AN: Posting a day early, since I know I won't have time tomorrow! More bonding (with some bonus teacher-Grissom), a hint of actual crime scene investigating, and some ribbing from Catherine, just for the fun of it. Thanks to those of you who took the time to review the last chapter, I've been in a bit of a funk the last few days and they've really been a highlight
Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to CSI
Chapter 13
The body is wedged into the Y in a tree, about six feet from the ground, which makes documenting the insect activity much more complicated than Grissom had hoped. Still, he hasn't had a challenge in a while – he'd almost forgotten how exciting it can be, figuring out ways around different obstacles.
"Wow."
He half-turns at Catherine's voice, the ladder wobbling slightly before the young cop he's been tossing theories with grabs it to steady it.
"What?"
"I just don't remember the last time you worked an actual scene," she says, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair to survey him.
"Ha ha, very funny."
"No, seriously. When was the last time you were out in the field?"
He has to think about it, which means it has been a while. "The Chapman case in March," he finally remembers.
"Yeah, that was in January," she corrects him, snapping a couple of photos of the ground underneath the tree where there's what's most likely both blood and brain matter. "But I'm glad you're getting back out there. No matter the reason."
"No reason," he says, turning his attention back to the victim in the tree.
"Uh-huh."
He has no idea how she can make two simple syllables, not even words, carry so much innuendo.
"Catherine…" he says, a warning to let it go.
"I didn't even say anything," she argues amusedly.
"You didn't need to."
"Fine, shutting up. Want me to take the perimeter while you're entertaining your little friends up there?"
"Please."
He does have to admit that it's refreshing, being out in the field. Even halfway up a tree.
Catherine's at the kitchen table when Sara gets up, a plate of the leftovers from last night in front of her.
"Morning," Sara says, starting the coffee maker. "I assume you don't want any?"
"I have every intention of collapsing into bed as soon as my stomach isn't rumbling anymore," Catherine replies before taking another bite. "All I've had to eat since dinner was a stale granola bar I found at the bottom of my purse. No idea how long it's even been in there."
"Busy shift?" She gets started on breakfast while she waits for her coffee – toast and yogurt for both her and Shelby, with some muesli for herself.
"Gil and I spent all of it up in Lost Creek Canyon, DB up a tree."
"Up a tree?" she repeats, leaning against the counter to focus on Catherine.
"Yup. We still have no idea how he got up there."
"Lynching? Thrown from a car? Out of a plane?" she suggests.
"He was shot. While in the tree, as far as we can tell, judging by the evidence on and under said tree, and the bullets lodged in the branches. No ligature marks indicating he was hoisted up there somehow."
"Trying to get away from the killer? Maybe he was being chased? Desperate measures…"
"Mommy, what's a kill-er?"
She and Catherine stare at each other for a moment before she turns her attention to Shelby in the doorway and puts on an overly bright smile. "That's not something you need to worry about, OK baby?"
"But…"
"Come on, breakfast."
It's the first time she's not at least tried to explain a word Shelby has asked about, but she's not going to tell her three-year-old what a killer is. She'll have plenty of time to learn about the horrors of the world when she's older.
Unfortunately.
"Hi." Grissom seems a little out of breath when he opens the door, as if he didn't call forty-five minutes ago to let her know he was awake and they were welcome whenever.
"Hi. Everything OK?" Sara asks amusedly.
He lets out a sheepish chuckle. "I just realized I had a set of 14th century tantō in my office. They were up on top of a bookshelf, but I didn't want to risk it."
"What's a tantō?" she asks with a smile.
"Japanese knives."
"Ah, yes. Knives are not very compatible with three-year-olds."
"I figured as much." He takes a step back. "Come on in."
She ushers Shelby in first and helps her take her shoes off before removing her own and following him into the living room. It occurs to her that it's only been four days since she was here to tell him about Shelby – it feels incomprehensible that it hasn't been longer.
She's pulled from her thoughts by Shelby's excited yell of 'buddyflies' as she runs over to a wall where several butterflies are mounted in frames.
