Blackbird

Author wobbear
Rating General/K
Pairing Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH
Disclaimer Not for profit borrowing of the characters.
Spoilers Inspired the final scene in 9x05 Leave Out All the Rest. And the Beatles song. Nothing to do with the play. Zilch, zip, nada. Really. But yay for Billy Petersen anyway.
Author's note There are probably a couple more chapters to come, and I'll try to get them up before the new season starts in the US. Meanwhile, big thank yous to smacky30 for her beta work and to the sweet person who nominated Blackbird for the CSI fanfic awards. I'm very grateful.

Summary Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.

3: Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

Life on board is busy, stimulating and at very close quarters with a disparate bunch of people. Good people, many very smart, most well-meaning, but sometimes I just have to escape. I had enough communal living in foster care. This little cabin is my sanctuary, my refuge. Sometimes I read, sometimes I listen to my ipod. Internet is via satellite and very expensive so it's severely rationed. Mostly that's okay. I don't need to be checking my email each day and not finding a message from Gil. Often though I just lie on my berth and stare at the ceiling, trying to think forward even as my memories flood back.

Occasionally I write my feelings down. I have this conviction (or at least a fervently-held hope) that writing them down, whether on paper or on screen, releases the troubling thoughts from my brain, freeing me.

The evidence shows that theory's not panning out well in practice, but still I feel the urge to write. Or type, as the case may be. Maybe it's something about sharing my thoughts, without having to listen to the sharee's reactions to them.

Sometimes I just want to vent, you know?

Other times I write things down and the next day when I re-read them I feel better, and I say to myself, okay, put that behind you. That works, some of the time. But when the thoughts are about Gil ― and let's face it, a lot of them are ― the putting them behind part me isn't working so well.

That's a large part of why I sent Gil that video. I want to free myself, and him, so we can each move on, find a way to go on. For the rest of our lives. It looks like we'll be going in different directions. I still find that hard to accept.

This chain of consciousness stuff is my sort of a journal. I won't stoop to "Dear Diary, why hasn't Gil answered my video message?" But I was so hoping to jolt him into … something.

He must have seen it by now. If he thought to check his personal email. When he's working all hours, that's one of the things that often escapes his attention. Makes me wish I'd put it on youtube with the private setting ― then at least I would know if he'd opened it. Too late now.

I think I came across as convincing in my message.

I hope I did.

In a way it reminded me of giving evidence in court. Needing to be concise and clear, calm and confident. I know I had problems looking straight into the camera – my eyes kept veering away, darting around. The thing is, I meant what I said. It's the truth, or what goes for it in my warped little version of the world anyway.

Might not hold up in a court of law though.

I said I was happy, and in a way I am. It's not the whole truth. I am happy that I was strong enough to send that video, because I know I have to move on. To let go of the past. Let go of Gil. Let go of the hope that he'll decide to leave Las Vegas, come to be with me. I can't pretend, even to myself, that I'm happy with that thought, but I know I can't keep waiting, keep hoping that he might some day make that leap. I know him, and know how hard that would be for him. His caution, his over-thinking, is part of him. As is his career. His fascination with his work is what first attracted me to him. And it's a large part of who he is, how he relates to the world.

The fact that the brilliance of his summer-sky eyes and the perkiness of his firm butt are warring for second place in my list of his best features is also part of him, my view of him. But he is so much more than the sum of his parts, and singling out individual features in this way demeans both him and me.

Nothing but the truth? I didn't lie. Not exactly. Okay … I admit, I may have asserted things that I want to be true. I'm nowhere near Egypt, but I am in a sense on the slippery banks of the Nile. But I know that I'm doing what I need to do. For me. To move on. Hey, I'm not in a court of law; this is my life. If I want to be in denial, I can be.

"If you love someone set them free." Funny how Sting's song is so much easier to sing along with than to do in real life. While my head understands the logic, my heart clings on to my one and only love.

I need to stop thinking this way. I like to at least pretend I have a clue what I'm doing, that I have a plan for moving forward. But really, I'm feeling my way day by day, working towards my next step. Sometimes it's nice to be stuck on this boat, this ship, because while I'm on board much of my life is organized, my schedule pre-determined. And even in off hours, there's not a lot of privacy. It's better at night. I often end up feigning tiredness so I can politely escape to my compact cabin. It is a little cell-like I guess, but without the bars. And I chose to be here: it was a positive, life-affirming choice that led me here, not some mindless criminal act.

That doesn't stop me feeling trapped at times. It's a small ship and there's nowhere outside of my personal refuge I can reliably go to be alone. Maybe the engine room? But that's noisy and stinks, not what you'd call peaceful. Not a space for quiet reflection. It's better at night but I'm mostly sleeping then. Sleeping. I'm still surprised about that.

The fact is I'm stuck here on this claustrophobic tin can until we call into our next port, and that will be a 24-hour stop at most. The occasional excursion from the mother ship in a Zodiac, to take seawater samples, or to get a closer view of the acrobatic Spinner dolphins gives me a welcome change of scene and can be fascinating, but we always go out in pairs, often groups of three. Besides, the Zodiacs aren't equipped for sleeping. Or going to the bathroom, come to think of it. I've lost count of the number of times I've slid over the side "to cool down" or to "swim with the dolphins" and inwardly cringed at my excuse while urgently letting go. Everyone does it, but still I feel uncomfortable that we claim to be working to protect marine species and environments and then pee in the sea. I guess in the grand scheme of things our urine's not a major pollutant, but it bugs me.

