Blind Revenge
By: Manda and Allison
Chapter 3: Searching for Answers
~*~*~*~
When Catherine awoke next, it was to bright lights and the sterile smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. A Hospital. Moving her hands around, she found that her arms were pinned quite securely to the bed.
Restraints. Perfect.
"Hospital my ass," she mumbled to herself. "More like prison."
"Mrs. Willows." She turned her head toward the door, wincing as the pain in her temple was aggravated by the action. A nurse bustled through the open doorway, spotless white shoes squeaking loudly upon the tiles of achingly shiny white linoleum. "How are you feeling?"
"I've got a headache." Catherine didn't bother to correct the assumption of 'Mrs'. If she /was/ crazy, then part of her believed she was still married, still in love with Eddie...and maybe she owed his memory that much.
"It's no wonder." Stella, as the nametag pinned to starched white linen read, held a packet of pills to her lips, chasing them down with a paper cup of bitter tasting water. Even the liquid smelt medicated as she gulped it down; although she was sure it was only her state of mind that made her think so. "Your husband tells me he was trying to get you to the hospital- and you were putting up quite the fight. Hit your head on the doorframe on the way out, it seems. Quite a bump."
"That explains it." She wanted to reach up and probe the offending wound with her fingers, but her wrist was brought to a halt by the restraints, and her eyes narrowed. "But it doesn't explain why I'm being tied down."
"Doctor Gray's orders. He'd rather you stay put until the risk of concussion is lessened." Stella fiddled with a window blind, revealing the afternoon Vegas sunlight, and remained at the window for a moment. "Beautiful day. Your husband said he was taking a walk around the grounds...but he'll be back before long."
The second 'your husband', and Catherine shook her head to clear the charade from her ears.
"He's not my husband- just a friend. Partner."
"I see." The squeak of the shoes resumed, the nurse heading toward the exit. "Well, dinner isn't for another hour...but we'll see about getting those restraints loosened so you can hold the TV remote. Can't have you missing Letterman- I hear he's got Wilbur the Wonder dog on for half an hour tonight."
And she was gone...leaving Catherine alone.
Turning her head slowly, she gazed out the window. Sun shone through the small windows, bright yellow patterns marring the dingy white floor. Outside the trees swayed gently in the window. Nurse Stella was right; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. For some anyway.
'No sense in getting upset over it,' she thought to herself, as she went over the events of the last twenty-four hours. 'It's my head that's apparently screwed up. Can't say I didn't do it to myself.'
"Cath."
Her head snapping around, Catherine eyed the man in her doorway warily. "You put me here," she growled, her voice low and menacing. "You put me in this goddamned prison. You got your wish; do you have to keep on torturing me? If you're trying to ruin my life, you're doing a helluva good job of it."
"You were falling over drunk, Cath. What was I supposed to do?
"Ever hear of 'Coffee. Black.?'" She pushed her body up as far as it would go, straining against the canvas straps with the ferocity of a captured tiger. She felt like a specimen, a spot on the slide waiting to be dissected. "I'm not your fucking specimen, Gil. You tell me how you feel- not lock me to my bed and expect me to enjoy it."
"I don't."
"Of course you don't." The response was laced with the poison of sarcasm, her eyes darkening to the color of a storm-tossed sea. "Admit it- you might have, if you weren't so bent on proving that I'm crazy. If you wanted to run off with Sara...you just could have said the young ones are more your type and I might have gotten it. One hell of a way to get me out of your way, I have to say."
"I don't want to run off with Sara, Cath. Why would you think that?"
"Oh go ahead and just admit it already. You want to fuck her, you know you do." Catherine smirked, as if she'd scored some kind of victory.
"Stop it, Cath."
"What exactly am I stopping?"
"This," he replied, the anger in his voice rising. "Stop this, it isn't you..."
"And Sara isn't for you." She replied, nostrils flaring gently as her own voice rose further. "But she wants you- how much ecstasy do you need to throw her on the bed and fuck her like a rabbit?"
"Catherine-"
"Yes, I did heroin. Yes, I smoked dope; snorted...I did all of it, Grissom. Probably why I don't know what I'm saying now. Or maybe I do, and you just don't want to admit the truth."
"I'm going to try and go with option c, neither. But you're making it fairly difficult."
