The Passing of Seasons Chapter 4: Winter, a csi fanfic

The Passing of Seasons
by Camilla Sandman

Author's Note: For Lynn, who asked for a baby, a move of OOC by Grissom and mention of a US sitcom. I've tried to give as best I can. "When the glacier sees the spring sun, he weeps" is a Norwegian proverb and is in the public domain. The book titles are all invented by yours truly.

The lullaby lyrics have been changed by yours truly and aren't real lullabies, just reflecting them.

Winter

When he was eighty-seven, Gil Grissom knew he was about to die.

It wasn't a vision, not a doctor's statement, not a choice, not a sudden pain to hail death's coming. It was merely a growing feeling as he lay still in bed, feeling the pulse beat in his wrists, faded drums of life. He was dying.

The winds went through him, the cold never left. Winter then, in mind and body. He was old now, bones brittle and skin worn. It was time to fall quiet.

Oh, but it had been such a wonderful roar, he thought and smiled to no one but the air.

A wonderful roar of life.

Year fifty-one:
"Lavender's blue, dilly dilly / Lavender's glad / When you are child, dilly dilly / I shall be dad..."

He stood in the door and held his breath, or maybe his breath held him, time still as a winter's night between exhale and inhale. Pause and marvel. Pause and see Sara Sidle lay still in bed, forehead to forehead with Sean Sidle Grissom, little fingers clutching brown hair.

"Hello, Sean," she whispered seriously. "I haven't done this before. Neither have you. I guess that makes us even."

There was a silence for a moment, morning sun slating across the bed, falling on skin and cloth alike. He could see Sara's naked feet, pale white in pale light, and he could already feel how it would be to rub them warm in his hand.

"I'm sorry I don't have a family to give you," she went on and the grief in her voice was naked and still. "We'll have to make the best of it, you and I."

"And Grissom," he said quietly, walking over. She looked up at him without changing position, gaze serious and direct. No hiding, his Sara. She had learned as very young that it did no good.

Life never did any easy lessons.

"And Grissom," she agreed. "But you can call him daddy. Only mommy calls him Grissom."

He smiled faintly, crawling in behind her, taking a few strands of hair in between his finger, mirroring the child. "Only mommy can make the name sound beautiful."

"Since when have you been interested in beauty?" she replied, a hint of mischief in her voice as she leaned against him. Her back was warm against his chest, a summer's touch in everything else winter.

"Since I met you both," he said. "Hello, Sean."

Pause and marvel. Pause and see a family, he thought and remembered to breathe.

Year fifty-two:

"The itsy-bitsy spider / Climbed up the child's arm / Down came happy daddy / and marvelled at it all..."

He was kissing her, stroking her skin, feeling her heart under his palm when he heard an all too familiar sound. Shrill and loud and demanding.

"I'll go," he whispered, distangling himself from Sara, who feel back against the pillows with a sigh. He could see her close his eyes as he headed for the cradle, amazed at just how much noise something so small still could make. Enough to deny sleep to two very tired crime scene investigators on a frequent basis.

And strange how it was still impossible not to feel the moment of awe as little Sean looked at him with eyes just like Sara's. For that alone, he loved the child. And then there was everything else.

"Hey," he said softly and Sean stopped crying, blinking up at him in the sudden hush.

Maybe he was getting the hang of this father thing after all.

When he came back to Sara a little later, she was smiling.

"Gil Grissom, father extraordinaire. Never thought I'd see it."

"Me neither."

"We've been okay, haven't we?" she asked, lacing her hand in his as he lowered himself down to her, feeling her skin welcome his.

"We've been okay," he agreed and kissed her slowly, keep his eyes on hers.

For all the fear, little moments of panic, fights, insecurities, ghosts and pain they'd been okay. They were okay.

And then, with the wonderful sense of timing both parents claimed was inherited by the other, Sean started crying again.

"Shit."

Year fifty-five:
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word / Papa's gonna buy you a butterfly..."

It was so white, the hospital. So very white, innocence and winter and death in a colour. So very, very white.

"I'm sorry, Mister Grissom," a voice was saying, and he could hear Catherine cry against Warrick's chest, see Nick slam his fist against the wall, see Greg stand still, so very still. And Sara, Sara with eyes of tears, walking towards him.

"I couldn't save him..." she whispered and they fell against each other, her body still so soft. "I swear I tried, Grissom."

"I know," he whispered and somewhere inside him, he was hating himself for being glad it was her body alive next to his and Brass's dead on a table somewhere deep within the white. "I love you. I know you tried. I love you."

