PART 5

Spoilers: Who are you? (the scene where a woman points a gun at Nick). For God and Country, (the scene where Gil goes to the firing range –a scene that's always intrigued me). And in Justice is Served, Gil says that he didn't choose death as a career but that death chose him. And the episode where Gil reveals that his father was a Botanist.

'Acid poured into my brain…' 'An ice-pick driven into my temple…' 'A helmet, slowly shrinking and compressing my head into the size of a tennis ball…'

There were many ways to describe how I felt but in short, I had one hell of a migraine.

I have a dim recollection of me, huddling in a corner of my bed and coming in and out of consciousness. When I was awake, I'd visualize the damage that the pain was inflicting; when I fell asleep, the pain would recede, only to be replaced by fear.

In my dreams, I kept running, running, running…

My heart pounded wildly as I ran through the woods. I was breathing harshly and I knew that no matter how fast I ran, I could not get away. I had nowhere to go, either. I just knew I had to get away.

"Oh, come on, Gilbert," a male voice yelled behind me, "It's just an animal! That's what they're here, for, anyway!"

In the last dream, I jumped behind a fallen tree and hid underneath; I held my breath, hoping my father and his buddies would walk by without seeing me.

And then I heard it; somewhere close, someone was groaning softly, as if in pain. I looked around, searching for the source, but I couldn't quite focus my gaze on anything; everything was blurry, and my head hurt like hell.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my shoulder and shook it.

I woke up with a start. I opened my eyes, only to meet what looked like an explosion of light. It felt as if individual beams were piercing holes into my head. I groaned and turned away.

A faraway voice was asking if I was all right.

Brass' voice.

"'o 'way," I growled, burying my face back into my pillow.

"Hey, Gil? You ok?"

I mumbled something about the light hurting my eyes, but it came out all distorted. It was as if I hadn't spoken in years and the muscles and vocal chords had atrophied from lack of use.

"What's that?" Jim asked, sincerely puzzled.

I managed a couple of words, "No lights -"

"Oh. Ok." He said, and he hurriedly turned off the bedside lamp. "Is that better, now?"

I looked again, only to find that he had a Maglite with him. I pushed the beam away from me.

"Hurts," I grunted.

"Ok, ok," he said soothingly, aiming the light at a spot on the wall so we wouldn't be left in complete darkness. "Is that ok?" he asked, a faint amusement underlining the words.

I squinted at him. In the semi darkness I noticed Jim's gaze darting here and there, taking in every detail in the room. He was acting like a detective. When he didn't see anything suspicious he turned his focus on me.

"You ok, Gil?" he asked.

I shook my head, but the simple movement made me dizzy.

"Hey, you're not drunk, are you?" he asked, still faintly amused. "I don't see any bottle here but -"

" 'igraine," I mumbled.

He looked up sharply.

"A grain?" he asked, more seriously now. He put a hand on my forehead, "A grain of what?"

"Migraine!" I retorted, pushing his hand away.

"Oh. Ok." He glanced around, "Where's your medication?"

I shook my head again.

"-ice." I mumbled hoarsely.

"Yeah, I know, your eyes hurt."

"ICE!" I groaned impatiently, "Ice pack."

"Ok, ok," Brass said patiently, "I'll get you one."

When he returned with the ice pack I grabbed it and pressed it on my face. It felt so good I moaned in relief. I kept the ice on my face until I finally had to come up for air. I put the ice pack on the back of my head.

"You ok, now?" Jim asked.

I'd forgotten Brass was there. I squinted again. He had a bottle of water in one hand, and a smaller bottle in the other.

I hadn't questioned his presence in my home until then.

"What're you doing here?" I frowned.

"I just dropped by to -"

"You broke into my home?" I interrupted, managing to sound indignant and pissed off at the same time.

He lifted his hands in self-defense.

"Hey, we've been calling you since early in the morning. We tried your cell, your phone number, your pager… You never answered. Frankly, we were worried, Sara and me -"

"Sara called?" I asked, apprehensively. A call from her meant there was something the matter with Greg.

