CSI Fic: Anthem (Prologue)
Okay, after more revisions than I care to think about, this is really starting to come together. Some of this I've already posted here, but consider those beta versions. This is the real deal.
Title: Anthem, Prologue: If That Mockingbird Don't Sing
Pairing: Gil/Nick
Rating: R overall, NC-17 in places. And I warn you, those ratings aren't just because of iminent sweaty mansex. This story will contain disturbing content. Almost all said content will be implied, but still. Bad Things happen. To children.
Summary: Nick may be above ground, but that doesn't mean it's over yet, for him or Gil. Salvation awaits, and their paths now lie together, but on the way each will have to face his greatest fear.
Prologue: If That Mockingbird Don't Sing
* * *
When Gil Grissom was seventeen, he helped put his father away for life.
Afterwards, he stood outside the courthouse, leaning against a pillar and trying to stay out of sight. He
shouldn’t have testified; the DA had cautioned him against it, actually tried to dissuade him from it.
“You’ve already done plenty,” he’d told him. “You gave us the dump site and enough probable cause to get our
warrant.” What they’d found with that warrant had given them enough to build a dozen airtight cases. They hadn’t needed any eyewitnesses.
In the end, his father had faced six separate charges. He’d been convicted on five. But not the murder charge,
not the charge that had been based solely on Gil’s testimony. They’d had to make do with Accessory after the Fact, because by the time the defense attorneys had finished, Gil’s credibility, and subsequently his testimony, had been decimated.
The DA hadn’t been surprised. In fact, Gil realized now, he’d probably been expecting that particular hand of
fate. It was why he’d tried to keep Gil away from the witness stand in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, after, when Gil was still reeling from the defense lawyer’s insinuations. “But we
still got him, Gil. We got him on something much worse. And we couldn’t have done it without you.”
That didn’t make Gil feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse. Convicting someone of something worse than murder could never feel like a victory. The cost was too high.
“Gil?” a man’s voice said, and Gil turned, blinking fiercely to hide the tears that had snuck up on him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the man said, smiling gently and coming over to him.
“Mr. O’Brennan,” Gil said, holding his voice steady and extending his hand. “How are you, sir?” he asked.
Jaysen O’Brennan chuckled softly and shook his hand. “I should be asking you that,” he said. “You really
shouldn’t have gone up there,” O’Brennen chided, gently.
“I wanted to,” Gil said, softly. “But it was…difficult.”
“I know,” Jaysen said, putting a hand on Gil’s shoulder. “He was my friend for years, Gil. I didn’t want those things to be true about him, either.” Gil looked up at him, and saw a hard expression on his face.
“But they were true,” Jaysen continued. “And you did the right thing.”
I should have done it sooner, Gil almost said. He should have done something the instant he’d suspected.
Because he hadn’t just suspected, part of him had known. Known in a way that couldn’t be substantiated, but was nevertheless just as certain and, ultimately, just as correct.
But it had been too easy to dismiss. The proof, vague impressions and hazy memories, had been too
intangible. He hadn’t even been sure they were real. Had, in fact, decided that they couldn’t be. They had to have been mere dreams.
Even if his father was the kind of man who raised a hand against wife and child - and even that had been impossible to believe, once - but that didn’t mean the other things were true as well. The other, terrible things from before the divorce. Things Gil remembered him doing…saying…
“Merchandise,” he whispered. The word hurt to say.
Context was the real bitch. It focused everything, sharpened the dreams into nightmares. Nightmares that were
so much the worse because they were real. They had happened. And there was no way to make that right.
Jaysen turned his head sharply as Gil spoke, and something flashed over his face. Something that wasn’t concern or puzzlement, or anything else Gil would have expected to see. But then it was gone, and Jaysen just watched him, a sad look in his eyes.
“Here,” he said quietly, reaching into his wallet. “Here’s my number,” he handed Gil a card. “If you or your mother need anything, give me a call.” Gil took it, hesitantly.
“Thank you,” he said. “I mean it, but… I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“Hey,” Jaysen said, smiling a little. “Don’t take on too much. Just because you’re heading off to college soon doesn’t mean you don’t need a father. It’s not going to be easy.”
