CSI Fic: On the Line, 1/?
TITLE: On The Line, part one
AUTHOR: 38gnihsurc
RATING: en.sea.xvii overall
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone... except the therapist. And that sounds kinda funny.
SPOILERS: Previous fic, "Moving On."
NOTES: Anything in first person narrative is being said by Gil, to his therapist---unless otherwise specified. Also? I have having a very hard time writing this. Maybe it's because writing is therapy and a reflection of my own mind, in some way, and I don't feel resolved or better or like I can deal with... my life in general. Maybe it's just because the G/C element here is pretty complicated and I can't wrap my brain around it. Who knows.
I don't know why I'm here.
I mean, I know why I'm here. I was involved with a subordinate and when she died, I pretty much went off the deep end. I nearly demolished my career and my reputation, not to mention my relationships with my colleagues and friends. The only way I could come back to work was to be here.
I guess I should say that I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do here. I've never been able to say exactly what I'm thinking when it counts... and it really counts now. And... I don't think I've really been aware of what I've been thinking for the past month or so. Having you sitting across from me, waiting patiently for me to react, is unnerving. Knowing that you're going to be writing a progress report and sending it to Catherine doesn't exactly put me at ease, either.
&&&&
Gil walked down the hall of the criminalistics lab, his glasses on and his eyes downcast, scanning the trace analysis results from his latest case. When he realised that the results didn't match the scene in which the crime had taken place, he changed direction and started walking towards Catherine's office.
He had been back at work for a week and a half. He still wasn't entirely sure of himself, of his abilities, but he had started to re-integrate himself within the grave shift team---even though the process was a very slow one. He had only had two meetings with his therapist---someone outside of the department, because he didn't know if he could really trust departmental therapists, despite confidentiality vows---and so far, he wasn't sure what to expect from talking about his life to a complete stranger.
"Gil?"
He looked up and saw Catherine, standing in the door to her office. He nodded and hurried his pace. Once he was in front of her, he took his glasses off and offered those and the report from Hodges to her.
"This evidence is out of context," he explained, as he pointed to one table on the paper.
She put his glasses on and then looked down to study what he had indicated. She pressed her lips together as she processed the information; Gil watched her and could almost see the wheels turning in her mind.
"Yeah, no kidding," she commented. She looked up at him. "You want to go back to the scene?"
"How'd you---"
"Well," Catherine interrupted, "you'd want to make sure it really was out of context before you followed the lead. And you'd want to see if there are any more clues like this one there."
Gil felt his ears turning pink. He found it difficult to get used to how well she could read him; she was always able to, as long as they had been friends, and even after all that they had endured in the past month, she was still able to read his thoughts.
He ducked his head and peeked at her. She smiled a little as he spoke. "I suppose I'm a little predictable," he conceded. "Would you like to join me?" he asked, even though he knew she had to accompany him.
"Sure," she accepted, even though he knew that she knew she had to accompany him.
It was one of the ways they made the rules easier. They'd invite each other along to crime scenes and witness interviews, and those invitations seemed less like office protocol. Catherine had initiated their ritual but Gil continued it; it made things run smoothly between them and for that alone, it was worth maintaining.
"I'll meet you at the car in five minutes," Gil said quietly as Catherine passed him his glasses. "I just need to---"
Catherine smiled a bit again. "No problem," she interrupted in an easy tone of voice. "I'll see you outside."
&&&&
It's not that I don't want her to know how I'm doing... I mean... she's been a part of my life for so long...
It's just different now. It's been different for a while, really, and now, everything at the lab is different. She's no longer my right hand. She's my boss... and I don't even think I'm her left foot now. I want to trust her. She's always been there for me... I know I should trust her... but I don't know if it's safe to. If that makes sense.
My private thoughts are... well, let's just say it's always been dangerous to let her into my mind. She finds an angle---and I'm not saying that's bad. She's just... she's the one that pushes me out of my comfort zone. And right now, nothing is comfortable. I don't want to be pushed any further outside my safety net.
Maybe that's why I decided to date Sara. She's dependable. She made mistakes... but she's never really disappointed or hurt me. She... she was safe. She made me feel safe---in the way that I knew I wouldn't be doing anything I didn't want to do.
I don't want to talk about Sara. Not much. She's private. And... it's a private matter. I know... you're my therapist and I'm supposed to share things with you so we can get to the bottom of my issues. But, I want her to be off-limits.
For that matter, I don't really want to talk about Catherine, either. And not because---no, she and I never were involved... like that. I mean, we used to carry on and she used to like to push my buttons, but... no. Not us. Not like that. I don't want to talk about her because she's my boss now. And because... we used to be best friends... and now we're not. I don't know what happened but...
Okay. I will talk about her in the supervisor-subordinate capacity. But, that's it.