"She wanted to be the first to give you news," Jim said, "I.A. cleared you of any misconduct." he paused expectantly.

I put the ice pack back on my face.

"But don't get all overexcited," he said sarcastically. "Anyway," he added after a moment, "We called you all morning, me and Sara. We thought you'd rather hear the news from us."

I reluctantly lowered the ice.

"Thanks," I muttered.

Brass looked closely at me.

"Gil, you didn't take your medication, did you?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Jesus, Gil. Why?"

It was difficult to explain.

"I thought I could tough it out." I said. But the ice pack in my hand was proof that I'd failed, and we both knew it, "I guess I'm a wimp." I said.

Brass shook his head.

"You're not a wimp, Gil -just an idiot. Here," he said, offering me a plastic bottle. He frowned when I didn't take it. "You don't want to take your pills?"

"Those cause drowsiness -" I said evasively.

"And?" he replied. He smiled, "You're not planning on taking a drive or operating any heavy machinery any time soon, are ya?"

"I don't want to sleep." I muttered.

I should have left it at that, but Jim was obviously waiting for an explanation. And maybe, just maybe, I needed to unburden myself too.

"I took one pill, right at the beginning," I said reluctantly, "I fell asleep and I kept having this dream –over and over -"

"What dream?"

I took a deep breath. "We were back at the house, Greg and me and… the perp." I said, "I walked up to them and then I pulled the trigger –just like it happened at the house," I gulped down, "But in the dream it was Greg who died, every time."

"It was just a nightmare, Gil."

"I know that," I replied. "It's just… Every time I woke up, there was this brief moment when I didn't know which was real anymore – the dream or this." I said, glancing around my room. "And then I started wondering whether I'd only dreamed that Greg was alive -"

One look at Jim's bewildered face, and I knew telling him my story was a mistake.

To his credit, Jim merely shook his head.

"You've been reading too much science fiction." He said gently. "Greg is alive, Gil. Ok?" he paused, "Now, this is the real deal: You're in so much pain that your face is twitching and you're slurring your words. You need this," he said, putting the pills and the water within my reach, "Just take the pills; get some sleep."

It made no sense to resist. Feeling like a little kid, I obeyed.

I don't know how long I slept, but when I woke up there were sounds coming from the kitchen. Brass was still there.

I was in no condition to get out of bed, but I couldn't rest easily knowing Brass was there.

When I finally made it into the kitchen, he was mixing something pink and frothy in the blender. There was a grocery bag on the kitchen counter too. From the logo, I could tell he'd gone to a nearby store.

Sunlight was streaming through the open windows. It was about ten in the morning, and it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't know what day it was.

Brass looked up.

"Well." He said after a quick assessment, "You look like hell."

I felt like hell, too. I sat heavily on a stool and leant on the counter. I glanced at my spider. It was placidly laying on a rock in the middle of its pool.

"What about your pet? Do you have feed it, or something?" Brass asked.

"No," I said, "It eats only twice a week." I looked into the aquarium again. The mealworm was still there.

"By the way," Brass said, "Your security system was off when I came. You should be more careful, Gil. Anyone could have entered your house."

Starting with a nosy cop, I thought. But I didn't say anything; I didn't have the energy to argue with him.

He poured the pink mixture into a tall glass, and set it in front of me.

"I can't hold anything down," I said apologetically.

"I know." He said gently, "But try a little of this. It's a protein shake."

I stared into the glass but didn't touch it.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know if you're treating me like a little kid or like an old man," I said morosely.

"Does it matter?"

I looked up.

"It does," I retorted, "I still got some pride, you know."

He scoffed.

"Just shut up and drink it."

"It's an old man's drink." I muttered before taking a sip.

"Actually, it's a kid's drink. Sorry," he said, "It was all they got in that fancy store that's just a few blocks away."

