Author's Note: This is the first in a series of unrelated fics, each focusing on a different member of the team. There is no connection between each fic, other than the general theme of the piece, which is first times. Betaed by both the lovely elmyraemilieand ilovemycsi. Any mistakes you find are my own.
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, CBS does. I'm only playing in their sandbox .
Warning: This story deals with the aftermath of child abuse. There are no descriptions of the act, however if the subject matter distresses you please do not read it.
You never forget: Gil
You never forget your first time; there's something special about it, something unique. No matter what follows, you can never recapture that feeling and no matter how hard you try, you can never be the same person you were before. We are all of us changed by our experiences. For good or bad they mould us, shape us into the people we are and our world is forever altered.
Gil can clearly remember the fist time that he kissed a girl. He remembers the feel of sweet, tentative lips barely touching his own. He remembers the moist heat of gossamer breath ghosting over his skin, setting it a-tingle. He remembers his own heart beating too rapidly, an irregular rhythm, perfectly in time with his chaotic emotions.
He remembers the first time that he saw a dead body. He remembers vividly that awful day when he was nine. The summer sun was hot outside, burning up the sidewalk; drowning the world in a haze of heat and lassitude. Inside the house was cool, blessedly so, but it brought no relief. His father lay cold and serene, an unwilling traveller in the land of death and Gil had never felt so lost or so confused.
He remembers his first case featuring an abused child. He remembers his own outrage and fury at this heinous crime and his sorrow for the victim. Oh, yes, he remembers….
He hasn't been on the job long; in fact, he's barely had a chance to adjust to Texan time and the older CSI's are still ribbing him about still his 'virgin' status when he gets the call. A 415C, disturbance, children involved. When he arrives on the scene however, he finds that this is not the case; it is something so very much worse. A child, a boy, has been assaulted; sexually assaulted.
As he prepares to enter the victim's home he takes a quick look around at the circus now camped out on their doorstep. Four squad cars, blues still flashing in a silent parody of holiday fireworks, carnival lighting of the most macabre kind. An ambulance, with attending paramedics, social services and his own crime lab vehicle, all invading the quiet, mundane reality of suburban life. Across the street, the family's curious neighbours vie with each other for the clearest view of the ongoing events and try to charm the cops on duty into giving up the juicy details of what has recently transpired. If they only knew the truth, they would not be so eager to trade gossip.
Picking up his case, he makes his way into the middle class home, taking in the comfortable surroundings and the trappings of everyday family life. The furniture is slightly worn, though far from old. It has the appearance of constant use and is inviting and welcoming, much like the entire house. Whoever lives here is generous and unpretentious. He observes a plethora of photographs, prominently displayed on the mantel; candid shots that have the look of an enthusiastic amateur, all featuring a host of happy smiling faces and carefree joy. Gil doubts that there will be any more pictures like that for a long time to come.
Following the directions of the officer stationed at the front door, he makes his way slowly upstairs. Voices speaking quietly from a room on the right draw him to its open door. Inside he finds a handsome man in his thirties and a beautiful woman of around the same age; the parents, he presumes. The woman clings to her husband, her body crushed against his solid warmth, seeking solace and comfort. They don't see him, too caught up in their grief and self-recrimination and he feels like an interloper; the worst kind of voyeur, soaking up their pain and distress.
Withdrawing, for the moment, he turns once more to the hallway, finding it now occupied by another officer and one of the paramedics. With a confidence that he does not feel, he moves to join them.
"The kid's still in there," the officer, Pulaski, tells him and with a quick nod of his head indicates the room on his immediate left. "He's still pretty shaken up and we didn't want to mess with any evidence that may still be on him, so we just let him be."
Nodding his approval, he tightens his grip on his case and turns to enter the room. It's such an ordinary bedroom, walls adorned with hand painted pictures and cowboy wallpaper. Against one wall stands a unit holding a multitude of toys, haphazardly placed there by childish hands. Action men and black-eyed bears, silent witnesses now to a child's cruel awakening into the real world.
In the centre of the room is the bed; the scene of the crime. The sheets are tangled and in disarray, the colourful bedspread with its cowboy motif lies abandoned on the floor at its foot. Later he will use the ALS on it to gather any physical evidence, before bagging the sheets and taking them back to the lab. But for now his entire focus is on the victim of this monstrous crime.