I suppose you're going to tell her that I'm resistant to the healing process.
I told you, I don't want to talk about Sara.
Yes... I guess her death sort of led to the events of the past month, but---
No choice, huh?
That's how I feel about a lot of things in my life right now.
&&&&
Catherine rose to her feet and looked around the empty kitchen. The blood stains were still on the cabinets but the bullets had been removed from their doors. Most everything else had been taken from the room, as well; an entire storage room in the lab housed the evidence and everything else that could have been evidence. She walked to the counter and put her gloved hands on it after she turned and put her back to the shelving installation.
"So, she was here," Catherine said to Gil.
He looked at her and nodded and stepped towards her. He made the fingers of one hand imitate a gun and he held it so it was level with the bullet hole behind Catherine's head.
"We determined the shot was fired from close proximity..." he said quietly as he looked around, on either side of Catherine, for a clue.
"But the bodies weren't found here," she reminded him.
Gil nodded and motioned to the french doors to their left. "Outside. On the patio," he agreed, pointing with his other hand. He turned and refocused on Catherine. "May I drag you?"
"You want to drag me across the floor?" Catherine asked.
"You have a jumpsuit on," he pointed out.
She sighed, smiled, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah... next time, you're the guinea pig," she muttered as she lowered herself to the ground, in roughly the same position the victim had taken after being shot.
Gil bent at the waist and took hold of her ankles. He slid her a few feet and then he turned her around. When she looked up at him with a quizzical expression on her face, he smiled and said, "I don't want you to hurt your head."
"Oh."
He slid his arms underneath hers, catching hold of her under her shoulders. She stiffened slightly when he held her; his smile faded into a frown when he felt the tension in her body. However, his puzzlement didn't prevent him from continuing their experiment.
Gil dragged Catherine along the counter, and moved to go around the island in the middle of the cooking area of the large room. He couldn't go much further, though, because he was prevented by the corner of the countertop. It tug into his back and made him hiss and curse under his breath.
"Gil?"
Catherine crawled away from him and turned so she could see what had happened. Gil had dropped to his knees once she was out from under him, and he reached behind him to rub the spot in which the counter had injured him.
"Are you---"
"I'm fine," he interrupted. "A little sore but..." he trailed off and turned to look at the offending counter corner. "I don't think the shooter could have dragged them out without getting caught on that---"
"Oh, hey, look!" Catherine exclaimed as she scooted closer, towards him and towards the underside of the same structure that had hurt Gil. When he turned to see what had captured her attention, he saw a piece of what looked like scalp and hair. "We missed that the first time around," she said, grinning as she reached past Gil and into his evidence-gathering kit for a bindle and a pair of tweezers. "Maybe this DNA's in the system," she said quietly as she collected the evidence.
"Let's hope so," Gil agreed.
Once they had straightened up and started packing their things back into their kits, Catherine looked at Gil and rubbed her hands on her jumpsuit. "How did you know?" she asked.
He pointed to the garden, outside of the kitchen. "We found soil on the floor... but it's the front door that was compromised. So, I'm guessing that our shooter was looking for some place to put the bodies." He shrugged. "Whoever it was shot the couple, then probably went into the backyard to see if it was a good place to hide them. We already know that the Adairs were incredibly---
"Anal?"
Gil rolled his eyes. "How about, organised?" He shrugged. "Anyway, it doesn't seem likely that the dirt would be from them."
"Sounds like a good theory," Catherine agreed. "C'mon, Gil, let's get back to the lab."
&&&&
There's something about working a crime scene. Maybe it brings me a sense of peace. There's something about finding the pieces of the puzzle---of figuring out what the puzzle is---and then putting those pieces together to arrive at the truth.
The truth is important. It's important to you---you have to hear the truth from me so you can make an informed decision about my ability to do my job... and to integrate myself back into society---and it's important to me, as well. And not just in my line of work.
But, I guess... it's been hard to think about some of the truth lately. Ever since...
Do we really have to talk about her?
You're right... I guess I haven't yet.
Sometimes, the truth is incredibly satisfying. Good news or bad... it's still satisfying. Before... working on a case and solving it would bring me a sense of, well, satisfaction, that few things can. Even if the news was the saddest thing I've ever seen or heard, I still felt satisfied. And at peace. I spoke for the victim; I played my part in the justice system. After... it's hard to feel that inspired about my job. It's not because I'm being supervised the whole time---I forgot how much I enjoyed working with my other colleagues, actually---but it's just... I was the victim's family. And having that case solved... having her body found... having the killer arrested and charged... nothing brought me peace of satisfaction.
There was nothing.
A lot of nothing.
And like anyone else who feels nothing... who feels something missing... I tried to fill that void. And that's where the wheels came off the wagon.