The shake tasted lightly of cherry-flavored cold medicine. But it was cold and it soothed the painful sores on the inside of my cheek.

I took a couple of sips and then I closed my eyes. I was still sleepy.

"How long were you in that bed, Gil?"

I opened my eyes with difficulty.

"Mmmm?"

"How long -"

"What day's today?" I asked before he finished.

"Sunday."

So I'd spent Friday night and most of Saturday huddled in bed, shaking in pain.

"Gil." Brass prompted.

"I don't know," I replied.

Brass didn't press me for an answer; instead, he started taking groceries from the bag. Fresh fruit, a couple of cans of soup –

"By the way," he said, "Warrick just called; he says Sanders was released from the hospital earlier today."

I kept my gaze on the glass in front of me.

"Oh, and Sanders' sister called, too," he added casually. "Karen, I think her name is."

I looked up sharply. There was something in Jim's tone that put me on my guard. If Karen had told him about Greg and me –

"She seemed pretty pissed off, by the way," he said, "Said you didn't call –not once. Asked me to tell you what an SOB you are."

Well, that sounded like the Karen I knew and intensely disliked.

Jim was looking attentively at me. When I didn't comment, he continued, "He's ok, by the way. Greg, I mean. In fact, he'll be back at work on Tuesday. He won't be talking much -his throat's still sore, of course. But at least, he'll be back -"

"That's good." I said expressionlessly.

"Yeah." He agreed, "Being at the lab will give him a respite from his family –they're the smothering type, you know?" he paused, "Or maybe you don't, since you didn't even bother to call."

"I was supposed to stay away until IA finished their investigation -"

"Oh, please," he said skeptically. "You could have talked to them, Gil; you know it, and I know it. All you had to do was ask for Karen or any of them."

He leant on the counter, "Look," He said, "You're a better supervisor than I ever was, and I've never thought I'd question your leadership. But this time I've got to ask: Why are you being so hard on the kid?"

"What does that mean?"

"You know what I mean. He screwed up –so what? I mean, even Morrison and Hall decided not to give him a hard time for his blunder -"

"What blunder?"

"What blunder?" he repeated, as if he couldn't believe I was asking the question, "He let this guy Jenkins get close enough to grab him and subdue him. How in the world didn't he notice there was a stranger in the premises? He says he was too focused on the job to notice, but still -"

I was appalled.

"So now you're blaming Greg for being a victim?"

"I'm not," he replied, "But he was careless, Gil. He screwed up, and in other circumstances, IA would have given him a reprimand -"

"He didn't screw up," I said angrily, "And in case you've forgotten, he managed to deflect a bullet that would have hit Warrick."

"I'm not saying the kid didn't act bravely," he replied, and then he paused. "Wait a minute," He said, frowning, "If you don't think he screwed up, then why are you giving him the silent treatment?"

When I didn't answer, he continued, "I mean, the sister was right, you know. You should have called, drop him a message. It doesn't matter whether IA gives him a hard time or not; it's you he needs some reassurance from."

I looked down. I shook my head.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know to say to him."

"What does that -"

"I don't know what to say to any of them." I added.

Jim was in silence for a moment.

"Is that why you're taking a vacation?" he said softly.

I looked up. News traveled fast, apparently.

"Catherine told me," he explained.

I nodded.

"I need to get away," I said.

"Hey, I understand," he said amiably, "I mean, you could do with some rest."

He looked expectantly at me, but I studiously turned my attention back to my shake.

"So…" he said, "You're going somewhere?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Have you decided where?"

I glanced at him.

"Not yet."

He nodded good-naturedly.

"You're simply gonna hop in a train and see where it takes you –is that it?"

"Something like that."

"And are you planning on coming back?"

I looked up sharply.

"What does that mean?"

"Hey, I gotta ask." He said, lifting his hands in self-defense, "About five years ago, I went to Chicago for a seminar. I never told you this, but your name came up in a conversation. They told me how you rarely ever went away on vacation, and how one day you got it into your head to go to Las Vegas, of all places."