"That's right," Grissom says crouching down next to her. "Your mom said you like butterflies."
"Uh-huh. They're pretty."
"They are."
Shelby frowns, reaching up on her tiptoes to see better, but the frames are still a good foot and a half too high. He looks back at Sara, as if asking permission, and she nods. "Go ahead."
"Do you want me to lift you up so you can see better?" he asks, turning his attention back to Shelby.
"Yeah."
He's tentative at first, lifting her carefully with one hand under each arm, but soon gets her settled more comfortably, so she's sitting on one of his arms, the other around her stomach, holding her lightly against his chest. Sara smiles at the scene in front of her and settles down on the couch to watch them.
"Which one do you like best?"
"That one," Shelby says, pointing at a black and bright turquoise butterfly.
"That's an archaeoprepona demophon," he says, and she nods like she understands completely.
"What's that one?" she asks, pointing at a huge, green-blue one.
"That's a Queen Alexandra's Birdwing," he replies. "It's the biggest butterfly in the world."
"What's the smallest?"
"That's the Western Pygmy Blue Butterfly."
"You don't have that one?" She sounds so disappointed Sara has to smile.
"Not here," he says, almost sounding apologetic. "I do have one at work, though."
"Can I come see it?"
Again, he glances over his shoulder, and Sara just shrugs. It's probably inevitable that Shelby will visit the lab at some point. She remembers Lindsey being in and out of there on pretty much a weekly basis, and she obviously turned out fine.
"I think we can make that happen, yes. How about the yellow one, you don't like that one?"
"I like all of them," she declares. "What's that one called?"
"It's a sleepy orange," he says, and she laughs.
"That's a funny name. Oranges can't be sleepy."
"It is a funny name," he agrees.
"What's that one?" she asks, pointing at the last butterfly on the wall. This one's black and blue as well, but a darker shade.
"That one's a sara longwing."
"That's Mommy's name!" Shelby exclaims excitedly.
"Is that really what it's called?" Sara asks, slightly suspicious. She has no idea why he would make it up, but it sounds odd.
"Of course it is," Grissom replies, turning to her fully this time. For a moment, the sight of him with Shelby in his arms is so overwhelming it's hard to breathe. "It's right on the label if you don't believe me."
She does believe him but still goes over to check, their arms brushing as she leans in to read, sending sparks along her skin.
She can't tell if he feels it too, but he's watching her intently when she straightens up again.
"See?"
"I just find it a little odd that you've never mentioned that I have a butterfly namesake," she says. "Considering how much you've gone on about them over the years."
"I guess it never came up."
"I guess not."
Shelby starts wriggling in his arms and he puts her down gently on the floor.
"Do you have more buddyflies?" she asks, looking up at him expectantly.
"You know, I do. I have a few more in my office upstairs."
Shelby's pleading eyes turn to Sara. "Can I see them, Mommy, please?"
"Sure, we can go look at them," she agrees.
"Yay."
She takes off towards the stairs.
"Stop!" Sara calls as she reaches it. "Hand."
Shelby sighs but waits somewhat patiently until they catch up, and then she reaches up for Grissom's hand and tugs. "I want to see the buddyflies."
Sara follows behind them slowly, smiling to herself. When she reaches the office, he's already lifted Shelby onto the desk, above which another three butterflies are mounted. He's pointing at one of them, an almost black specimen, his other hand hovering behind the little girl, to make sure she doesn't fall backwards. He glances up when Sara leans against the doorway.
"Great mor-mon," Shelby says, supposedly repeating the name of the butterfly.
"That's right. And this one…" He points to a light blue one. "… is called a summer azure."
"What's a-sur?"
"It's just a fancy word for the color blue. But that one you can see here, if you're lucky. And the sleepy orange one too."
"I had a buddyfly in my room at home," she says.
"You did? What did it look like?"
"It was brown and red and, um, white."
"I'm pretty sure it was a red admiral," Sara pipes in. "Not that I'm an expert, like some people."
