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 Six
"Sara… Would you like to get some breakfast?"
He had walked into the lab, and she had prepared herself for another 'you work too much' speeches (though, if he uttered anything about her deserving a life, she was going to have to kill him), but he had just looked at her for a while with the bluest blue eyes she knew of.
And then he had opened his mouth and asked her if she wanted breakfast. In a warm, almost caressing voice that seemed to sing in her mind.
"Sure," she finally replied. "I'd love to get some food."
"I know a place they have great vegetarian meals," he offered, smiling slightly as she got up.
"Great." She fell into stride next to him, trying to discern what mood he was in. It was hard to tell with Grissom sometimes. He could make comments that came barrelling out of left field to nearly knock her unconscious, but sometimes he could be so far away she wondered if he was even in the same solar system. Grissom, the enigma wrapped in a riddle – but the wrapping was very, very nice.
The sun greeted them as they stepped outside, bright and ready to bring the day. A slight fog had settled in the distance, but would soon be chased away. There was no room for grey in this city of sparkling lights and black darkness.
He took her to a small diner she'd never been to before. It was nearly empty, just one or two early birds (or really late night owls) present. The staff seemed inhumanly cheerful, and it appeared to leak into the air.
Or maybe she just felt that way because Grissom's hand had taken hers on the way in and still hadn't let go. She almost felt like she was a kid again, going steady for the first time and holding hands to announce it to the world.
Perhaps that was what had gotten into Grissom. He'd turned sixteen again.
She could feel a smile creep up on her as they found a booth and waited for the food. Some of the cheerfulness died as memories assaulted them both. It was hard not to think of Warrick, even knowing he would live. It was hard not to think of James, aged fifteen, dying for the crime of being different.
They had enough evidence to nail the bastards who had done it – it was just a matter of finding them.
"How can they live like that?" she asked rhetorically.
"They believe," Grissom replied simply, knowing very well who 'they' were.
"They're wasting their lives on this…" she searched in vain for a good word, unable to think of anything with enough dread and sense of evil in it. "This delusion of superiority."
He nodded, staring at something beyond her. "Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease / We are worse in peace;- / What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?"
"Francis Bacon," she replied. He smiled briefly, but still seemed to have wandered off somewhere. She knew him well enough to just let him think, and just sat there with him in the silence. It didn't feel uncomfortable or intruding, it just was.
"They were local boys," he suddenly said. "No evidence of a car other than Warrick's at the scene. They were local, within walking distance of the crime."
"Or maybe they had a place to hang out locally."
He fixed her with a sudden glance, eyes seeming to shine. "Of course. Sawdust and paint. A house that is under decay. The perfect hangout. I'll call Brass, see if we can get a list of places that need renovation in the area."
He tossed a few bills on the table, getting up with a surge of excitement. "Come on."
She gave the food a longing look, but followed him towards the door. Even without food, there was no place she'd rather be than by his side.
And out there, those bastards were still free to kill again. She couldn't let them.
'What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?' she thought as the sunlight blasted at her again and wondered if someone who believed in such hate could truly life.
Or perhaps they died so slowly they thought they still lived and all the tears were cried not for their death – but for their life.
******
Warrick awoke to a soft presence leaning against his arm, smelling slightly of chemicals and perfume and something distinctively feminine. He revelled in the feeling for a while, afraid that it might vanish if he opened his eyes. A fleeting dream.
Finally, the light begun to seep through his eyelids anyway, and he opened his eyes and blinked against the white onslaught.
Catherine stirred as he moved, her head lifting from its position on the bed. He regretted the loss of her warmth, but cherished the sight of her clear eyes.
"Hey," he said. She looked confused for a moment, brushing her tussled hair away from her face. Even tired, she looked wonderful.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I've seen shot twice," he replied as dryly as he could. He could feel the dull pain of his body's healing process, but at the moment it felt distant and he was thankful for that.
He lifted his gaze from Catherine to take in the rest of the room, quickly noticing the drawing pinned to the wall. It smiled at him with bright colours among all the white and he couldn't help but grin.
"Lindsey made it," Catherine said, amusement in her voice. "You're chasing the bad guys."