TBC...
AUTHOR: 38gnihsurc
RATING: en.sea.xvii overall
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone... except the therapist. And that sounds kinda funny.
SPOILERS: Previous fic, "Moving On."
NOTES: Anything in first person narrative is being said by Gil, to his therapist---unless otherwise specified. Also? I have having a very hard time writing this. Maybe it's because writing is therapy and a reflection of my own mind, in some way, and I don't feel resolved or better or like I can deal with... my life in general. Maybe it's just because the G/C element here is pretty complicated and I can't wrap my brain around it. Who knows.
I don't know why I'm here.
I mean, I know why I'm here. I was involved with a subordinate and when she died, I pretty much went off the deep end. I nearly demolished my career and my reputation, not to mention my relationships with my colleagues and friends. The only way I could come back to work was to be here.
I guess I should say that I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do here. I've never been able to say exactly what I'm thinking when it counts... and it really counts now. And... I don't think I've really been aware of what I've been thinking for the past month or so. Having you sitting across from me, waiting patiently for me to react, is unnerving. Knowing that you're going to be writing a progress report and sending it to Catherine doesn't exactly put me at ease, either.
&&&&
Gil walked down the hall of the criminalistics lab, his glasses on and his eyes downcast, scanning the trace analysis results from his latest case. When he realised that the results didn't match the scene in which the crime had taken place, he changed direction and started walking towards Catherine's office.
He had been back at work for a week and a half. He still wasn't entirely sure of himself, of his abilities, but he had started to re-integrate himself within the grave shift team---even though the process was a very slow one. He had only had two meetings with his therapist---someone outside of the department, because he didn't know if he could really trust departmental therapists, despite confidentiality vows---and so far, he wasn't sure what to expect from talking about his life to a complete stranger.
"Gil?"
He looked up and saw Catherine, standing in the door to her office. He nodded and hurried his pace. Once he was in front of her, he took his glasses off and offered those and the report from Hodges to her.
"This evidence is out of context," he explained, as he pointed to one table on the paper.
She put his glasses on and then looked down to study what he had indicated. She pressed her lips together as she processed the information; Gil watched her and could almost see the wheels turning in her mind.
"Yeah, no kidding," she commented. She looked up at him. "You want to go back to the scene?"
"How'd you---"
"Well," Catherine interrupted, "you'd want to make sure it really was out of context before you followed the lead. And you'd want to see if there are any more clues like this one there."
Gil felt his ears turning pink. He found it difficult to get used to how well she could read him; she was always able to, as long as they had been friends, and even after all that they had endured in the past month, she was still able to read his thoughts.
He ducked his head and peeked at her. She smiled a little as he spoke. "I suppose I'm a little predictable," he conceded. "Would you like to join me?" he asked, even though he knew she had to accompany him.
"Sure," she accepted, even though he knew that she knew she had to accompany him.
It was one of the ways they made the rules easier. They'd invite each other along to crime scenes and witness interviews, and those invitations seemed less like office protocol. Catherine had initiated their ritual but Gil continued it; it made things run smoothly between them and for that alone, it was worth maintaining.
"I'll meet you at the car in five minutes," Gil said quietly as Catherine passed him his glasses. "I just need to---"
Catherine smiled a bit again. "No problem," she interrupted in an easy tone of voice. "I'll see you outside."
&&&&
It's not that I don't want her to know how I'm doing... I mean... she's been a part of my life for so long...
It's just different now. It's been different for a while, really, and now, everything at the lab is different. She's no longer my right hand. She's my boss... and I don't even think I'm her left foot now. I want to trust her. She's always been there for me... I know I should trust her... but I don't know if it's safe to. If that makes sense.
My private thoughts are... well, let's just say it's always been dangerous to let her into my mind. She finds an angle---and I'm not saying that's bad. She's just... she's the one that pushes me out of my comfort zone. And right now, nothing is comfortable. I don't want to be pushed any further outside my safety net.
Maybe that's why I decided to date Sara. She's dependable. She made mistakes... but she's never really disappointed or hurt me. She... she was safe. She made me feel safe---in the way that I knew I wouldn't be doing anything I didn't want to do.
I don't want to talk about Sara. Not much. She's private. And... it's a private matter. I know... you're my therapist and I'm supposed to share things with you so we can get to the bottom of my issues. But, I want her to be off-limits.
For that matter, I don't really want to talk about Catherine, either. And not because---no, she and I never were involved... like that. I mean, we used to carry on and she used to like to push my buttons, but... no. Not us. Not like that. I don't want to talk about her because she's my boss now. And because... we used to be best friends... and now we're not. I don't know what happened but...
Okay. I will talk about her in the supervisor-subordinate capacity. But, that's it.