"Well, I don't have one of those, but I do have a book with a lot of different species, if you want to see if you can find it there?"
"Yeah!"
She waits until he's put her back down on the floor and then grabs his hand again, tugging him towards the door. Sara steps aside to let them lead the way.
"This could take a while," she notes amusedly as they pass, but he just shrugs.
"I'm not in any hurry."
So, they sit together on the couch, the large book open in Grissom's lap, Shelby leaning over it, and look at the many different butterflies.
It's almost five when Shelby looks up. "Mommy?"
"Yes, baby?"
Instead of asking, she makes the sign for 'thirsty'.
"Would you like some water?" Grissom asks, signing 'water' as he speaks. "I don't have much else, I'm afraid."
Shelby's looking at him with big eyes. "You can do the signs too?" she asks with the incredulity of a three-year-old.
"I can."
"How come?"
"Well, you see," he starts, frowning and, Sara assumes, trying to figure out how to explain. "When I was little, even younger than you are now, my mother couldn't hear, so she taught me so we could talk to each other."
"Really?"
"Really," he says with a smile.
"Why couldn't she hear? Was she sick?"
"In a way. You know how your whole body is made up of little bones?"
"Uh-huh." She nods.
"Like your fingers." He takes her hand in one of his and points to the distal phalange of her index finger. "Here's one bone, and another one, and another one. And they help you move your fingers, see?" He moves her finger, so it flexes.
"Mm-hm." She's listening intently, and Sara can't blame her. It's almost hypnotic, listening to him when he's in what she calls teacher mode.
"Well, there are also tiny little bones in your ear, which help you hear," he continues.
"How tiny?"
"Really tiny. Like this." He moves his thumb and index finger about a quarter of an inch apart and Shelby's eyes widen.
"That's really tiny."
"It is. So, what happened with my mom was that the tiny bones in her ear, they couldn't move like they should anymore. It's like… if you move your finger… just like that." He gently pinches the joint between the distal and middle phalange on her finger. "And if I hold your finger like this, you can't move it anymore, see?"
Shelby tries to bend her finger but, of course, can't. "So, she couldn't move her ears?"
Sara is surprised by a laugh but manages to turn it into a cough, though Grissom gives her a knowing look.
"Not quite," he says, turning back to Shelby. "The bones inside her ear couldn't move like they're supposed to, so no sound could get through."
"Oh… Mommy, can I have my juice box?"
"Sure, baby, why don't you go grab it in the bag in the hallway?" Shelby wanders off in the right direction and Sara turns back to Grissom with a smile. "The attention span of a three-year-old."
"I was honestly amazed she listened as intently as she did for that long," he admits.
"You're a really good teacher," she replies. "I mean, I knew that, but teaching college students and fellow CSIs isn't exactly the same as teaching a three-year-old."
"Very true. But she's not quite like most three-year-olds, after all."
They end up staying for dinner, Grissom pulling together an amazing stir fry with vegetables he happens to have in the fridge, and by the time they're leaving, it's seven thirty and Shelby's dozing on the couch.
"Do you want me to carry her to the car?" he offers, sounding hopeful.
"That would be great, thanks," Sara agrees, even though she wouldn't have any trouble doing it herself.
He lingers after putting her in the car seat and buckling her in, like he doesn't really want the evening to end. Sara doesn't either, so she leans against the driver's door.
"You had court tomorrow, right?" she asks.
"Yeah," he confirms, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Based on previous experience, I assume I'll be lucky if I manage to get a couple of hours of sleep before shift starts."
"Yeah, I know what it's like."
"But child proofing on Friday?" he continues, sounding hopeful.
"That's the plan. Shelby will be at the daycare between noon and five, and I don't think it'll take too long, so around three?" she suggests. "Or is that too early for you? I can always ask Lindsey to watch her if you want to do it later, or Catherine, if she's awake."
"No, no, that's fine."
"So, Friday around three?"
"I'll see you then."