A/N: So this is it. The end of the road for Facades. There are a couple of reasons for it. First of all, between teaching and the pregnancy, my life is just entirely too full to keep a WIP going right now. I can do one-shots, but a WIP is just too much of a commitment. Second of all, I really feel that this little thing jumped the shark about five or ten chapters ago, and it was just really time to put her to bed. It's been an amazing ride, and I thank each and every one of you for sticking with me to the end. The sheer volume of reviews has been overwhelming—even more so because I don't think I've ever asked for a single review. That's just not my style. I write for fun, not so people will tell me how great they think I am.
On that note, I DID suddenly get the impression that some people at ff dot net had forgotten how to play nice. I got several flat-out mean reviews for the last few chapters, and that was fairly annoying—not because I get my feelings hurt easily or anything, but because there was absolutely no concrit to be had. One person left an anonymous review saying that this was the worst piece of fanfic ever. The kicker? The reviewer left it on chapter 51. So you're telling me someone actually took the time to read 100,000-plus words in 51 chapters only to leave a review saying how terrible it was? That's just FUNNY, if you ask me (and a little pathetic). My personal policy is to not leave flames unless there's absolutely no way around it. If I think a story sucks, I just don't review it. If you don't like the story, suck it up and don't read it. If you have something constructive to say, like, "You switched tenses here," or "You need to spell check more carefully," great! That's what we all need! But "This sucks and I hope you die," just really doesn't help anyone.
Hope you all enjoy this oh-so-cheesy, fluffy, and shark-jumping last chapter. Again, it's been an awesome ride!
January, 2013
Sara laughed at the chaos reigning around her. From her perch in a rocking chair on the back porch, she had a bird's-eye view of her backyard. Directly in front of her, on the stone walkway, sat her husband, looking adorable and happy amidst a sea of discarded wrapping paper. His head was adorned with the sticky-bottomed bows that had come off of his daughters' birthday gifts. Beyond him, Sara watched her now seven year-old daughters romp with the twenty or so friends they had invited to their birthday party. There was a steady stream of seven year-olds making the round trip from the diving board into the water, to the side of the pool, back out of the water, and to the diving board once again.
"Mom! Daddy! Watch me!" As Ashley waved her hands from the edge of the diving board as only an excited seven year-old can, Grissom grinned and glanced over his right shoulder at his wife. Sara's eyes met his with a twinkle, and he glanced down lovingly at her swollen belly before turning back in time to watch his daughter do a Class-A cannonball into the pool. She shrieked with delight as she surfaced and shook the water from her ears, and Grissom threw back his head and laughed, sending two pink bows flying out of his hair.
As she sat next to Catherine on the porch, Sara rubbed her hands affectionately over her abdomen. "Seven weeks to go," she reported wearily to Catherine. "This kid is killing me." The pregnancy had been a hard-fought one. Sara and Grissom had mused at the ease with which she had conceived the twins, only to be stumped when they started trying for an additional child three years later. Sara had been nearly 41 when she finally conceived again, and the pregnancy had not been easy.
"Is Gil just beside himself at the idea of a son?" Catherine asked.
"Well, I don't think it's the idea of a son so much as it is the idea of having a new baby in the house. Who'd have ever thought he'd turn out to be such a sucker for kids? He is excited, though. Have you seen what we've done to the nursery?" she asked, rolling her eyes with a smile.
"No!" Catherine cried. "I didn't know you had it finished. Marisa! Slow down!" she shifted gears. She looked at the dark-skinned, green-eyed six year-old who was effectively ignoring her. "Warrick, honey, do something with that child! She's not listening to me." Catherine sat back. "Sorry, what were you saying? Oh, yeah, the nursery. So it's done?"
"Oh, yeah. Dragonflies," Sara deadpanned.
"Please tell me you're kidding."
"One can only wish. Although," Sara continued, "it really is kind of cute, for a boy. I'll show you once some of the kids leave. I'm afraid if we go inside and leave the men in charge, we'll come back to some sort of disaster involving trips to the hospital," she grinned.
Catherine nodded. "Oh, that's cute," she said, pointing to Sara's daughters.
"Uncle Nicky! Come take a picture of us!" Elizabeth cried, throwing her arms around her sister. Nick happily obliged, coming around the edge of the pool to snap a shot of the shivering, smiling twins.
"That's gonna be a good one, my little gals," he announced.
"Thank you, Uncle Nicky!" they chorused before diving back into the pool.
Sara shook her head. "They're amazing, Cath," she said, her eyes locked on her blue-eyed, wavy-haired daughters. "I've never seen identical twins who are more different, yet still so incredibly close. They're stuck together like glue, which is odd, because it seems they only share two common interests—reading and swimming. Little fish," she laughed.
"Which one is it that's into bugs?" Catherine inquired.