"So you do think I'm crazy? Or are you starting to really believe that you do have feelings for Sara -she's cute, in a tomboy kinda way, I guess. Hank had a good time with her."
"Hank cheated on her," Grissom growled.
"No..." Catherine drawled back, "Technically, he cheated on his girlfriend with Sara. You know, if you think about it, she really should take that as a compliment."
"You're sick, Catherine." He had hoped the realization would hit like a splash of cold water once the words were released, and was disappointed when his claim registered nothing upon her beautiful face. "There is something wrong with you, and I promise we'll get to the bottom of it."
"You want to know what's wrong with me?"
"No." He turned, feeling a remnant of pain drive into his heart as he presented his back to her and spoke over his shoulder. "If it's that you want someone to 'fuck you like a rabbit', Catherine...then I'll be sure you get pumped with enough drugs to imagine that you are. But I'll let the doctors be the judge of that. As long as you get well...that's all I want to know."
"You know, they think we're married Gil," She mentioned offhandedly. If Catherine could have crossed her arms across her chest in defiance, she would have right then. "A nurse came and mentioned that 'my husband was taking a walk'. Why do they think we're married?"
"I brought you in. I know your personal information."
"That's not it." She sighed, an almost pleading sound as he raised his foot and stepped forward. "She thought we were married because she thought the way you brought me in showed just how much you love me. No partner cradles his wounded partner in his arms the way you did me."
"Cath...please-you were unconscious, it's not as if you could walk."
"That's right; Sara's more up your alley."
"Just let it go."
"But if you really do want Sara...that leaves my question unanswered...you, me, a nurse thinking we're married...it's all very suspicious. You know, I heard somewhere you have to have immediate family check into one of these places..."
"I'm your boss."
"But not my husband. And in that case," Her thumb lay beside a crimson button and she pushed it with a fingernail, eyes rising slowly to meet his. "In that case, I think its better that you not be here, Mr. Grissom."
As a nurse entered to check the situation, the corners of Catherine's mouth began to slowly turn upward, a sick representation of the beautiful smile he waited so often to see.
"Nurse- I think this man has the wrong room. Could you please-?"
"Sir, this way." There was a gentle tug, and Grissom felt himself being propelled toward the door, into the hallway, and his last glimpse was of her fingers rising gently in a wave.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm sure they'll help you find your wife. Tell them you're looking for Sara. They'll help you!"
~*~*~*~
Gil moved down the hallway with incredible speed. He had to know what the hell was going on. The Catherine he'd encountered in the last twenty-four hours was not the same woman he'd known for over fifteen years. Something wasn't right; he could hear the little voice in the back of his head telling him that. Over and over again.
It haunted him as he drove, his subconscious leading him straight to Catherine's home. Opening the door with more ease than which he had closed it, hand lingering on the knob as he paused to inspect the slight trace of crimson blood and blonde hairs that remained on the doorframe. She'd been hurt in his attempt to help her, and his fingers lingered at the edge of the hairs, lips molding into a grimace as he thought of that moment.
There had to be something here that would help him figure out what was going on. Looking around, he paused as he spotted Cath's meds sitting on the table. 'She probably hasn't been taking them,' he mused, picking up the bottle and inspecting it.
Half empty.
Or maybe she was.
He headed for the bathroom under a whim, stepping over abandoned sweatpants and a copy of Vogue at the threshold. Reaching for the garbage can and he pulled it up onto the lid of the sweating ivory toilet. He felt like a fetishist, imagining what he would claim to Greg when he asked him to dust the fingerprints on any empty pill bottles. "Yes, Greg, I collect them."
But it wasn't there. The evidence he had imagined wasn't there, and he held his breath as he rocked back on his heels and tried to think of where it might be, where Catherine might have hidden it in order to prevent any discovery on his part.
Her room.
If invading her bathroom hadn't been bad enough, now he was headed towards her bedroom. Entering the brightly lit room, he wondered if he really even knew Catherine. He'd always pictured something edgier, to match her sharp wit and personality. This was far from what he had expected.
A bra slung over the armchair, punctuating black against the smooth, pea-green upholstery. One shoe, a black, sexy sandal, resting on the throw rug in front of her thirteen-inch television set, which stood on a table in the corner nearest her bathroom.
The pills wouldn't be in here...he'd hoped not to find the empty bottles at all, and as easily as that thought swept over him, the realization of where they were hidden came just as easily.
