Title: What Do You Want For Christmas?

Author: Special Agent Meg

Subject: Angst/Tragedy

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Still Life

Disclaimers: No, I don't own them. I'm just Grissom's wife, and he's given me permission to share some of these old stories. (He doesn't mention me at work because he wants to keep his work and home life separate, plus he doesn't want criminals using me to get to him).

Summary: It's December 1965 and a woman brings her nine-year-old son to see Santa. Important - DO NOT READ if you have not seen Still Life – You'll lose the impact of the episode.

0000000000000000000

It was a half hour before closing when he saw them. The blond-haired woman and the solemn-faced boy, approaching the photo area. The man sitting on the sleigh bench watched in interest as the woman signed something to the little boy.. Little in stature, anyway.

There were no other children in line, so the man braced himself for the usual track-star run and bounce that followed. Instead, the boy walked quietly up to the sleigh and stood still, waiting for permission to proceed further.

Up close, the man could see that the boy still had the round cheeks of childhood, but not the healthy glow. This boy's face was pale; starkly contrasted by his black fisherman-knit sweater. But it was his eyes that belied his age the most. Deep blue, nearly swallowed up by the unusually huge pupils, and the same haunted expression as the youths the man had commanded at Pearl Harbor.

It was that expression that kept the man from giving his usual jolly greeting. Instead he patted his lap and said gently, "Do you want to come and sit down?"

The boy walked forward and eased down on one red-covered leg like he'd been asked to give an obligatory kiss to the stern, unsympathetic uncle you dread seeing at the annual Christmas gathering.

"It's okay." The boy's voice was so quiet that for a moment the man thought he'd just imagined it. "You don't have to pretend for me. Mom just wanted to get my picture taken for Grandmother."

"You don't believe in Santa Claus anymore." The man kept his voice soft. After looking into the boy's eyes he would have been surprised if he had, but it was the tone that chilled him. There was no boyish skepticism, just the resigned, matter-of-factness from a man five times his age.

"What's Santa's wife's name?" The boy looked straight at him and the man gave the first name that came into his mind.

"Amy?" The boy didn't even blink.

"Three years ago, the man playing Santa told me it was Elizabeth. The year before that he told me Susannah."

It was a bright trick, one that any other time would have made him burst out laughing. This time, the man just said, "What's your name?"

"Gil Grissom."

"Gil Grissom." The man repeated the name softly. "Well then, while the photographer is getting her camera ready, why don't you tell me what you'd ask for for Christmas if Santa were real."

"My father back."

When he'd applied for the job of Santa Claus, the man had been asked if he was prepared for the types of questions he'd receive. At the time, he hadn't understood why.

Now he did.

"How long has he been gone?" The man wasn't going to ask him what happened. Gil had looked him directly in the eye when he said it; no wavering, no hint of tears. Just a simple, truthful statement made with the knowledge that it would never happen. And the knowledge that the man also new and that he did not expect deliberate stupidity for the sake of psychological comfort.

"The end of September. He was lying on the couch and Mom couldn't wake hi up. She told me to go tot he neighbors and start my homework and that she'd come pick me up when Dad was finished resting. But she didn't come pick me up."

Gil tilted his head slightly. "I had supper there and fell asleep on the couch. Then Aunt Robyn woke me up and told me I was coming to visit her for a few days. She said it was a special treat – that I got to go late at night when it was dark. And when I came home at the end of the week, Mom told me Dad had to go away for a while."

The blue eyes lost their steadiness for one moment. "Mom bought him a sweater tonight." His voice was wistful. "She doesn't know I saw the ambulance that night."

Gil stared straight ahead, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. "Dad isn't coming back for Christmas."

THE END