He smiled faintly, "A week later, they were told you weren't coming back. You'd had a job waiting for you all along."

"So, I gotta tell you," he added, "Every time you take a vacation, I have this weird feeling that you're not coming back."

I should have said something like, 'of course, I'm coming back,' which would have effectively ended that line of conversation right there, but I didn't. I had this need to talk –to explain myself. Maybe it was a side-effect of my migraine medicine.

Whatever it was, I suddenly found myself telling the truth.

"I don't know if I can ever go back to the lab." I said.

"Why?"

I looked down uncomfortably.

"Because…" I hesitated, "I can't imagine looking at my colleagues in the eye and telling them what to do," I said, "Or sitting in the interrogation room, putting the pressure on some perp. I mean, who am I to judge others -"

"You can't just leave, Gil." He said gently, "It would be like running away."

That was exactly what I wanted to do.

"Look, Gil…" Jim said. Then he took a deep breath, "I know you feel bad about shooting this guy." He said solemnly. "I know that in your mind, you've probably come out with different scenarios in which you find yourself managing to capture the guy without shooting at him, am I right?" he paused.

He was exactly right, but I didn't say so. I couldn't even look at him.

"You probably think you could have talked Jenkins into giving himself up," he continued, "Just a couple of phrases from you, and he would have willingly released Greg and dropped the gun, right? Or maybe you think you could have shot him in the leg or in the arm, just to stop him -"

I smiled despite myself.

"According to Morrison, I could have done just that." I said, "He asked me if I couldn't have aimed at Jenkins' shoulder, or a knee -"

Brass snorted.

"Yeah, right," he said, "If you had shot Jenkins in the arm or the leg, he would have shot back." Then he softened his tone, "Look, Morrison's only doing his job, Gil. He can't very well congratulate you, right? He's making sure you won't be feeling heroic for killing Jenkins."

"I'm not feeling heroic." I said.

"I know." Brass said gently, "You feel like shit, right now," he said. He took a deep breath. "Listen, Gil. I don't know if anyone else has told you this, and I don't know if you will believe it, but it's true: You'll get over it."

"That's not true." I retorted, "You told me once that you never forget killing someone; that it's always at the back of your mind -"

Jim was taken aback -he clearly didn't remember ever saying that. But I did. A few years back, Brass had told me about his life in New Jersey, and the one case that still haunted him: The death of an armed teenager.

It had been a moment of weakness on his part and I wouldn't have mentioned it in other circumstances…

"You were drunk when you told me." I said gently.

He scoffed.

"If I was drunk then it doesn't count." He said. Then he softened his tone, "Look. It's true that you don't forget. What you do is come to terms with it. Remember, Jenkins was scum. If you hadn't stopped him -"

"I know he was scum." I interrupted.

It didn't matter; I still wished I didn't kill him.

"Look… I understand how you feel," Brass said, "You don't have it in you to be destructive -"

But he was wrong. I did have it in me. I could be destructive –I'd just proved it.

"I just don't want you to mourn this guy forever, Gil."

I smiled bitterly. Brass didn't get it: It wasn't Jenkins's death that I was mourning. It was someone else's death.

Gil Grissom's death.

I felt tears starting to gather in my eyes, but I made an effort to hold them back.

Brass studiously looked away, giving me a moment to put myself together.

"Listen," Brass said. "You're right; you never forget. It's always there. Sometimes, a smell brings back the memories –or a sound, or a color, or a familiar face. And you're bound to feel this more deeply; you're too sensitive for your own good sometimes."

I scoffed at this description of me.

"What?" he frowned.

"Nothing." I said, "It's just that you might not know me as well as you think."

He smiled.

"What, you're some sort of Dr. Jekyll/ Mr. Hyde?" he said with some amusement. But I didn't smile back, and after a moment he grew serious too. "What are you trying to say?" he asked.

I looked at Jim.