And while the smell of the salt air never fails to thrill me, I've kind of become desensitized. When it's all around you, all the time, you become habituated to it. Like when we went to the Lassen Volcanic National Park on a high school field trip. At first I was overcome by the smell of rotten eggs, then after a couple of days I barely noticed it.

As a kid I was always drawn to the sea. I'd escape from the house knowing that no-one would make the effort to follow me down to the beach. I passed long hours walking on the wet sand, dodging the tide as I collected sea shells and threw a bendy stick of driftwood for Maddie, our black and white beagle cross, to fetch. I would dream of sailing away, way past the choppy gray breakers, southward to where the Pacific was limpid blue, serene, sun-speckled. Of course in my dreams I never realised that I would end up dressing to protect myself from the sun, or how much the wind blows around the equator. But it was a comforting, peaceful vision at a time when a relentless storm was raging at home, and going to the beach saved my sanity. It may have even saved my life.

But that's in the past.

I'm looking forward now.

Still it's different being on shore, where you can wander back over the dunes to the paint-peeling houses as the dusky evening edges to black, and being continually on the sea, moving with it, unable to escape the sound and the motion. I never really got used to earthquakes, although I experienced them often enough. Understanding the science was no help: the fact that the solid earth beneath my feet could suddenly heave, tear apart always unnerved me. The swaying motion of the waves is less jerky, except in a storm, but it's a constant unsettling reminder that I'm at sea.

There's a good metaphor.

I do feel a whole lot better being away from the desert. Maybe I went a bit too far to the other extreme, but after my abduction episode, I felt I never wanted to see the desert again. And neither of us handled the whole Natalie aftermath well. I knew Gil was worried about me but I pretended I was okay and refused to open up, and he did his old thing of throwing himself into work when personal stuff is too hard to handle. I thought we'd gotten past all that, but I guess trauma can make you regress.

It's been strange getting used to sleeping at night again. And wow, sleeping for more than a few hours at a time. A combination of the sea air and the activity, plus fewer nightmares, means I often get over seven hours. That's pretty amazing for me. The bad dreams haven't entirely stopped though. Once when thrashing around in the throes of the stuck-under-the-car scenario, I pulled the life ring off the bulkhead beside my bed. But even that's getting better; I can usually wake myself before I get to the fear of drowning part. Small steps, but progress.

Almost worse is when, after a peaceful, no-nightmare night, half-awake in the early morning I roll over and reach out, sleepily wanting to drape my arm over Gil and spoon. Hitting the hard metal bulkhead is such a rude awakening.

If I do find myself awake in the middle of the night and know that sleep is far away, I can go up on deck and seek peace there. The crew members who take the night watches like the quiet too, so all I have to do is wave up to the bridge as I pass below them.

Sometimes after a spell on deck I make a cup of chai to take back to bed, and we have a silent sign language: from the galley I raise a questioning mug, and a thumbs-up from the guy or girl on the helm means I make two.

Back on topic, I'm looking forward. Specifically I'm looking in the near future to the Neotrópica jungle camp, as Sue insists on calling it, in the Turrialba region of Costa Rica. We'll be helping to set up a new research station, and my specific task will be photographing and cataloguing the indigenous flora and fauna. My assignment starts in mid December, and I'll be there for at least three months. There's a possibility of extension; I'll see how it goes.

Who knows, maybe while I'm there something will happen to give me a steer, help me decide on a new path to follow in the evolving experiment that is my life.

I'm gradually coming to terms with the idea I don't have to decide everything all at once. I don't need to figure out what I'm doing for the rest of my life right here, right now. Which is good, because I'm still floundering, seeking my footing, trying to discover where I want to land. Meanwhile I'm productively employed ― okay, I'm living on my savings, but my expenses aren't high ― anyway, I'm doing worthwhile work and I'm daily engaging with new people, different perspectives, learning about other possibilities. That's enough for now.

xxxxxx

Feeling a touch sheepish, I use my key and let myself in the front door. I pause and listen in the big entry foyer. I can't hear anyone downstairs and veer towards the kitchen to start the coffee, get some juice. I never did get used to eating dinner in the morning, which is lucky as Heather is definitely on a daytime schedule now. Because of her diabetes she needs to be careful about what she eats, and when. I try, but I don't always make it here for breakfast. If I'm not here by 9:30 am she goes ahead.

One thing I've learned about diabetics, control of blood sugar is the key to keeping things on an even keel, warding off damage to eyes, heart, feet, you name it. It's scary when I stop to think about it, but Heather's been living with it for so long that it's become second nature for her. She was diagnosed a type 1 diabetic at the age of 11. It takes a helluva lot of discipline, but she's got that in spades. She's doing this thing of small frequent meals, so she would have eaten something when she woke around 6 am. She exercises regularly, test her blood sugar umpteen times a day. Even so, things don't always go smoothly. At least now I'm learning the signs, what to do, when to help.

Good. I can hear Heather coming down the stairs and I head over to greet her. Despite her welcoming smile, I see the tension in her shoulders. After our now traditional light hug and a kiss, Heather draws back in my arms and takes what looks like a calming breath. Hesitantly, she speaks, "Uh … Jim, we've got a gues―"

"Grissom," I interrupt, to her surprise. I raise my forefinger to forestall her next question. "Saw his car outside."

She nods in understanding, clearly relieved that she doesn't have to explain from scratch. Her eyes are tired as she sighs, "He's in a bad way." She looks like she's been up all night. A small shrug and she continues, "I said he could stay."

Heather still looks a little wary as I reply simply, "I figured." She relaxes further when I add, "I'd expect nothing less from you."

I grasp her hand, pulling her gently toward the kitchen. "Tell me about it while I scramble the eggs. You're on toast duty."

TBC