I suppose you're going to tell her that I'm resistant to the healing process.
I told you, I don't want to talk about Sara.
Yes... I guess her death sort of led to the events of the past month, but---
No choice, huh?
That's how I feel about a lot of things in my life right now.
&&&&
Catherine rose to her feet and looked around the empty kitchen. The blood stains were still on the cabinets but the bullets had been removed from their doors. Most everything else had been taken from the room, as well; an entire storage room in the lab housed the evidence and everything else that could have been evidence. She walked to the counter and put her gloved hands on it after she turned and put her back to the shelving installation.
"So, she was here," Catherine said to Gil.
He looked at her and nodded and stepped towards her. He made the fingers of one hand imitate a gun and he held it so it was level with the bullet hole behind Catherine's head.
"We determined the shot was fired from close proximity..." he said quietly as he looked around, on either side of Catherine, for a clue.
"But the bodies weren't found here," she reminded him.
Gil nodded and motioned to the french doors to their left. "Outside. On the patio," he agreed, pointing with his other hand. He turned and refocused on Catherine. "May I drag you?"
"You want to drag me across the floor?" Catherine asked.
"You have a jumpsuit on," he pointed out.
She sighed, smiled, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah... next time, you're the guinea pig," she muttered as she lowered herself to the ground, in roughly the same position the victim had taken after being shot.
Gil bent at the waist and took hold of her ankles. He slid her a few feet and then he turned her around. When she looked up at him with a quizzical expression on her face, he smiled and said, "I don't want you to hurt your head."
"Oh."
He slid his arms underneath hers, catching hold of her under her shoulders. She stiffened slightly when he held her; his smile faded into a frown when he felt the tension in her body. However, his puzzlement didn't prevent him from continuing their experiment.
Gil dragged Catherine along the counter, and moved to go around the island in the middle of the cooking area of the large room. He couldn't go much further, though, because he was prevented by the corner of the countertop. It tug into his back and made him hiss and curse under his breath.
"Gil?"
Catherine crawled away from him and turned so she could see what had happened. Gil had dropped to his knees once she was out from under him, and he reached behind him to rub the spot in which the counter had injured him.
"Are you---"
"I'm fine," he interrupted. "A little sore but..." he trailed off and turned to look at the offending counter corner. "I don't think the shooter could have dragged them out without getting caught on that---"
"Oh, hey, look!" Catherine exclaimed as she scooted closer, towards him and towards the underside of the same structure that had hurt Gil. When he turned to see what had captured her attention, he saw a piece of what looked like scalp and hair. "We missed that the first time around," she said, grinning as she reached past Gil and into his evidence-gathering kit for a bindle and a pair of tweezers. "Maybe this DNA's in the system," she said quietly as she collected the evidence.
"Let's hope so," Gil agreed.
Once they had straightened up and started packing their things back into their kits, Catherine looked at Gil and rubbed her hands on her jumpsuit. "How did you know?" she asked.
He pointed to the garden, outside of the kitchen. "We found soil on the floor... but it's the front door that was compromised. So, I'm guessing that our shooter was looking for some place to put the bodies." He shrugged. "Whoever it was shot the couple, then probably went into the backyard to see if it was a good place to hide them. We already know that the Adairs were incredibly---
"Anal?"
Gil rolled his eyes. "How about, organised?" He shrugged. "Anyway, it doesn't seem likely that the dirt would be from them."
"Sounds like a good theory," Catherine agreed. "C'mon, Gil, let's get back to the lab."
&&&&
There's something about working a crime scene. Maybe it brings me a sense of peace. There's something about finding the pieces of the puzzle---of figuring out what the puzzle is---and then putting those pieces together to arrive at the truth.
The truth is important. It's important to you---you have to hear the truth from me so you can make an informed decision about my ability to do my job... and to integrate myself back into society---and it's important to me, as well. And not just in my line of work.
But, I guess... it's been hard to think about some of the truth lately. Ever since...
Do we really have to talk about her?
You're right... I guess I haven't yet.
Sometimes, the truth is incredibly satisfying. Good news or bad... it's still satisfying. Before... working on a case and solving it would bring me a sense of, well, satisfaction, that few things can. Even if the news was the saddest thing I've ever seen or heard, I still felt satisfied. And at peace. I spoke for the victim; I played my part in the justice system. After... it's hard to feel that inspired about my job. It's not because I'm being supervised the whole time---I forgot how much I enjoyed working with my other colleagues, actually---but it's just... I was the victim's family. And having that case solved... having her body found... having the killer arrested and charged... nothing brought me peace of satisfaction.
There was nothing.
A lot of nothing.
And like anyone else who feels nothing... who feels something missing... I tried to fill that void. And that's where the wheels came off the wagon.
TBC...