"You don't think it's weird, that I managed to kill Jenkins so cleanly, Jim?" I asked quietly. "Morrison and Hall did. Hall kept pointing that out, you know? How I could have missed and shot Greg instead -"

"Hall was simply depicting the worst-case scenario," Brass retorted, "He wanted to make sure you won't be taking matters in your hands every time there's a hostage situation, just because you were lucky once."

"You think it was luck, Jim?"

"Call it what you like," he retorted, "Bottom line, the shot was a fluke -"

"It wasn't a fluke." I said quietly. "I thought it was, at first. I wanted to think it was, I guess." I looked down. I extended my hands, palms up. "I'm good at it, Jim," I said.

"What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm good at shooting people." I said.

Jim briefly closed his eyes.

"Oh, shit," he sighed. "Don't do this to yourself, Gil."

"I'm just stating the obvious, Jim." I replied, "I didn't hesitate, you know. I didn't think of the pros and cons, I just went in and pulled the trigger."

"There was no time to think it over," he retorted, "You were defending your guys."

"Yes," I said, still looking at my hands, "I did what I had to do. It sounds very noble, doesn't it?" I paused for a moment, "Do you know what it's like to be good at something without even trying or wanting to?"

"What does that mean?

I didn't immediately reply, and when I did, it probably seemed that I was changing the subject.

"I was one of the few CSIs who opposed carrying a gun." I started.

"I know," He said gently. "Most cops thought you just didn't want to take part in something you would suck at."

I shook my head, "I didn't suck. When my turn came up, it turned out I was good at it -too good." I looked up, "I got a score of 85."

Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Wow. I didn't know that."

"That's because I talked the instructor into lowering the score in his final report."

"Why did you do that?" Brass frowned.

I shrugged. Obviously, I didn't want anyone to know I was one hell of a shot.

"I carried an empty gun for years," I confessed, "I never thought I'd need to use it, until a woman pointed a gun at Nick. Remember that? I pointed my own gun at her and talked her into giving herself up -" When Jim nodded, I added, "My gun was empty at the time."

"Shit -"

"It was a wake-up call," I said, "I realized I couldn't go around with an empty gun. I didn't expect to use it –not even after the trouble with Fromanski. The thing is, I don't practice," I said, "But in my last evaluation I got a score of 90."

Brass waited for me to say more and when I didn't, he frowned.

"I don't get it," he said slowly, "So, you're good at it –so what? I am not surprised. You're an overachiever, that's all."

I shook my head, "Jim, this isn't something I've read about or something I've purposefully memorized," I said, "It's not something I've studied until I know every intricacy. I'm just a natural."

Brass didn't comment; instead, he took a seat and leant forward.

"What are you trying to say here, Gil?"

I took a deep breath. I didn't recall the last time I'd talked about this and I wasn't sure where to begin.

"My father used to love guns." I said after a moment.

Brass' eyebrows rose.

"No kiddin'? I always pictured your dad as a pacifist. He was a teacher -a zoologist or something like that, wasn't he?"

I smiled.

"My stepfather was," I said.

Jim's eyebrows rose.

"Oh." He said.

"My parents divorced when I was a five," I explained, "A couple of years later, my mother remarried. His name was Andrew Grissom, and he was a Botanist."

"-a Botanist," he repeated, as if the word had been on the tip of his tongue all along. "So, this guy adopted you."

Not exactly, but I didn't explain that part.

"After the divorce, my mom and me moved to another city," I said, "But my father insisted on keeping in touch, so -" I shrugged, "Like it or not, I had to spend my summers with him."

"I'm guessing you didn't like it."

I glanced at him.

"His idea of fun was to go hunting."

"Oh."

I almost laughed at that 'oh'. I'd never realized until then how expressive Brass could be. There was dismay and, yes, compassion in that single syllable.

"I was too young to take part on the hunting itself," I explained, "But my father insisted on teaching me how to handle the different weapons. I was curious -" I paused.