“I haven’t had a father for the last ten years,” Gil said, stuffing the card into his pocket. “At least. I
haven’t seen him since,” he paused. “Since then.”
“Ah,” Jaysen said, and his jovial
mood instantly dissipated. He was quiet for a moment, then, “It wasn’t fair, what they did to you. You know that, right?” There was no question who ‘they’ were. Gil nodded, eyes closed.
“If you’d come forward when you were seven, or hell, when you were ten, everyone would have called you brave. But now…” he trailed off, not needing to finish the statement. Gil knew, all too clearly, what he was talking about.
Somehow, in the eyes of too many people, there was something wrong and untrustworthy about someone who waited
ten years to turn in his father as a murderer. Gil hadn’t been subjected to their suspicious, condemning looks for long, but already he was tired of it; tired of people looking at him like they didn’t know what species he was, or if he should have the same rights as the rest of them.
“Do you need a lift home?” Jaysen asked, and Gil shook his head.
“No, I’ve got a car. But I should go.” Jaysen nodded.
“Okay. I mean it though. If your family needs anything, mine is here to help.” He turned and looked around the
lawn for a moment. “Christopher?” he called, and a little boy, somewhere around age six, Gil thought, came running over to his father. Gil’s stomach gave a lurch to think of his own life at that age.
“Goodbye then,” Jaysen said. Christopher waved.
“Goodbye. And thanks,” Gil said.
When he got home he didn’t say much to his mother. He told her what happened, claimed he was tired and retreated to his room. She didn’t stop him, even though he knew she could see right through the veiled excuse. If he withdrew for too long, she would intervene, but for now she would stay away and he was grateful.
He closed his door behind him and managed to make it as far as his desk chair before he simply gave up and collapsed. After holding himself up and together for the longest few days of his life, he simply had no more to give. He leaned forward on the desk, head braced on one hand and just stared.
Nearly half an hour passed.
He didn’t move, but eventually he realized what he’d been staring at. It was a picture sitting on his desk; him and his father on vacation somewhere. He picked it up and took a minute to try and remember where it had been taken, but drew a blank. It had been a long time ago, long enough that the smile on his young face was genuine and nburdened. The child in that picture still hero-worshipped his father. He still had reason to do so.
Suddenly, almost without thinking or even meaning to, he tore it in half.
It felt strangely satisfying to tear through his father’s face; to watch it distort and diminish. It made Gil feel better; stronger, more in control of himself.
He pulled open a desk drawer, inside were letters his father had sent during his absent years. Years when Gil
had wanted so badly to see him, to talk to him, to get some answers. He tore them up, too.
Something hanging from his bulletin board caught his eye. He pulled it down and looked at it. It was his certificate of honorary ownership of Trigger. He’d had it for years and kept it, thinking it was a cute reminder of his childhood and the things he’d loved when he was little. It usually made him smile to see it.
Now it made him want to throw up.
He remembered getting it. He remembered sitting down with his father, writing the letter, waiting for the reply, and being so excited that he’d gotten mail from Roy Rogers himself!
It had his father’s fingerprints all over it. He tore it up.
And then he looked at his bookshelf and his music collection. Almost everything had been a gift; his father had wanted his son to share his love of classics and classical music, and he had not been disappointed. Gil’s peers at school could never understand why he had a greater knowledge of Opera than the top hits on the radio, and Gil
had never understood why this puzzled them.
But if he never heard the sound of a violin again, he would be only too happy.
He couldn’t bring himself to destroy these, but he could pack them up, and he did. He put them all in boxes; taped them shut, left them unlabeled, and deposited them in their garage. And when he went back to his room, he was amazed. It looked so empty. He’d never realized how great an influence his father’s life and taste had had on him. But he was glad it was gone.
He went downstairs and told his mother that he didn’t want his father’s last name anymore. She looked concerned but not surprised. After all, she had shed his name years ago, reverted to her maiden name. The name he would now assume. “Gil Grissom” sounded strange in his head, used as he was to “Steinbaum,” but it felt better. More honorable. More his.
And the idea of going to school felt better now, too. Part of him had looked wistfully at their music program. But now the choice was refreshingly clear. It would be science; the only thing in his life that his father had never touched. And he was glad of it.
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