The hope chest....in the most sacred of places, Catherine would hide her most sacred of present secrets.
Without hesitation, he hefted the thick, rosewood lid and dug through the first layer, fighting back a choking feeling that he was divulging into the very core of Catherine Willows. Her secrets, her past, her dreams and hopes were all sequestered within the confines of this large, polished chest, and anything he saw would forever be branded into his mind. He didn't know if he was ready for that, or for the burden of knowing what he'd done.
But if it was life and death, he'd throw himself to the wolves for her. And to dive into her life...was only a fraction of what he would do to find his own hope. Digging down farther, he was surprised at the sheer amount of stuff enclosed in the box. Journal upon journal, napkins with phone numbers, pictures-some recent and some so old the edges were beginning to tear, and just as he reached the bottom-a medical syringe. A tool left from a life Cath had left long ago; one Grissom never cared to remember. The early days with Eddie; when heroine had been introduced to Catherine by one of Eddie's showbiz lackeys. Heroin, which had eventually lead to cocaine, and to many failed attempts to kick the habit on Catherine's part. Well, excluding her last one; which had been a success, and had consisted of her staying at his townhouse so he could watch over her while she fought off withdrawal.
But now was not the time to dredge up old painful memories. He had other problems on his mind.
"It's got to be here," he growled to himself, moving more things around in attempt to locate it.
And there it was, the prize, in all its glory, his eyes barely catching it, shoved in the corner at the very bottom of the chest. She'd attempted to disguise it, wrapping the orange bottle in a scrap of tissue paper, with prints of grinning pumpkins and white-sheet ghosts. But the top was still visible, and the label remained, listing the contents and the date of the last refill. She'd had more than required, according to the recorded amount of refills allotted her, and he leaned back on his heels, musing at her ability to acquire more.
Remembering protocol for a brief, fleeting moment, Gil left the object where it was. If he took it now-went with his hunch, he knew, it could be overturned as evidence obtained illegally.
But that was only if his hunch was right, and he hoped to god that it was.
The cell phone at his waist was vibrating, and his thoughts came to a standstill as he withdrew the object from his belt and flipped it open, raising it to his ear. "Grissom."
"Mr. Grissom?" It was a crisp, professional voice which brought him momentarily back to his senses. "There's a complication with your wife- you're going to need to get here immediately."
"What sort of complication?"
"We're not certain, sir- but it would help a great deal if you could be here."
Gil was up from his crouched position in front of the chest in seconds; running out the door with a speed he'd never had before in his forty-six years of life. The ominous call by the hospital did nothing to quell the suspicions that had been growing inside of him since the incident during shift. He had to get to her-had to figure out what was making her this way-who was making her this way.
He arrived in her room within half an hour, waiting at the door until the nurse ushered him in, sitting beside the bed with a teddy bear and a package of dried banana chips, waiting for her to notice him.
"You're back." He wasn't sure how she sounded, her head still turned toward the TV, where an old rerun of Ryan's Hope droned on, volume quelled. "I thought they kicked you out."
"I'm not that easy to get rid of." He placed the bear at the edge of her bed and tucked the chips away into the bedside table. "Catherine...I've been to your house....and I need your permission to do something."
"I'm not there- what good is the bed going to do you?"
"Funny, very funny," a smirk appeared upon his features, the first all day. It seemed the old Cath had returned, at least for the moment. The anger, the coldness had left her features for the moment and been replaced by a pair of tired, pain filled, worried eyes. "I was wondering if I could have permission to look around your house -Cath, are you okay?"
"My house? Why?" she eyed him skeptically, blowing a strand of sweat-soaked blonde hair out of her face.
"I have a hunch, that's all. Now answer my question-are you okay?"
"A hunch about what? And don't think that I believe you, for a second, you've probably already been there once, snooping...Gil you're not a man who runs on a hunch."
"No, I'm not." He straightened the bear and cleared his throat. "But I'm not sure that what's wrong with you is natural, Catherine. If I run to a judge with this, they'll laugh in my face, so I'm asking you; can I check your house for evidence?"
"The whole thing?"
"Yes."
She turned her head away from the soap opera and looked him squarely in the eye, hand seeking out the bear beside her, and she squeezed it tightly. "All right, Gil. If you need too-go ahead. Just don't leave it a mess, okay?"
"Fine. Now are you going to answer my other question?"
