Note: Okay, I'm afraid that this chapter has a touch more melodrama than I'd like - - mostly because it concerns Greg and Grissom having a chat about Greg's evil father, and that has an inherent edge of melodrama because of the subject matter alone, but it also deals somewhat with the issue of Grissom being Greg's surrogate father (hopefully subtly). Tell me if I went overboard, please.
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Chapter Eleven: Meaning
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It was Grissom who figured it out, of course. It always had to be Grissom.
Just when he'd been doing so well with everything, too. He'd sailed through the day, getting all the results out in record time, joking with Nick and Sara when they stopped in for a cautious chat, and he even played Black Flag like it was going out of style. It practically shook the walls, and he'd been happy about it, too. It wasn't pretending - - it was saying goodbye. After his lunch, he went down to the administrative offices and politely excused himself from the next day's work.
And Grissom had to figure everything out.
They drove home separately, and Greg was channel-surfing on Grissom's couch, his chin resting on his knee as he hugged it to his chest. Grissom sat down beside him, and said, "You might as well tell me where you're going to go, Greg."
Greg tapped the mute button with his finger. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere?"
"I told you before that I can always tell when you're acting." Grissom's eyes were frustratingly noble. "You've been taking your goodbyes all day. Where are you going?"
"Just somewhere in town." He averted his eyes; shooting his gaze downwards to the floor. He could feel Grissom's stare on his face and tried to resist the urge to squirm.
"You're meeting someone," Grissom said, rationalizing it aloud. "Who? You seem almost ashamed of this - - Greg, if this is about a girl - - "
He almost laughed at that, but he bit down hard on the inside of his lip. "No, Grissom. I'm not going to a hotel just to sleep with a hooker."
"Then why won't you even look at me? What on earth do you think you need to hide so badly that you think I won't understand? Haven't I been taking care of you?"
There was some aching insecurity in there, and it made Greg feel guilty, because, yes, Grissom was trying, Grissom was trying more than anyone ever had tried for him before, and even if it was a little insulting to think that he was that desperately in need of someone to look out for him - - well, he had needed it. And Grissom had needed someone that needed looking after.
"Yeah," he said softly. "You've done everything. I don't think I ever thanked you for it."
"You did. You wrote me a note."
"The Post-it," he said, remembering. "Right."
"But there aren't any Post-its hanging around tonight," Grissom said, still watching him. "I know, because I've been in every single room and gone through all of the usual places. There aren't any. And since I can't think of an ordinary event that would make you just decide, rather abruptly, to stop leaving them laying around, something must have happened."
"There was one," he said. "I had one with a duck on it, next to the phone but - - I threw it away."
"So should I blame the duck?"
His smile felt weak. "No, don't blame the duck."
"Then, by process of elimination, I'll blame the phone. You said that you had the Post-it right next to it, so when you decided to throw the note away, you must have been near the phone. Taking a call, or making a call. I'm guessing the former - - who called here, Greg? What has you thinking that you need to run away again?"
He didn't say anything.
That said everything.
"Your father," Grissom said. His voice was flat. "I told him to stay the hell out of Las Vegas. I told him to stay the hell away from you."
"He - - he didn't listen, I guess."
He didn't think that he had ever seen Grissom look so angry. Greg couldn't decide if his eyes were scorching hot or freezing cold, but they were intense, narrowed, and hateful. His mouth was a thin line, and every muscle in his face looked clenched.
"You are not going to go and meet him."
Greg had been ready to apologize for dropping that on Grissom, ready to say he was sorry for not telling him right away, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth, something malfunctioned, and what came out, in a disbelieving voice, was, "Are you telling me that I can't?"
"Yes," Grissom said. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."
"That's ridiculous." The television was still playing, and he clicked it off; tossed the remote down on the floor. "You can't tell me that."
"I am." Grissom leaned forward, all earnest in his anger. "Greg, that man flew in here because we asked him to - - and he did nothing but cause trouble. You don't know, you weren't really here, but he had everyone scared to death about what he could do to you. What he had done to you."
"I guess you can't understand what he did do, then," Greg said. "Since you weren't really there."
