Chapter 2:
Disclaimer: These aren't my characters. God, how I would be rich if they were.
Spoilers: Overload, the last episode who's title I can't recall
Something Wrong
There was something wrong with him; she could tell.
Hell if she knew what it was. It was nearly impossible to know anything about Grissom, even though she had known him for a long time. She knew about his obsession with his bugs. She knew his mother had been deaf. She knew he could be a workaholic, and she knew he believed in the power of the truth. She didn't know what the hell was wrong with him.
But she knew there was something.
The fact that she knew something was wrong was a bad sign. It wasn't as though she were obtuse or anything (you didn't get very far in this line of work if you were, unless you were Eckley, of course), but Grissom kept almost entirely to himself. She knew he wasn't a robot; he had feelings just like everyone else. He got angry when things refused to go his way. He got confused when people couldn't see the answers right in front of them. He even laughed on a rare occasion. But Grissom was subtle about everything he did, and if he had a problem in life, you probably would never know about it unless he felt like sharing, which was a very rare occasion. Grissom wasn't good at acting like other, normal people, but he was good at acting invisible, keeping himself off radar. The fact that she knew something was actually wrong with him wasn't a good sign.
It wasn't like he was running around screaming, "Help me, help me!" That really wasn't Grissom's way. As usual, he was subtle, even in pain. But she noticed it. He was more out of it than normal. She shaw him staring off into space more often, and he was slower to react to people. The other day she had to call him three times just to get his attention, and he hadn't even been doing anything. Unless he was working on a case, it was just damn near impossible to slip by without his noticing you, but lately it was like there was nothing around him. He'd also been upping his migraine pills. Grissom had once told her that he got a migraine once a year or so, but now he seemed to be getting one every few days.
She had been wondering whether to ask him or not about whatever was bothering him, but she wasn't sure. She wondered maybe that she'd worked too long in this job and was beginning to see cracks in the glass when they weren't there. Wondering maybe this was all in her head, and there was nothing wrong with Grissom after all. She had wondered all that until this morning, when Grissom had called in sick.
As long as she had been working with him, Grissom had called in sick once. Once. Sara had to force him to do so practically at gunpoint. He was sick on the verge of needing to go the hospital, a case of pneumonia that was much worse than the "cold" he kept shrugging it off to be. Even then, he came back far before he was ready to, and was as vigilant as ever about his work. Nick even started calling him the 'Crime Crusader'. But just yesterday she had seen him at work, and he looked just fine, despite being a little "off".
Now she knew something was wrong.
But what the hell was it?
Work had been slow, and she had gone home early, wanting to check on her little girl. Now she was staring down at Lindsey, who was sound asleep in her bed, and wondering what the hell to do.
It was strange how work somehow seemed to subsititute for family sometimes. Grissom, Sara, Nick, Warrick. All of them seemed closer than just mere co-workers; they meant so much more than that. She couldn't put them in one structure; no one fit the particular role of the mother or father or brother or cousin. Still, they all seemed to have a bond that just passed into the realm of family. She felt protective of them all somedays. She felt protective of Sara when she rushed too fast into things. It seemed Sara was going to bite more off than she could chew somedays, and she worried sometimes that Sara might eventually choke. She felt protective of Warrick too. He seemed so gentle that if you hugged him too hard, he might break. She wasn't sure why; it wasn't like he couldn't take care of himself. He certainly wasn't made of glass. Still, he seemed to exhibit this vunerable tendency, and she felt herself walk carefully around him, as though on fragile eggshells. It was Nick, though, that she worried about the most. Nick, the charmer, Nick, the Texan. She hadn't for a long time; he always seemed like a together guy. But then one day they worked a case together, and he had been so different, so angry, always jumping into conclusions. She realized with a slight laugh that he had been acting more like Sara. Finally she stopped him and asked him what was wrong, and he told her about the last minute babysitter, about the abuse. And she saw the pain in his eyes still, because how in the world does a little boy get rid of that kind of pain? She felt sorry for him, but it didn't really hit her until she came home and saw her little Lindsey, and thought about what she would do if something like that happened to her little girl. And she started crying, and she wasn't sure that she would have if Nick and the others had been just co-workers. Just regular people. Not family.
It was Grissom who she really had never felt protective of. There was so little need. Somedays she worried that he was going to get himself fired for not being able to play well with others, but most of the time he seemed so self'-reliant, so individualistic, that it seemed unnecessary to look out for him. On the contrary, he seemed to be looking out for them, for her, protecting them all. She had never worried about Grissom
Until now.
She watched her baby turn around in her sleep and just knew, as mothers and women seem to do, that she had to do something. These people weren't her blood family, but they were a family, and she had to watch out from them, just as she would watch out for Lindsey. There was something wrong with Grissom, and he needed somebody. Everybody always does.