"Other question?" Catherine replied nonchalantly, pretending as if she didn't remember.
"Don't play coy with me Cath. Are you okay? The doctors, they called me, why did they call me?"
"They overreact, as doctors often do. Not to mention entomologists." She reached for the remote, within reach of her still-restrained hands, and notched the television volume up a bit, as the name Siobhan was heard, and Grissom had reached over to silence the box once again.
"What the hell are you doing, Catherine?"
"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" She would have attempted to move away, had her body been free, and Grissom took advantage of that, leaning closer to vent his frustration.
"You're not helping yourself."
"And I suppose not putting me back on my medication is helping me that much more?"
"In my opinion, it is."
"Oh really?"
"Yes, really."
"And when did you become the expert?" She cocked her head slightly sideways in expectance. He definitely wasn't squirming out of this one. "Who gave you the right to tell them to keep me off my meds?"
Beads of sweat were forming upon her feverish brow, her chest heaving up and down in a rapid motion. Red-rimmed eyes stared at his, and when he looked into them, he couldn't tell if she was angry with him, or grateful.
"You gave me that right the second you decided to go one step too far, Catherine." He couldn't hold it in anymore- couldn't keep the thoughts from seeping out of every crack in his facade. "You left your nine year old daughter to fend for herself, while you're lying here. She couldn't make the decision- no one will let her, and that makes me the most reasonable choice. Out of the two people who love you the most, Cath-- it had to be the one who could choose. It had to be me."
"I don't want it to be you." She groaned; falling into the pillows the nurses had so expertly arranged behind her head. "I don't want it to be you..."
"And I want to get to the bottom of this." He replied, tucking a hand into his pocket and withdrawing his cell. "And I'm going to do just that."
"You're going to tell them, aren't you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Gil -please don't tell them."
"I have too. You know that." Gil turned his attention back to his cellphone, "Nick, yea, it's Grissom, I need a favor. Yes I know it's the middle of the day but it's important. No-I'll tell you when you get here. And call the rest of the team for me; I need them too. Thanks Nick. Bye."
TBC.
A/N: In regards to some of the content...Just remember that Cath's hallucinating. She's bound to ramble off incoherently.
By: Manda and Allison
Chapter 3: Searching for Answers
~*~*~*~
When Catherine awoke next, it was to bright lights and the sterile smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. A Hospital. Moving her hands around, she found that her arms were pinned quite securely to the bed.
Restraints. Perfect.
"Hospital my ass," she mumbled to herself. "More like prison."
"Mrs. Willows." She turned her head toward the door, wincing as the pain in her temple was aggravated by the action. A nurse bustled through the open doorway, spotless white shoes squeaking loudly upon the tiles of achingly shiny white linoleum. "How are you feeling?"
"I've got a headache." Catherine didn't bother to correct the assumption of 'Mrs'. If she /was/ crazy, then part of her believed she was still married, still in love with Eddie...and maybe she owed his memory that much.
"It's no wonder." Stella, as the nametag pinned to starched white linen read, held a packet of pills to her lips, chasing them down with a paper cup of bitter tasting water. Even the liquid smelt medicated as she gulped it down; although she was sure it was only her state of mind that made her think so. "Your husband tells me he was trying to get you to the hospital- and you were putting up quite the fight. Hit your head on the doorframe on the way out, it seems. Quite a bump."
"That explains it." She wanted to reach up and probe the offending wound with her fingers, but her wrist was brought to a halt by the restraints, and her eyes narrowed. "But it doesn't explain why I'm being tied down."
"Doctor Gray's orders. He'd rather you stay put until the risk of concussion is lessened." Stella fiddled with a window blind, revealing the afternoon Vegas sunlight, and remained at the window for a moment. "Beautiful day. Your husband said he was taking a walk around the grounds...but he'll be back before long."
The second 'your husband', and Catherine shook her head to clear the charade from her ears.
"He's not my husband- just a friend. Partner."
"I see." The squeak of the shoes resumed, the nurse heading toward the exit. "Well, dinner isn't for another hour...but we'll see about getting those restraints loosened so you can hold the TV remote. Can't have you missing Letterman- I hear he's got Wilbur the Wonder dog on for half an hour tonight."
And she was gone...leaving Catherine alone.