In the corner of the room, half hidden by the shadow cast by the bed, a tiny form huddles. All that is visible is a shock of brown hair, the face hidden from view as the child buries his head in his arms. His knees are drawn up to his chest and with every breath that he takes, Gil can see the silent sobs that wrack his fragile body, even as he struggles to hold them inside. Clearing his throat to alert the child to his presence, he remains still for a moment and pretends that he doesn't see the swift movement of hand over eyes as the youngster tries ineffectually to wipe away the tears that have stained his cheeks with the salty residue of sorrow and despair.
Crouching down a few feet from the boy, he sets his case aside for the moment. There will be time for it later, but for now, all he needs to do is establish a connection with the victim, never an easy thing for him to do.
"My name is Gil Grissom, son. I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"
Of course, he knows the boy's name already, but he needs to find a way in, a way to get this poor child talking or he will never get the information he needs.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to help you, would that be OK with you?"
"Say, I promise," the boy's voice is weak, fluty. The words gravely spoken, yet sweet all the same. "Say, I promise not to hurt you."
"I promise not to hurt you," and his own voice catches as the implications of that one request sink in. How many times has this child been hurt, what has he endured and how many people have taken his trust and shattered it? Slowly, the little chestnut head lifts itself up and he finds himself under the scrutiny of a sharp gaze and distrustful brown eyes. It's immediately obvious that he has been crying. Even if Gil hadn't seen those small shoulders shaking so violently just a moment before, the puffy swollen eyes would have told the true tale. Still, he holds the boy's frightened gaze and tries to communicate to him the message that he is safe and will come to no harm in his presence.
For an impossibly long minute it seems that he has failed in his quest, but then he sees the boy visibly draw himself together and he cannot help but feel awed by the strength of character that this little boy is showing and by his ability to trust a complete stranger after all that he has been through. It humbles him, and he swears a silent oath to himself that he will catch the monster who abused this innocent for their own sick pleasure.
"What …do I have to do anything?" the child asks. His voice is hesitant, scared and Gil has to remind himself to contain the anger that he feels bubbling inside and focus on the unpleasant task at hand.
"All you have to do is continue to be the brave boy that I know you are. Now the paramedics are going to take you to the hospital, where the doctors will give you a special check up to make sure that you aren't hurt. After that, I'm going to come visit you and take some special pictures of you for evidence and then you can tell me what happened to you tonight. Is that OK with you?"
The child's forehead is scrunched up in concentration as he absorbs Gil's words and then he turns his inquisitive gaze on Gil once again. "What's evidence mean?" he asks, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully and succinctly.
Trying to express it in terms that he knows the boy will understand, he tells him, "Evidence is like truth. It tells the true story of things that happen, even when people sometimes tell you lies. It's like proof; a silent witness to the events that happen and no matter what people say, the evidence never lies. Evidence helps us to catch the bad guys and put them in jail."
He can see the boy processing his words and he fears that he may not have made things clear enough for him to follow. Damn, but this is hard. He isn't any good with kids and he so desperately doesn't want to screw this up. He can only hope that the boy can get past his own shortcomings as a teacher and grasp the truth that he is trying to impart.
Watching his face, Gil can see the second that the meaning of his words registers. The look of relief on the boy's face is almost painful in its intensity and he wonders just what he had been afraid of. The answer comes quickly though, as the child lurches forward, knocking Gil onto his ass, his thin arms embracing Gil, touching him for the first time.
"She said that no one would believe me. She said that everyone would know that I wanted it; that it was my fault. But I never wanted any of it. I hated every minute and I tried to stop her. I tried so hard to stop her, but she was too strong. The evidence," again he states the unfamiliar word with conviction and fervour, "will prove that, won't it?" And just like that, his seeming strength is exhausted and he breaks down in Gil's arms, a lost and frightened child seeking solace and comfort in a world gone suddenly mad.
He sits like that, holding the tiny body for who knows how long, clutching the child to him, holding him, riding out the waves of sorrow and pain as he cries out his fear and shame. Finally, when he feels the tremors lessen, he knows that the boy has cried himself to sleep and glancing backwards to the open door he gestures for the paramedic stationed there to enter. Giving up his precious bundle, trusting the other to deliver the child safely to the hospital and his waiting parents he turns once more to the room and begins to process the scene.
He has evidence to gather and a promise to keep.
Thinking back on that day, on that first case, Gil knows that he will never forget his first abused child. How could he? How could he ever forget the pain that he was witness to or the strength and fortitude show by such an innocent? How could he ever forget the feel of that tiny body clinging to his own, seeking succour in the maelstrom of betrayal?
How could he ever forget the first time that he had met Nick Stokes?