She called the babysitter, and when the girl got there, she left and drove over to Grissom's place. She didn't go there a lot, but she knew the way well enough. She parked the car, went upstairs, and knocked on the door loud enough for the neighbors to yell back things that, on the scale of 1-10, were 11 not nice. Yet he made no response. She knocked again, but there was nothing. He either slept like the dead, or . . .
She shuddered and then frowned at herself. Jesus, she was behaving like a gawky adolescent at her first campfire with a bunch of friends telling spooky stories. Something might be wrong with Grissom, but this wasn't a crime scene or anything. Still, she couldn't shake the fear that something was wrong, something that she couldn't actually think because she was too afraid it might be real. He could be. . .
She opened the door, shaking away the thoughts, and immediately froze in the doorway. Glass was shattered all around the room; it looked like a kitchen fight or one of her marital fights gone to Hell. On instinct, she pulled her gun out and made her way around the room. "Grissom!" she called out to him. "Grissom! Gil!"
There was no response.
She walked into his bedroom. She imagined to find his body or at least a lot of blood on the ground, but there was nothing that looked unusual. She could hear water running, and turned towards the bathroom where the light was on. She felt tense, like this was a murder scene. "Grissom," she called, her voice not louder than a whisper. She shook her head in disgust. She wasn't normally this freaked out. "Grissom!"
She walked slowly into the bathroom and froze again at what she saw, only this time it wasn't broken dishes. It was Grissom. He was standing over the kitchen sink, his head down, trickles of blood running down the counter. He did not turn around.
"Gil," she said and moved up towards him. He wouldn't turn around. What had he done to himself? "Gil?"
He jumped back as her hand touched his shoulder, his eyes wide, frightened. He hadn't heard her. Somehow, he hadn't heard her. He hadn't heard her knocking or calling for him, even when they were in the same room.
"Gil," she said again, softly. She looked at his hands. He hadn't cut his wrists, like for a moment she had feared, but his palms were pretty cut up and bleeding over everything. "God, Grissom, what's going on?"
He just stared at her for a couple of seconds, eyes still wide. She could practically read his thoughts in his face. Just Catherine, just Catherine. Okay, I explain this logically. Everything can be explained. Just tell her what happened, and she'll understand, and it will be normal. Just explain it logically.
And then, as Grissom opened his mouth to explain logically what had happened to him and how he got to be in his bathroom, bleeding, he did something that was so unexpected that Catherine couldn't speak. Grissom opened his mouth and then suddenly, unexpectedly, started to cry.
Disclaimer: These aren't my characters. God, how I would be rich if they were.
Spoilers: Overload, the last episode who's title I can't recall
Something Wrong
There was something wrong with him; she could tell.
Hell if she knew what it was. It was nearly impossible to know anything about Grissom, even though she had known him for a long time. She knew about his obsession with his bugs. She knew his mother had been deaf. She knew he could be a workaholic, and she knew he believed in the power of the truth. She didn't know what the hell was wrong with him.
But she knew there was something.
The fact that she knew something was wrong was a bad sign. It wasn't as though she were obtuse or anything (you didn't get very far in this line of work if you were, unless you were Eckley, of course), but Grissom kept almost entirely to himself. She knew he wasn't a robot; he had feelings just like everyone else. He got angry when things refused to go his way. He got confused when people couldn't see the answers right in front of them. He even laughed on a rare occasion. But Grissom was subtle about everything he did, and if he had a problem in life, you probably would never know about it unless he felt like sharing, which was a very rare occasion. Grissom wasn't good at acting like other, normal people, but he was good at acting invisible, keeping himself off radar. The fact that she knew something was actually wrong with him wasn't a good sign.
It wasn't like he was running around screaming, "Help me, help me!" That really wasn't Grissom's way. As usual, he was subtle, even in pain. But she noticed it. He was more out of it than normal. She shaw him staring off into space more often, and he was slower to react to people. The other day she had to call him three times just to get his attention, and he hadn't even been doing anything. Unless he was working on a case, it was just damn near impossible to slip by without his noticing you, but lately it was like there was nothing around him. He'd also been upping his migraine pills. Grissom had once told her that he got a migraine once a year or so, but now he seemed to be getting one every few days.
She had been wondering whether to ask him or not about whatever was bothering him, but she wasn't sure. She wondered maybe that she'd worked too long in this job and was beginning to see cracks in the glass when they weren't there. Wondering maybe this was all in her head, and there was nothing wrong with Grissom after all. She had wondered all that until this morning, when Grissom had called in sick.
As long as she had been working with him, Grissom had called in sick once. Once. Sara had to force him to do so practically at gunpoint. He was sick on the verge of needing to go the hospital, a case of pneumonia that was much worse than the "cold" he kept shrugging it off to be. Even then, he came back far before he was ready to, and was as vigilant as ever about his work. Nick even started calling him the 'Crime Crusader'. But just yesterday she had seen him at work, and he looked just fine, despite being a little "off".