Turning her head slowly, she gazed out the window. Sun shone through the small windows, bright yellow patterns marring the dingy white floor. Outside the trees swayed gently in the window. Nurse Stella was right; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. For some anyway.
'No sense in getting upset over it,' she thought to herself, as she went over the events of the last twenty-four hours. 'It's my head that's apparently screwed up. Can't say I didn't do it to myself.'
"Cath."
Her head snapping around, Catherine eyed the man in her doorway warily. "You put me here," she growled, her voice low and menacing. "You put me in this goddamned prison. You got your wish; do you have to keep on torturing me? If you're trying to ruin my life, you're doing a helluva good job of it."
"You were falling over drunk, Cath. What was I supposed to do?
"Ever hear of 'Coffee. Black.?'" She pushed her body up as far as it would go, straining against the canvas straps with the ferocity of a captured tiger. She felt like a specimen, a spot on the slide waiting to be dissected. "I'm not your fucking specimen, Gil. You tell me how you feel- not lock me to my bed and expect me to enjoy it."
"I don't."
"Of course you don't." The response was laced with the poison of sarcasm, her eyes darkening to the color of a storm-tossed sea. "Admit it- you might have, if you weren't so bent on proving that I'm crazy. If you wanted to run off with Sara...you just could have said the young ones are more your type and I might have gotten it. One hell of a way to get me out of your way, I have to say."
"I don't want to run off with Sara, Cath. Why would you think that?"
"Oh go ahead and just admit it already. You want to fuck her, you know you do." Catherine smirked, as if she'd scored some kind of victory.
"Stop it, Cath."
"What exactly am I stopping?"
"This," he replied, the anger in his voice rising. "Stop this, it isn't you..."
"And Sara isn't for you." She replied, nostrils flaring gently as her own voice rose further. "But she wants you- how much ecstasy do you need to throw her on the bed and fuck her like a rabbit?"
"Catherine-"
"Yes, I did heroin. Yes, I smoked dope; snorted...I did all of it, Grissom. Probably why I don't know what I'm saying now. Or maybe I do, and you just don't want to admit the truth."
"I'm going to try and go with option c, neither. But you're making it fairly difficult."
"So you do think I'm crazy? Or are you starting to really believe that you do have feelings for Sara -she's cute, in a tomboy kinda way, I guess. Hank had a good time with her."
"Hank cheated on her," Grissom growled.
"No..." Catherine drawled back, "Technically, he cheated on his girlfriend with Sara. You know, if you think about it, she really should take that as a compliment."
"You're sick, Catherine." He had hoped the realization would hit like a splash of cold water once the words were released, and was disappointed when his claim registered nothing upon her beautiful face. "There is something wrong with you, and I promise we'll get to the bottom of it."
"You want to know what's wrong with me?"
"No." He turned, feeling a remnant of pain drive into his heart as he presented his back to her and spoke over his shoulder. "If it's that you want someone to 'fuck you like a rabbit', Catherine...then I'll be sure you get pumped with enough drugs to imagine that you are. But I'll let the doctors be the judge of that. As long as you get well...that's all I want to know."
"You know, they think we're married Gil," She mentioned offhandedly. If Catherine could have crossed her arms across her chest in defiance, she would have right then. "A nurse came and mentioned that 'my husband was taking a walk'. Why do they think we're married?"
"I brought you in. I know your personal information."
"That's not it." She sighed, an almost pleading sound as he raised his foot and stepped forward. "She thought we were married because she thought the way you brought me in showed just how much you love me. No partner cradles his wounded partner in his arms the way you did me."
"Cath...please-you were unconscious, it's not as if you could walk."
"That's right; Sara's more up your alley."
"Just let it go."
"But if you really do want Sara...that leaves my question unanswered...you, me, a nurse thinking we're married...it's all very suspicious. You know, I heard somewhere you have to have immediate family check into one of these places..."
"I'm your boss."
"But not my husband. And in that case," Her thumb lay beside a crimson button and she pushed it with a fingernail, eyes rising slowly to meet his. "In that case, I think its better that you not be here, Mr. Grissom."
As a nurse entered to check the situation, the corners of Catherine's mouth began to slowly turn upward, a sick representation of the beautiful smile he waited so often to see.
"Nurse- I think this man has the wrong room. Could you please-?"