"Ashley," Sara replied. "Gil just thinks he's hit the jackpot with that one. She begs to feed Gil's collection. And Elizabeth is my girly-girl. Thinks they're disgusting. And of course, you know she's into ballet," Sara smiled proudly.
"Yeah, I'm so glad you had the bright idea to sign her and Marisa up for dance together. Let me tell you, I think Marisa inherited her daddy's moves," Catherine grinned.
"Yeah," Sara snorted. "Because we all know her mother can't dance."
"Hey now!" Catherine said, slapping at Sara's arm. "Ballet's a far cry from, ah, stripping. And I better not see Marisa stripping any time soon, that's for sure. I take that back—I better not see Marisa stripping, ever, for that matter. Hey, look," she pointed, laughing.
Sara looked up at the amusing sight of Brass, Warrick, Nick, and Greg in the pool. Brass and Greg stood facing each other, next to Warrick and Nick, who were also facing each other. Each man had a small child on his shoulders and was involved in a full-fledged chicken fight. "Oh, that is classic," Sara giggled. "Griss!" she called. "Grab a camera, please. This must be recorded for posterity—especially Brass!"
Grissom chuckled before standing up and grabbing Nick's camera. He snapped quite a few shots of the ongoing chicken fighting before Brass playfully tossed Marisa from his shoulders and waded out of the pool. He stood on the stone deck at the edge of the pool, hands on his knees, catching his breath, before turning his head toward Grissom, Sara, and Catherine. He proclaimed, "I'm too damn old for this," with a big grin.
Unfortunately for him, Ashley heard him, and shrieked, "Uncle Jim! You owe the cuss pot a dollar!"
Brass held up his hands in surrender and headed toward the house, grabbing his wallet on the way. As he passed Grissom, he tried to hide a grin as he muttered, "Sixty years old and paying the cuss pot at the directive of a seven year-old."
Grissom shrugged and chuckled. "Hey, a rule's a rule."
Brass retorted, "I think I'll just toss in a twenty—make sure I'm covered. What exactly do you do with the cuss pot money?"
"Donate it to the charity of the girls' choice."
"So…Mom and Dad say wordy durds and charities benefit? Good lesson," Brass teased.
-
"Ok, it's official," Sara said, crawling into bed. "I'm old. I'm completely wiped out. We're going to have to hire somebody to raise our kids, because I'm officially pooped."
Grissom snorted as he pulled his wife into his arms. "You're old? No, sweetie, 41 is not old. Fifty-six? Now we're talking old. It's probably illegal in some countries to father a child at my age. You're just tired because of the little guy in your belly. Speaking of which, how's he doing?"
"He's fine. It's me you should be concerned about. I'm 41 years old and I'm carrying a watermelon in my uterus."
Grissom wrapped his arms more tightly around his wife and buried his nose in her hair. Breathing in her scent, he smiled before leaning down to gently kiss her neck. "No," he breathed. "You're carrying our son, and you're perfect. If anything, you've become more beautiful over the years."
Sara giggled and rolled her eyes. "Are you just trying to get laid? Because really, all you have to do is ask, Sweetheart." She rolled over and was surprised to see that his eyes were completely serious.
He gently ran a finger down her nose before tapping the end of it gently. "No. What I'm trying to do is explain to you that the life we have built means more to me than anything. Sitting outside, this afternoon, with our friends, watching the girls…it just…it just made me think, you know?" He propped himself up on his left elbow as he spoke to his wife. His voice shook with barely-restrained emotion as he continued. "It just made me think of how damn close I came to missing out on it completely. Was it fate? Was it coincidence? Was it God? What forces conspired so that on that day, I just happened to look through the window into the dance studio and see you there? What was it that made you decide to slip into your ballet shoes after all those years? What was it that made Brass show up at that exact moment and kick some sense into me? Huh?"
Sara looked at him, wide-eyed. She considered for a moment, then came to a conclusion. "Sweetie. You're over thinking it. Just…just be grateful that it happened, that we both came to our senses, and that everything worked out, ok? Look around and be thankful for what we have together. We got a late start, but look—we're still getting the American dream…Beautiful house, three kids, picket fence, soccer games. Ok, ok, so there's no picket fence and we go to swim meets instead of soccer games, but you get the idea. The point is," she said, reaching across to him, "we found what we were looking for. Let's not think it to death, all right?"
Grissom drew in a deep breath, sighed, and finally gave Sara a conciliatory smile. "You're right," he murmured. "You're tired; let's go to bed."
He leaned in for one more gentle kiss, and Sara turned over and snuggled her back into his stomach. As Grissom wrapped his arms around her, placing his hands on her belly, he felt his son move within her. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, thinking about the gifts he already had, as well as the gift that was to come. 'Oh, yes,' he thought. 'I'm going to keep Jim Brass in cigars and brandy for the rest of his life.'