Now she knew something was wrong.
But what the hell was it?
Work had been slow, and she had gone home early, wanting to check on her little girl. Now she was staring down at Lindsey, who was sound asleep in her bed, and wondering what the hell to do.
It was strange how work somehow seemed to subsititute for family sometimes. Grissom, Sara, Nick, Warrick. All of them seemed closer than just mere co-workers; they meant so much more than that. She couldn't put them in one structure; no one fit the particular role of the mother or father or brother or cousin. Still, they all seemed to have a bond that just passed into the realm of family. She felt protective of them all somedays. She felt protective of Sara when she rushed too fast into things. It seemed Sara was going to bite more off than she could chew somedays, and she worried sometimes that Sara might eventually choke. She felt protective of Warrick too. He seemed so gentle that if you hugged him too hard, he might break. She wasn't sure why; it wasn't like he couldn't take care of himself. He certainly wasn't made of glass. Still, he seemed to exhibit this vunerable tendency, and she felt herself walk carefully around him, as though on fragile eggshells. It was Nick, though, that she worried about the most. Nick, the charmer, Nick, the Texan. She hadn't for a long time; he always seemed like a together guy. But then one day they worked a case together, and he had been so different, so angry, always jumping into conclusions. She realized with a slight laugh that he had been acting more like Sara. Finally she stopped him and asked him what was wrong, and he told her about the last minute babysitter, about the abuse. And she saw the pain in his eyes still, because how in the world does a little boy get rid of that kind of pain? She felt sorry for him, but it didn't really hit her until she came home and saw her little Lindsey, and thought about what she would do if something like that happened to her little girl. And she started crying, and she wasn't sure that she would have if Nick and the others had been just co-workers. Just regular people. Not family.
It was Grissom who she really had never felt protective of. There was so little need. Somedays she worried that he was going to get himself fired for not being able to play well with others, but most of the time he seemed so self'-reliant, so individualistic, that it seemed unnecessary to look out for him. On the contrary, he seemed to be looking out for them, for her, protecting them all. She had never worried about Grissom
Until now.
She watched her baby turn around in her sleep and just knew, as mothers and women seem to do, that she had to do something. These people weren't her blood family, but they were a family, and she had to watch out from them, just as she would watch out for Lindsey. There was something wrong with Grissom, and he needed somebody. Everybody always does.
She called the babysitter, and when the girl got there, she left and drove over to Grissom's place. She didn't go there a lot, but she knew the way well enough. She parked the car, went upstairs, and knocked on the door loud enough for the neighbors to yell back things that, on the scale of 1-10, were 11 not nice. Yet he made no response. She knocked again, but there was nothing. He either slept like the dead, or . . .
She shuddered and then frowned at herself. Jesus, she was behaving like a gawky adolescent at her first campfire with a bunch of friends telling spooky stories. Something might be wrong with Grissom, but this wasn't a crime scene or anything. Still, she couldn't shake the fear that something was wrong, something that she couldn't actually think because she was too afraid it might be real. He could be. . .
She opened the door, shaking away the thoughts, and immediately froze in the doorway. Glass was shattered all around the room; it looked like a kitchen fight or one of her marital fights gone to Hell. On instinct, she pulled her gun out and made her way around the room. "Grissom!" she called out to him. "Grissom! Gil!"
There was no response.
She walked into his bedroom. She imagined to find his body or at least a lot of blood on the ground, but there was nothing that looked unusual. She could hear water running, and turned towards the bathroom where the light was on. She felt tense, like this was a murder scene. "Grissom," she called, her voice not louder than a whisper. She shook her head in disgust. She wasn't normally this freaked out. "Grissom!"
She walked slowly into the bathroom and froze again at what she saw, only this time it wasn't broken dishes. It was Grissom. He was standing over the kitchen sink, his head down, trickles of blood running down the counter. He did not turn around.
"Gil," she said and moved up towards him. He wouldn't turn around. What had he done to himself? "Gil?"
He jumped back as her hand touched his shoulder, his eyes wide, frightened. He hadn't heard her. Somehow, he hadn't heard her. He hadn't heard her knocking or calling for him, even when they were in the same room.
"Gil," she said again, softly. She looked at his hands. He hadn't cut his wrists, like for a moment she had feared, but his palms were pretty cut up and bleeding over everything. "God, Grissom, what's going on?"
He just stared at her for a couple of seconds, eyes still wide. She could practically read his thoughts in his face. Just Catherine, just Catherine. Okay, I explain this logically. Everything can be explained. Just tell her what happened, and she'll understand, and it will be normal. Just explain it logically.
And then, as Grissom opened his mouth to explain logically what had happened to him and how he got to be in his bathroom, bleeding, he did something that was so unexpected that Catherine couldn't speak. Grissom opened his mouth and then suddenly, unexpectedly, started to cry.