, as if the rage had gone to sleep with the night. It was a beautiful day, in the distant heat rose from the desert dunes, making the rest of the world seem hazed.
Even the floors felt hot, heat oozing up from it, leaking into the skin and the blood. Hot blood. Hot air. Hot tempers.
Sara could hear Grissom's voice long before she entered his office. It bounced through the hallways, echoing the loud heartbeats in everyone's ears. He wasn't happy.
She leaned against the doorframe as she reached his office, merely looking for a moment. The calmness that usually surrounded him was gone, instead an air of determination and steel had set upon him. They had nearly lost Warrick, hell, they could still lose Warrick. The concept was too painful to consider and too real to ignore.
Grissom dealt with it his way, she just wasn't sure quite what his way was.
"No, my shift is handling this one!" he snapped into the phone, then slammed it down hard.
"Ecklie?"
He looked up, gave a shrug that could probably mean yes and then stared down at the notes at his desk again.
"The gun I found in the sewer…" she tried not to wrinkle her nose at the memory. "Calibre matches the coroner's report on our dead John Doe. The shell casings match too."
He nodded, perhaps he had already heard.
"We found some shoe prints," she went on, speaking mostly just to fill the silence with something. Sometimes she wondered how he could wrap himself in silence so much. It was almost as if he could live in it and not mind, as if sounds were a privilege and an annoyance, not a given.
"Anything new from Catherine?"
"No."
It sounded almost like a dismissal, but she didn't leave, and after a while he looked up.
"I'm heading for the hospital soon," he said and this time, she detected the undercurrent of pain in his voice. Warrick was his favourite CSI. Even as she felt a twinge of jealousy, she wanted to hold his hand and tell him everything would be all right.
He looked at her with something near softness in his face, something almost vulnerable. His eyes glimmered as they met hers, she tried to blink back tears. How dared he tell her she needed a life and then look at her this way?
How long they looked at each other, she didn't know. It felt like a small eternity until he finally broke the gaze and got up.
"Keep me posted."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Greg is looking at some fibres we found. I'll go…"
"Yeah."
Why did the air feel so charged? Grief or fear or just raw emotion? Whatever it was, her skin tickled as Grissom walked past her, his hand brushing against hers for a millisecond.
She looked after him as he left and wondered what she'd ever do if his life would hang from a thin thread. It scared her that she couldn't even consider it. She couldn't consider losing Warrick either, the thought alone made her heart pause and her breath catch painfully in her throat. He had to live. And Grissom had to live.
Her life would feel dead without them.
*****
Somewhere between sleep and awake, Catherine tried not to think, not to feel, not to dream, just breathe and stay awake. Dreams would bring blood. Thoughts would bring blood. So she just sat in the hard chair and stared ahead.
She could feel her heartbeats echo her breathing. Two heartbeats, one breath. Two heartbeats, one breath. The rhythm had no feelings, it just was. Like life.
"Catherine Willows?"
She looked up to meet the blue eyes of one of the doctors, his face eased and exhausted. So Warrick lived. No mask of sympathy, no hesitation or tension. Warrick lived.
"Your friend is a very lucky man. We managed to extract both bullets with minimal blood loss. We had remove some of his spleen, but he will live."
"Thank God," she breathed. "Can I…?"
"He's in intensive care. We usually…"
She held up her ID and felt a strange sense of stepping outside herself. She needed to collect evidence. This was one case they had to solve.
"I'm with the Crime Lab. I have to look at him and whatever clothing he was wearing. I'm also gonna need those bullets. They're evidence."
The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "All right. Follow me."
Her steps seemed unusually loud as she walked down the white halls, as if everything else was muffled and that was all she could focus on.
She heard the machines before she saw him. Monitoring his heartbeats, helping him breathe. Telling her he was still alive.
His eyes were closed and his face was free of concern. It was almost as if he slept the most peaceful sleep. She didn't reach for him. She just stood and took in the sight of his rising and falling chest, his outstretched hand, his dark eyelids.
"Hey, Warrick," she said softly.
The doctor walked out, leaving her with the loud machines and the silent form of Warrick. She resisted the urge to reach for his hand without gloves – there could be evidence she needed to preserve.
"He looks peaceful."
She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jesus, Grissom."
"Sorry." He eased his field kit down on the floor and approached the bed carefully. His face looked blank, but only by effort. She could see lines of tension on his forehead that would be heard to ease away.
"He has something under his fingernails," he observed.
He reached for his kit, but she halted him with a hand on his arm.
"Grissom…. I'm doing this."
"Catherine…"
"I'm doing this," she said again and carefully slipped on some gloves. She could feel his disapproval on her back, not for the first time and probably not for the last. He had his ways, she had hers.
"Cath… How…. Um… Close are you and Warrick?"
She turned to stare at him. "Do I ask you if you and Sara make out in the broom closet?"
Her question threw him off balance; she could see a brief flash of something almost boyish on his face. Insecurity, perhaps.
"This is personal for all of us, Grissom. I'm doing this," she added in a softer voice as he struggled to reply.
He finally nodded, though she could tell he wasn't happy. "All right. I'll be at the lab. We're trying to identify the second victim."
Second victim. Warrick was a victim. The very word hurt to think about, as if acknowledging it made it worse. Victim. A simple word, but so much emotion.
"Let me know," she replied as calmly as she could.
"Yeah." He turned in the doorway as he began to walk out, giving her a quizzical look. "The broom closet?"
"It's very romantic," she assured him. He opened his mouth, then just shook his head and walked out.
"He's probably gonna move his roaches in there now to see if they'll mate faster," she told Warrick, smiling slightly. His heart monitor beeped in encouragement, or at least she chose to interpret it that way.
She reached for his hand. It felt warm in hers even through the gloves. Warm and alive.
And all tension died away, leaving only happiness. It wouldn't last long. Anger would come in and fuel her, determination would drive them all for a long time, but for a brief moment, she merely felt happy.
One life not dead.