Bullets knew no distinction of flesh, but he did.

It was hard to forgive life when confronted by death, he thought. Brass knew that, as all police officers did. Grissom had been hoping to avoid the knowledge.

He was still drinking when Sean walked into the living room, looking downcast.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, Sean," he muttered, feeling the alcohol taste bitter in his mouth. "I lost a friend this week. I wasn't angry with you."

"It's okay, daddy," Sean whispered. "I'm sorry I broke your butterfly. I'll get you a new one. I will. I'm sorry."

There are some things that can't be replaced, Grissom didn't say. Too much innocence to learn that lesson yet.

"I'm too," he said instead, putting away his drink. "Let's see if we can find one in this book we both like, and then we'll get it together."

There was a sort of comfort in life when surrounded by death, he thought.

Year sixty:
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star / how I learned what you are / Out in space so far / daddy's shown me on Discovery..."

"You're gonna have to talk to Sean," Sara said and Grissom knew that tone. It held the stern gaze of his own mother, the disapproval of his teacher and the faint amusement of Sara Sidle. It was a tone that seemed to come for a visit more and more often.

"What did he do?"

"Your son dug up the neighbour's dead cat for a science project."

"Our son is a very dedicated scientist," he countered and she gave him a withering stare. "It's your genes too."

"Don't remind me."

He only smiled. At ten, it was hard to deny Sean was very much the son of Sara Sidle. And, he supposed, of Gil Grissom too.

"Can't deny it. Follow the evidence," he said instead and kissed her, feeling her smile into the kiss. "I'll talk to him."

"Sean."

"Dad."

"Your mother is not too happy you dug up the neighbour's cat."

"I know. She said I'm grounded."

"Yes."

"It's okay. I have a new experiment I can do inside. Look, I got this battery from the garage!"

"You're trying to electrocute a pickle."

"Yeah! Just like you told me. Did I set it up right?"

"Yes. Just like I taught you."

When Sara later found her pickle missing from her lunch, she grounded them both.

Year seventy:
"Swing low, sweet chariot / Comin' for to carry her home / Swing low, sweet chariot / Comin' for to bury her down..."

Afterwards, he wondered why he hadn't felt it the moment he died, why he hadn't woken up from his sleep knowing half of him was gone, half of him had died with her. It seemed like he should have known, should have felt it in his mind, not having to hear it from his son's lips and refuse to believe.

"She's gone, dad," Sean repeated. "Died at the scene."

Sara Sidle, late from work again. She still worked too much. He'd told her that many times. She was getting old. They were both getting old. She shouldn't work so hard. They should retire, be old and annoying together and finally write that brilliant forensics textbook.

But there was always another dead. She always worked too hard.

She wouldn't work so hard anymore.

She was gone.

Gone.

Her car plus speeding other car equalled gone.

"I know," he said to his son and then, then he did feel it. "I know."

It had been a beautiful funeral. Catherine and Warrick had been there, Nick had flown in from texas, Greg had held an eulogy on behalf of the lab, looking tired in his new supervising shadow. Never an easy act to follow, Sara Sidle. Never easy at all.

He hadn't cried during the service, during the fumbled speeches, at the sight of the coffin, at the sight of Sean's tear-streaked face. He'd just been there, wondering if he could feel at all with everything he'd been buried next to her.

Sara Sidle. Not his first love, not his only love. Perhaps not even the last, because he wasn't dead yet and the heart could betray even grief. But she had been... Oh, she had been so Sara and he had loved her.

He still loved her and she was gone.

There weren't enough tears for that in the whole world and so, he didn't cry.

He stood by the grave until the sun crawled beneath the horizon, so used to sleeping next to her he almost thought about resting against the gravestone, the earth the same bed as for her. It shouldn't have been her. He was older, it should have been him. It should always have been him.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said and maybe he did cry after all, but he couldn't feel it, couldn't feel anything but a raw, gaping hole in him that let the cold through. It wouldn't be warm ever again, not even in the blazing heat of summer. It wouldn't be life ever again, just a passing of days.

"I'm going to miss you," he said.

Then he went home. Because she wouldn't have stood for anything else.

Year eighty-seven:
"Rock-a-bye Grissom / in the earth's hold / When the wind blows / you won't feel cold
When the seasons pass / death stays a wall / and quiet rests Gil Grissom / memories and all..."

At eighty-seven, Gil Grissom knew the hush.

FIN