"With a broomstick?"
She laughed heartily; the sound tickled against his skin like drops of water.
"That's me."
"Oh," he replied. "Wait, I see it now. It's like looking at a mirror image."
"I look like a broomstick?"
"A very nice one," he assured her, and she returned his smile. For a moment, they both just looked at each other in the much-too-bright light.
"How's the investigation going?"
"We've ID'd the victim." She stared into the air, the smile gone from her face. "Just a kid."
"I remember. He was still alive when they shot me. He looked at me…"
"Warrick…"
"… and he knew he was going to die, Catherine. He knew."
"And we'll find the ones that did this," she replied, the steel in her voice almost masking the sadness.
The silence felt strangely tense and he found himself wondering why. Catherine was a friend, a friend he trusted with his life. The tension was new, but it felt familiar.
Grissom and Sara. Of course. That's why it felt familiar. He had seen it enough between them, but why did he now….?
He looked up at Catherine, and the intensity of her gaze nearly drowned all other sensations. His skin tingled as she lifted a hand to his cheek, placing a thumb against his lips.
"Don't you ever do this to me again," she said forcefully. "Ever."
He tried to tell her he hadn't really meant to get shot, but before he could open his mouth, her lips descended upon his.
She kissed him forcefully, almost as if it was a punishment rather than a caress. The intensity of it was almost painful at first, his nerves so set on pain pleasure was unexpected.
She tasted of coffee and Catheriness, something he could lose himself in forever.
"Ahem." Nick's voice floated into the room, sounding amused. "I'd tell you two to get a room, but you already seem to have one."
Catherine straightened up, fixing Nick with an indeterminable glance.
"Hey, man."
"Hey, Warrick. Catherine," Nick grinned. "Motivating our patient to heal, are we?"
"You're just jealous he's getting the care and you're not," Catherine replied, her eyes glittering. "I'll see you later, Warrick."
"Yeah." He stared after her as she walked away, turning at the doorway and giving him one last look. It was almost enough to make him forget he'd been shot twice and seen a kid die before his eyes.
Almost.
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 Six
"Sara… Would you like to get some breakfast?"
He had walked into the lab, and she had prepared herself for another 'you work too much' speeches (though, if he uttered anything about her deserving a life, she was going to have to kill him), but he had just looked at her for a while with the bluest blue eyes she knew of.
And then he had opened his mouth and asked her if she wanted breakfast. In a warm, almost caressing voice that seemed to sing in her mind.
"Sure," she finally replied. "I'd love to get some food."
"I know a place they have great vegetarian meals," he offered, smiling slightly as she got up.
"Great." She fell into stride next to him, trying to discern what mood he was in. It was hard to tell with Grissom sometimes. He could make comments that came barrelling out of left field to nearly knock her unconscious, but sometimes he could be so far away she wondered if he was even in the same solar system. Grissom, the enigma wrapped in a riddle – but the wrapping was very, very nice.
The sun greeted them as they stepped outside, bright and ready to bring the day. A slight fog had settled in the distance, but would soon be chased away. There was no room for grey in this city of sparkling lights and black darkness.
He took her to a small diner she'd never been to before. It was nearly empty, just one or two early birds (or really late night owls) present. The staff seemed inhumanly cheerful, and it appeared to leak into the air.
Or maybe she just felt that way because Grissom's hand had taken hers on the way in and still hadn't let go. She almost felt like she was a kid again, going steady for the first time and holding hands to announce it to the world.
Perhaps that was what had gotten into Grissom. He'd turned sixteen again.
She could feel a smile creep up on her as they found a booth and waited for the food. Some of the cheerfulness died as memories assaulted them both. It was hard not to think of Warrick, even knowing he would live. It was hard not to think of James, aged fifteen, dying for the crime of being different.
They had enough evidence to nail the bastards who had done it – it was just a matter of finding them.
"How can they live like that?" she asked rhetorically.
"They believe," Grissom replied simply, knowing very well who 'they' were.
"They're wasting their lives on this…" she searched in vain for a good word, unable to think of anything with enough dread and sense of evil in it. "This delusion of superiority."