"Sir, this way." There was a gentle tug, and Grissom felt himself being propelled toward the door, into the hallway, and his last glimpse was of her fingers rising gently in a wave.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm sure they'll help you find your wife. Tell them you're looking for Sara. They'll help you!"
~*~*~*~
Gil moved down the hallway with incredible speed. He had to know what the hell was going on. The Catherine he'd encountered in the last twenty-four hours was not the same woman he'd known for over fifteen years. Something wasn't right; he could hear the little voice in the back of his head telling him that. Over and over again.
It haunted him as he drove, his subconscious leading him straight to Catherine's home. Opening the door with more ease than which he had closed it, hand lingering on the knob as he paused to inspect the slight trace of crimson blood and blonde hairs that remained on the doorframe. She'd been hurt in his attempt to help her, and his fingers lingered at the edge of the hairs, lips molding into a grimace as he thought of that moment.
There had to be something here that would help him figure out what was going on. Looking around, he paused as he spotted Cath's meds sitting on the table. 'She probably hasn't been taking them,' he mused, picking up the bottle and inspecting it.
Half empty.
Or maybe she was.
He headed for the bathroom under a whim, stepping over abandoned sweatpants and a copy of Vogue at the threshold. Reaching for the garbage can and he pulled it up onto the lid of the sweating ivory toilet. He felt like a fetishist, imagining what he would claim to Greg when he asked him to dust the fingerprints on any empty pill bottles. "Yes, Greg, I collect them."
But it wasn't there. The evidence he had imagined wasn't there, and he held his breath as he rocked back on his heels and tried to think of where it might be, where Catherine might have hidden it in order to prevent any discovery on his part.
Her room.
If invading her bathroom hadn't been bad enough, now he was headed towards her bedroom. Entering the brightly lit room, he wondered if he really even knew Catherine. He'd always pictured something edgier, to match her sharp wit and personality. This was far from what he had expected.
A bra slung over the armchair, punctuating black against the smooth, pea-green upholstery. One shoe, a black, sexy sandal, resting on the throw rug in front of her thirteen-inch television set, which stood on a table in the corner nearest her bathroom.
The pills wouldn't be in here...he'd hoped not to find the empty bottles at all, and as easily as that thought swept over him, the realization of where they were hidden came just as easily.
The hope chest....in the most sacred of places, Catherine would hide her most sacred of present secrets.
Without hesitation, he hefted the thick, rosewood lid and dug through the first layer, fighting back a choking feeling that he was divulging into the very core of Catherine Willows. Her secrets, her past, her dreams and hopes were all sequestered within the confines of this large, polished chest, and anything he saw would forever be branded into his mind. He didn't know if he was ready for that, or for the burden of knowing what he'd done.
But if it was life and death, he'd throw himself to the wolves for her. And to dive into her life...was only a fraction of what he would do to find his own hope. Digging down farther, he was surprised at the sheer amount of stuff enclosed in the box. Journal upon journal, napkins with phone numbers, pictures-some recent and some so old the edges were beginning to tear, and just as he reached the bottom-a medical syringe. A tool left from a life Cath had left long ago; one Grissom never cared to remember. The early days with Eddie; when heroine had been introduced to Catherine by one of Eddie's showbiz lackeys. Heroin, which had eventually lead to cocaine, and to many failed attempts to kick the habit on Catherine's part. Well, excluding her last one; which had been a success, and had consisted of her staying at his townhouse so he could watch over her while she fought off withdrawal.
But now was not the time to dredge up old painful memories. He had other problems on his mind.
"It's got to be here," he growled to himself, moving more things around in attempt to locate it.
And there it was, the prize, in all its glory, his eyes barely catching it, shoved in the corner at the very bottom of the chest. She'd attempted to disguise it, wrapping the orange bottle in a scrap of tissue paper, with prints of grinning pumpkins and white-sheet ghosts. But the top was still visible, and the label remained, listing the contents and the date of the last refill. She'd had more than required, according to the recorded amount of refills allotted her, and he leaned back on his heels, musing at her ability to acquire more.
Remembering protocol for a brief, fleeting moment, Gil left the object where it was. If he took it now-went with his hunch, he knew, it could be overturned as evidence obtained illegally.
But that was only if his hunch was right, and he hoped to god that it was.
The cell phone at his waist was vibrating, and his thoughts came to a standstill as he withdrew the object from his belt and flipped it open, raising it to his ear. "Grissom."