I didn't want to sound apologetic about it. Yes, I was curious about the guns, but there was more than that: I wanted to share something with my father. We had little in common –apart from some physical traits. I wanted to please my dad, that was all.

And truth to be told, I enjoyed our time together –for a while, at least.

"He taught me how to dismantle the guns," I said, "We'd clean the pieces, and then we'd put them back together again. He also taught me how to move noiselessly in the woods."

Which explained how I'd managed to approach two CSIs and an armed perp without being heard.

"I would follow my father around around," I said, "Copy every movement of his as if we were playing a game. It was great," I admitted, "Until I saw what he needed the guns for."

"Deer?" Brass asked succinctly.

"Anything that moved, actually." I replied.

"Oh."

"Once I saw what the game was all about, the fun was over."

"So... what did you do?"

I ran away –over and over.

"I stayed out of the way," I said simply "Studied bugs -"

"And thus, a career was born." Jim smiled. "What about your dad? Was he mad at you?"

"He wasn't happy." I said evasively.

I made him look bad in front of his buddies -of course he was mad.

"And did he -" Jim hesitated, "Was he -"

I smiled faintly at Jim's sudden delicacy.

"He wasn't abusive." I said. "Not physically." I added as an afterthought.

I thought of the sudden rages my father was prone to. I'd given up trying to understand him a long time ago, but maybe it was time for me to try again.

"He was who he was." I said after a moment. "He just saw things from a different perspective. He probably thought that hunting would toughen me up. To him, my interest in books was a sign of weakness." I said thoughtfully. "Maybe… Maybe he knew what I was even before I did -"

"What does that mean?"

It meant that my father probably knew I was gay, and the prospect terrified him.

But I didn't tell this to Brass. Instead, I turned the conversation back to my stepfather.

"He was a quiet guy who loved books, like my mother and me." I said, "He certainly didn't need a gun to make a point," I added.

"That must have been a plus," Jim mumbled.

"He died too soon." I said. "One afternoon he lay down to take a nap and… his heart simply stopped."

"How old were you?"

"About nine." I said.

"Oh." There it was again –compassion. It didn't bother me, anymore.

"He knew everything," I continued, smiling at a distant memory, "He would solve every problem and answer every question -"

Brass smiled. "Sounds like someone I know."

I nodded.

"I modeled myself after him," I said quietly.

It was true; when I was a kid, I made a conscious decision to be like him. I strove to speak like him, move like him, and think like him. And the truth was, I didn't have to work at it –being like him was easy for me.

I took a deep breath, "I took his name, years after he died." I said slowly, "I grew up, thinking I could be like him if I tried hard enough. And until yesterday, I thought I'd succeeded."

"Gil -"

"Now I feel as if a part of me had died." I said.

Jim didn't immediately reply. Of course not –what could anyone say in a case like this?

Poor Jim didn't know what he was getting into when he came over to my house.

"Gil…" he said at last, "I won't pretend to know what you're going through. Right now you're too emotionally raw to see things from its proper perspective. You faced a life-or-death situation, and you did what was best."

"Besides," he continued, "You don't know what Andrew Grissom would have done in a similar situation. Personally, I believe he would have done anything –anything- to save his loved-ones."

He look a deep breath, "You know, I was afraid that things would get to you, Gil. That's why I kept trying to talk to you, the other day. The thing is… You've always ignored your emotions; you've ignored them for so long that you've started to think they don't exist. But they're real; and now you don't know how to deal with them."

"I mean," he continued, "If this had happened to somebody else, you would have been the first to come out with –I don't know, a quote, maybe? Something -anything- to put their minds at ease. But it happened to you. You don't know how to forgive yourself."

He was right, I didn't -I couldn't. Jim didn't understand –but then, he didn't have the full picture. Nobody did, except for Warrick and Greg, who'd evidently kept the truth to themselves.