He nodded, staring at something beyond her. "Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease / We are worse in peace;- / What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?"
"Francis Bacon," she replied. He smiled briefly, but still seemed to have wandered off somewhere. She knew him well enough to just let him think, and just sat there with him in the silence. It didn't feel uncomfortable or intruding, it just was.
"They were local boys," he suddenly said. "No evidence of a car other than Warrick's at the scene. They were local, within walking distance of the crime."
"Or maybe they had a place to hang out locally."
He fixed her with a sudden glance, eyes seeming to shine. "Of course. Sawdust and paint. A house that is under decay. The perfect hangout. I'll call Brass, see if we can get a list of places that need renovation in the area."
He tossed a few bills on the table, getting up with a surge of excitement. "Come on."
She gave the food a longing look, but followed him towards the door. Even without food, there was no place she'd rather be than by his side.
And out there, those bastards were still free to kill again. She couldn't let them.
'What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?' she thought as the sunlight blasted at her again and wondered if someone who believed in such hate could truly life.
Or perhaps they died so slowly they thought they still lived and all the tears were cried not for their death – but for their life.
******
Warrick awoke to a soft presence leaning against his arm, smelling slightly of chemicals and perfume and something distinctively feminine. He revelled in the feeling for a while, afraid that it might vanish if he opened his eyes. A fleeting dream.
Finally, the light begun to seep through his eyelids anyway, and he opened his eyes and blinked against the white onslaught.
Catherine stirred as he moved, her head lifting from its position on the bed. He regretted the loss of her warmth, but cherished the sight of her clear eyes.
"Hey," he said. She looked confused for a moment, brushing her tussled hair away from her face. Even tired, she looked wonderful.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I've seen shot twice," he replied as dryly as he could. He could feel the dull pain of his body's healing process, but at the moment it felt distant and he was thankful for that.
He lifted his gaze from Catherine to take in the rest of the room, quickly noticing the drawing pinned to the wall. It smiled at him with bright colours among all the white and he couldn't help but grin.
"Lindsey made it," Catherine said, amusement in her voice. "You're chasing the bad guys."
"With a broomstick?"
She laughed heartily; the sound tickled against his skin like drops of water.
"That's me."
"Oh," he replied. "Wait, I see it now. It's like looking at a mirror image."
"I look like a broomstick?"
"A very nice one," he assured her, and she returned his smile. For a moment, they both just looked at each other in the much-too-bright light.
"How's the investigation going?"
"We've ID'd the victim." She stared into the air, the smile gone from her face. "Just a kid."
"I remember. He was still alive when they shot me. He looked at me…"
"Warrick…"
"… and he knew he was going to die, Catherine. He knew."
"And we'll find the ones that did this," she replied, the steel in her voice almost masking the sadness.
The silence felt strangely tense and he found himself wondering why. Catherine was a friend, a friend he trusted with his life. The tension was new, but it felt familiar.
Grissom and Sara. Of course. That's why it felt familiar. He had seen it enough between them, but why did he now….?
He looked up at Catherine, and the intensity of her gaze nearly drowned all other sensations. His skin tingled as she lifted a hand to his cheek, placing a thumb against his lips.
"Don't you ever do this to me again," she said forcefully. "Ever."
He tried to tell her he hadn't really meant to get shot, but before he could open his mouth, her lips descended upon his.
She kissed him forcefully, almost as if it was a punishment rather than a caress. The intensity of it was almost painful at first, his nerves so set on pain pleasure was unexpected.
She tasted of coffee and Catheriness, something he could lose himself in forever.
"Ahem." Nick's voice floated into the room, sounding amused. "I'd tell you two to get a room, but you already seem to have one."
Catherine straightened up, fixing Nick with an indeterminable glance.
"Hey, man."
"Hey, Warrick. Catherine," Nick grinned. "Motivating our patient to heal, are we?"
"You're just jealous he's getting the care and you're not," Catherine replied, her eyes glittering. "I'll see you later, Warrick."
"Yeah." He stared after her as she walked away, turning at the doorway and giving him one last look. It was almost enough to make him forget he'd been shot twice and seen a kid die before his eyes.
Almost.
