DISCLAIMER: I do not own CSI, any of its plots, its characters, or anything else already copyrighted by Mr. Zuiker. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction...I'd be writing the episodes.

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Enjoy, once again!

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"I'm dead?" He let go of his mother's hands, looking at her strangely. "I'm not dead, am I?" She shook her head.

"No, you're not. But you've been in a coma for five months."

"Five months? I've been laying in a hospital for five months? Well then, what is this?" He raised his hands in the air, motioning to the scenery, his mother, himself. "My subconscious?" There was no answer. "I don't believe in purgatory."

"Science doesn't explain everything, Gil."

"I know, and I wasn't implying that. I - I know." He sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "Well, I guess you know how it happened, don't you?" She nodded and sat down in the sand, patting the ground next to her. Sitting slowly, Grissom stared out over the water. It was fogged, the sky partly covered in dark grey clouds.

"You know, Gil, you used to love the beach."

"Still do," he whispered. She smiled.

"Me too. You would walk up and down the beach as a little boy and you - you'd pick up dead jellyfish and use a steak knife you stole from the kitchen to cut it open and make it into an autopsy. Or you'd dig up sand crabs and leave them in sand buckets with different environments and watch them all afternoon." She was laughing softly, but stopped when her son turned to her.

"How did it happen?" She began to wring her hands tightly. "Mom, how did it happen?" He glanced downwards at her. "You're wringing your hands again." He sighed and pulled her hands toward him. "Just tell me, Mom. It's all right. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Her lips trembled and she kept her head bowed down. "I - I always warned you that getting involved with the police was a bad idea. I told you to just lecture and research. I told you, Gil."

"Mom, don't give me another guilt lecture. We went over this before. I needed to help people, not study bugs all my life. I wouldn't mind it, but I needed to help people." Her head turned up and stared grieving into his eyes.

"But why, Gil? Why couldn't you just help yourself?"

"Because, Mom! It's my life! It's who I am! I didn't want anybody else to wonder why their loved one died after they were refused time after time, told that they wouldn't understand!" He rarely lost his temper, and this topic with his mother was usually the one time he lost it. When she brought up his father. How could she not understand? Everyone has their passion, their calling, and this was his. What was her fear of the police anyway, that he'd get hurt? Well, it'd happened before, this was just a tad more serious. Standing, he brushed off his pants and began walking.

"Gil, don't walk away. Gil." He ignored her, curling his lips together. And as suddenly as he left her, he jumped back a step at the instant appearance of his mother in front of him. "I'm the only person you've got right now, Gil. You're alone. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath in, looking everywhere but her for a few moments.

"You know this is why I went away last time, Mom. You know this is why I never visited, or came to your shows in Venice. You know full well that I didn't choose this job, that it chose me. And now I'm sorry I went away." She smiled, of all times to smile, and she put a hand under his chin.

"Hey, it's all right, sweetie. I've always treated you like my five-year-old Gil who would pick me flowers and paint pictures of bugs for me to take to the gallery. It's time I've gotten over myself and treated you like a man. You've been acting like one since you were eight, and you're into your fifties now. Oh well, better late than never. C'mon, let's take a walk."