"I'm not going to play this game with you," Grissom said, shaking his head. "We've sparred this way too many times since you woke up. You were doing so much better. We had conversations instead of battles. And is this all it takes to send you back to that again? Your father." He sank his hand into the pillow, depressing layers of stuffing. "Your father. No. I'm not going to allow this."
"You don't get it, Grissom. You don't understand."
"So tell me."
Greg sighed and pressed his knees tighter against his chest. It hurt his ribs, and he squeezed harder in vicious delight.
"When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was for him to notice that I existed. To care, okay? And I know I'm not a kid anymore, I know that it's pathetic that I still want him to care about me, but I can't help it. Do you like that? I'm finally admitting just what you've always suspected, Grissom! I'm pathetic! Is this the kind of catharsis you were waiting for, all those times when you looked at me like you couldn't get away fast enough? When you used me like I was something you couldn't wait to throw away? Fine."
Grissom's eyes were closed. He said, "No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to make me the villain, Greg. Whatever I did or didn't do, that doesn't matter now. You can't blame me for all of that."
"Let me guess - - you're just human, right?"
When had he started sounding that bitter again? Was this all his father? Was a simple phone call enough to corrupt him - - to ruin whatever they had built, oh-so-tenuously, over the last few months? A single conversation, was that really enough to unravel him?
I'm my father's son.
That terrified him, but it wasn't enough to make him stop.
"Yes," Grissom said. "You need to remember that. I can't always be who you want me to be. I can't always be who I want to be, either. But I've been doing my best, and I've done more in six months than he did in your entire life."
"Did I ever tell you," Greg said, feeling like he was just hearing himself recite the words from far away, "that everything means more when you can't get enough of it?"
"No. You never told me that."
"Didn't I? Not even
on a Post-it? Not even on one of the
ones we don't talk about?"
"No, Greg. You never told me."
"I've always thought it, though. If you're starving to death, and someone gives you food, it means so much more than when you eat every day, right? Even if they don't give you enough to fill you up - - even when it's just a crumb, it matters so much more."
Grissom said nothing. His eyes were fixed on Greg.
"When I was thirteen - - that's a year after my mom left, by the way - - I had soccer practice, and I was waiting after school for someone to pick me up, except . . . no one came. The coach gave me a ride home after we waited an hour. You would have liked him, Grissom. He looked at me kind of like you do - - like he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry."
"I don't - -"
"Hey, let me finish," Greg said, but he didn't think there was any real rancor in his tone. "Anyway, my dad was home the whole time. Not doing anything important, by the way, just sitting there, watching a football game. It rained after the game. I was soaking wet, and when I came in, he told me to try not to drip on the carpet."
"I'm sorry," Grissom said.
Greg shook his head. "You really don't get it, do you? Not even now? Grissom, this is - - this kind of thing happens every day. We see worse than this every day. How many child abuse cases have you processed where some kid's been beaten, raped? Where someone they trusted turned on them? Don't you see that I was lucky? Don't you know that?"
"You were lucky that you left," Grissom said. "That's all. You deserved better."
"It meant more," Greg said. "It meant more because he never gave me enough. He always knew me, always knew where to hit to make it hurt - - again, we're not talking physical here, before you overreact. He just - - he always knew. The next soccer game, he was in the stands, cheering me on like he couldn't be more proud, and then he left after the game, before I could meet up with him. I rode my bike home. It wasn't raining then."
"Were you angry?"
"No. I'd never been happier. He came. He looked at me like he loved me for over an hour. Getting ditched afterwards was nothing." He smiled. "So now that I've told you the whole story - - or some part of it, anyway, what do you think?"
"I think that your father is very talented at manipulating people," Grissom said. "And I think that he's very good at seeing weaknesses. And I don't think that you should go and meet him."
Greg was glad the television was off, because it gave him pure silence and darkness to stand up and find his shoes. "I can't do that, Grissom. I'm really, really sorry. But if I go, and even if it's just for an hour, it'll be worth it, no matter what happens afterwards. Even if he really is just who you think he is. But it's going to mean something."
"It won't mean anything," Grissom said, and he grabbed at Greg's shoulder, his hand squeezing so hard that Greg thought he could her the bones cracking. "It won't mean anything - - this isn't going to turn out how you want, no matter what happens. Stay here. Stay home."
"It's not home," Greg said softly. "And you're not my family."