Jim didn't know that right after Greg realized he hadn't been shot, he'd looked in my direction. He gaped when he saw that gun in my hand. He was pale and in obvious pain, but I didn't notice any of this at the time. All I saw was the incredulous look he was giving me.

He was horrified, and his reaction angered me. Instead of reaching out to help, I exploded.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" I yelled, "How could you let this guy take you?"

And Greg, who by now had started to shake from the shock of it all, blurted out, "I thought it was you."

The words came out in a hoarse whisper, but they were intelligible enough for me.

'I thought it was you.'

My anger vanished as I realized what those words meant. Greg had known there was somebody else in the room all along. At any other time he would have turned but this time he didn't, because he didn't want to spoil the surprise. He thought I was tiptoeing towards him, in what was surely an attempt at a reconciliation.

He probably leant back, the minute Jenkins reached for him. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late: Jenkins was holding him by the throat, trying to choke him into unconsciousness -

God.

I couldn't hold Greg's gaze anymore.

Mechanically, I turned to Warrick, who was still kneeling by his friend.

"You're in charge of this crime scene, now." I said. "Seal the room and don't process any evidence without at least one cop present."

I secured my gun and handed it to him, "Bag it and keep it with the rest of the evidence until Internal Affairs asks for it." I gulped, "Take him outside," I said, incapable of even uttering Greg's name, "Get him a blanket. Paramedics are on their way."

And then I went outside to wait for Brass.

And now, Jim was looking expectantly at me. He'd already done so much for me, the least I could do was put him his mind at ease.

"You're right," I said, then. "Maybe it's time for me to give myself a break."

"Exactly," he said.

We were silent for a moment.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jim asked suddenly, "What did your father do for a living.?"

I smiled.

Brass was in for a surprise.

"He was a cop," I said. "He was a patrolman to the end of his days."

Jim reacted just the way I thought he would; he gaped.

"How did you end up working with cops?" he asked incredulously.

"I didn't plan on it," I said simply.

I had a theory as to why I'd ended up as a CSI. Those hunting trips my father took me to made me face death at an early age. The carnage repulsed me, but there were aspects of the death process that exerted a sort of fascination on me.

I couldn't help watching.

What could have easily grown into an unhealthy interest in death and violence was canalized into something more positive –a career- thanks to the people I met later –my stepfather, teachers, and counselors.

"I don't mind working with cops." I shrugged.

Brass was looking thoughtfully at me.

"There might be a reason for it." he said, "After all, as a CSI, you get to butt heads with cops, and you often win. You can either help a cop do his job or hinder it –whichever you prefer. Not to mention that patrolmen have to report to you."

I frowned. I'd never thought of my job in those terms.

Brass was still staring at me.

"You know, there's something I've always wondered about you," he said, "The fact that despite working on the side of the law you tend to rebel against figures of authority: The sheriff, the Major, Ecklie, cops on high positions…" he paused, "Father figures."

I paused. This time I saw what he meant, and his insight frankly surprised me.

Before I could say this, Brass' pager suddenly rang. He reluctantly pulled it out and looked at it.

"I gotta go." he said apologetically. He didn't move, though.

He was still worried about me.

"I'll be fine," I said.

"You sure? I mean, I can get someone else to take this call -"

"No." I said quietly, "No, it's ok. You've -" I hesitated, "You've been very kind, but -"

"But you need some time to yourself," he finished. He smiled good-naturedly.

He rose.

"Listen..." he said as he walked around the counter, "About your vacation and the rest... Don't make any harsh decisions, ok? You're too emotionally raw right now. Just... think it over. Take a rest..." he paused, "And call Sanders," he added pointedly.

"Ok," I nodded.

"And for God's sake, don't try to tough it up again, will ya?"

"I won't," I said patiently.

"Check out your messages," he added as an afterthought. "It won't look good if you don't return your calls."

"Will do." I watched as Brass walked towards the door, "Jim... I appreciate what you did."

"Yeah, well..." he smiled, "You were there for me, right? When I was drunk?"

He smiled, and then he left.

TBC