"Mr. Grissom?" It was a crisp, professional voice which brought him momentarily back to his senses. "There's a complication with your wife- you're going to need to get here immediately."
"What sort of complication?"
"We're not certain, sir- but it would help a great deal if you could be here."
Gil was up from his crouched position in front of the chest in seconds; running out the door with a speed he'd never had before in his forty-six years of life. The ominous call by the hospital did nothing to quell the suspicions that had been growing inside of him since the incident during shift. He had to get to her-had to figure out what was making her this way-who was making her this way.
He arrived in her room within half an hour, waiting at the door until the nurse ushered him in, sitting beside the bed with a teddy bear and a package of dried banana chips, waiting for her to notice him.
"You're back." He wasn't sure how she sounded, her head still turned toward the TV, where an old rerun of Ryan's Hope droned on, volume quelled. "I thought they kicked you out."
"I'm not that easy to get rid of." He placed the bear at the edge of her bed and tucked the chips away into the bedside table. "Catherine...I've been to your house....and I need your permission to do something."
"I'm not there- what good is the bed going to do you?"
"Funny, very funny," a smirk appeared upon his features, the first all day. It seemed the old Cath had returned, at least for the moment. The anger, the coldness had left her features for the moment and been replaced by a pair of tired, pain filled, worried eyes. "I was wondering if I could have permission to look around your house -Cath, are you okay?"
"My house? Why?" she eyed him skeptically, blowing a strand of sweat-soaked blonde hair out of her face.
"I have a hunch, that's all. Now answer my question-are you okay?"
"A hunch about what? And don't think that I believe you, for a second, you've probably already been there once, snooping...Gil you're not a man who runs on a hunch."
"No, I'm not." He straightened the bear and cleared his throat. "But I'm not sure that what's wrong with you is natural, Catherine. If I run to a judge with this, they'll laugh in my face, so I'm asking you; can I check your house for evidence?"
"The whole thing?"
"Yes."
She turned her head away from the soap opera and looked him squarely in the eye, hand seeking out the bear beside her, and she squeezed it tightly. "All right, Gil. If you need too-go ahead. Just don't leave it a mess, okay?"
"Fine. Now are you going to answer my other question?"
"Other question?" Catherine replied nonchalantly, pretending as if she didn't remember.
"Don't play coy with me Cath. Are you okay? The doctors, they called me, why did they call me?"
"They overreact, as doctors often do. Not to mention entomologists." She reached for the remote, within reach of her still-restrained hands, and notched the television volume up a bit, as the name Siobhan was heard, and Grissom had reached over to silence the box once again.
"What the hell are you doing, Catherine?"
"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" She would have attempted to move away, had her body been free, and Grissom took advantage of that, leaning closer to vent his frustration.
"You're not helping yourself."
"And I suppose not putting me back on my medication is helping me that much more?"
"In my opinion, it is."
"Oh really?"
"Yes, really."
"And when did you become the expert?" She cocked her head slightly sideways in expectance. He definitely wasn't squirming out of this one. "Who gave you the right to tell them to keep me off my meds?"
Beads of sweat were forming upon her feverish brow, her chest heaving up and down in a rapid motion. Red-rimmed eyes stared at his, and when he looked into them, he couldn't tell if she was angry with him, or grateful.
"You gave me that right the second you decided to go one step too far, Catherine." He couldn't hold it in anymore- couldn't keep the thoughts from seeping out of every crack in his facade. "You left your nine year old daughter to fend for herself, while you're lying here. She couldn't make the decision- no one will let her, and that makes me the most reasonable choice. Out of the two people who love you the most, Cath-- it had to be the one who could choose. It had to be me."
"I don't want it to be you." She groaned; falling into the pillows the nurses had so expertly arranged behind her head. "I don't want it to be you..."
"And I want to get to the bottom of this." He replied, tucking a hand into his pocket and withdrawing his cell. "And I'm going to do just that."
"You're going to tell them, aren't you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Gil -please don't tell them."
"I have too. You know that." Gil turned his attention back to his cellphone, "Nick, yea, it's Grissom, I need a favor. Yes I know it's the middle of the day but it's important. No-I'll tell you when you get here. And call the rest of the team for me; I need them too. Thanks Nick. Bye."
TBC.
A/N: In regards to some of the content...Just remember that Cath's hallucinating. She's bound to ramble off incoherently.