Fic - No Cake (CSI Fan-fic)
Haven't posted a fic for a while, so I thought I would post this here. Another fan-fic, which I'd posted on fanfiction.net a while ago.
TITLE: No Cake
AUTHOR: Andromeda
SUMMARY: Grissom goes.
SPOILERS: Ellie explicitly, set after Season 5.
RATING: PG-13. Nothing explicit, but potentially disturbing material. A bit like the show really.
EMAIL: m31andy@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: WARNING - Character Death (because everyone has to write one, eh?)
DISCLAIMER: CSI is owned by CBS and the good folks at Alliance-Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
No Cake
GRISSOM: You think I like dealing with people? Remember when you asked me what I was in high school?
WARRICK: Yeah, you said "A Ghost".
GRISSOM: When I leave CSI, there won't be any cake in the break room. I'll just be gone. So I wanted to see if you could step in.
“ELLIE”
~*~*~*~
Warrick had lost his bet.
He had been so sure Grissom was wrong. No-one on the graveyard shift would’ve let him walk away without saying goodbye. Hell, even the sheriff would’ve insisted on some sort of presentation for the papers. Good for publicity, you see.
But Warrick had still been worried. It would have been just like Grissom to think he could get away without a party or a presentation. In fact it would’ve been just like Grissom to make sure he didn’t. Just to drive the point home.
Warrick had to make sure that didn’t happen and so the bet was made. His reputation staked against throwing the best damn farewell party a man had ever had. Information was gathered, retirement dates collected. Brass was hired to ask Grissom periodically about his future plans. Eckley was even bribed with the occasional free lunch to make sure that someone knew. Contingency plans were made. Even if Warrick and the rest of the gang had only two hours he was pretty sure they could come up with something special. Grissom’s leaving present had been sat in the Evidence Vault for almost two years. Come hell or high water, there was going to be cake.
There was no cake in the break room.
There was just a small glass of sherry round at Catherine’s house. Just black-clad figures milling around, trying to make small-talk and failing. Red-rimmed eyes and occasional looks of devastation as fragile masks slipped momentarily.
Sara held up the best of them all, on the surface. Her hard-won emotional detachment holding her together like a cast around a pulverised bone. You couldn’t put any weight on it and removing it would destroy the limb, but it looked solid enough. Warrick wasn’t so sure she would heal though.
Catherine had surprised them all by crying only once before turning around and organising everything from the funeral to making sure Grissom’s tarantula was cared for. Sara had called her a ‘cold bitch’ - behind her back of course - but Warrick recognised her as acting out the surviving spouse role. Catherine was burying her grief in the jobs that needed doing.
Nick was inconsolable. Warrick had caught him crying on at least ten occasions in the last week. Sometimes an object would trigger a memory, sometimes a phrase, sometimes it could be nothing at all.
Greg alternated between utter sombreness and mad-cap hilarity. Warrick knew that Greg was torn between wanting to act just like Grissom had always wanted and hoping that if he were to raise just the right amount of hell, Grissom would be standing there, fixing him with one of his trademark piercing glares and caustic remarks.
Brass and Doc. Robbins both held up better. Grief at losing a dear friend was in plain sight on their faces, but both men had lost too many good friends to not believe life really did go on.
Warrick wondered when he’d become a psychologist. Not that he could sort his own emotions out. Surprisingly there was a lot of anger. Anger at Grissom being right, even if it was in all the wrong ways. Anger at not being able to finally show the one that mattered exactly how much everyone had cared. There was frustration at never being able to get the advice he needed ever again. Disappointment that the man had proved to be mortal after all. Guilt over the fact that, had he recognised the signs and dragged Grissom to a doctor, they wouldn’t all be stood here now telling fractured tales of incidents of amusement or poignancy or learning. There was a sense of loss as Warrick realised that he would never hear that voice say “what a good job he’d done on case X” ever again.
More than that, Warrick felt shaken. He’d read once, somewhere, that losing a friend or relative was like losing a small piece of yourself, but losing a parent was like losing your centre. A blow that shook your world. Warrick knew he’d lost a father.
So there was no cake left in the break room after all and Grissom had left as silently as he had predicted. His last breath had puffed down the corridor as silent as a ghost as he collapsed across the case file he’d been reading. Knocking over the open pill bottle as his head hit the desk. The Imitrex, a futile remedy against the massive stroke, occurring from what Grissom had felt sure was only a migraine, scattered across the floor and crunched underfoot as colleagues rushed to the sound of Sara’s scream.
Warrick had been at a crime scene. Just a routine B&E. Nothing much to do but take a few photos and dust for prints. Catherine had driven over. ‘Couldn’t tell you over the phone’, she’d said. It didn’t occur to him at the time that she was hardly in a fit state to drive. To his dying day, Warrick knew that he wouldn’t remember what Catherine had said. Only single words stood out. Sorry. Grissom. Stroke. Instantly. No pain. The world had gone grey and, if Warrick was honest, he was still waiting for some of the colour to come back.
So there was no cake, no presents and no fond ‘we’ll miss working with you’. Just an empty hole in their hearts and an empty chair in the supervisors office. Catherine had, unsurprisingly been offered the position. She had, more surprisingly, turned it down. She muttered sentences like ‘responsibilities of a single mom’ and ‘Lindsey doesn’t see me often enough as it is’, but not anything about ‘dead men’s shoes’. Warrick had taken over temporarily. By necessity using Grissom’s office, but by deference using one of the hard chairs from the break room. It was getting crowded in the office. The specimen jars and other remnants of Grissom’s life still stood on the shelves, unmoved and untouched, although Billy the Bass had been discreetly moved after Catherine had burst into tears on hearing him sing. Warrick knew that he would have to get everything boxed up and disposed of before whoever was permanently appointed moved in, but it could wait another day or so. In the meantime he had a job to do.
Fin.
If anyone can tell me where I read the quote
"Losing a friend or relative was like losing a small piece of yourself, but losing a parent was like losing your centre. A blow that shakes your world."
can you let me know so I can credit it. I'm 90% sure it was Lois, but I can't find it any where. (Plus I would like to quote it properly, and I'm almost sure it's wrong!)
TITLE: No Cake
AUTHOR: Andromeda
SUMMARY: Grissom goes.
SPOILERS: Ellie explicitly, set after Season 5.
RATING: PG-13. Nothing explicit, but potentially disturbing material. A bit like the show really.
EMAIL: m31andy@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: WARNING - Character Death (because everyone has to write one, eh?)
DISCLAIMER: CSI is owned by CBS and the good folks at Alliance-Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
No Cake
GRISSOM: You think I like dealing with people? Remember when you asked me what I was in high school?
WARRICK: Yeah, you said "A Ghost".
GRISSOM: When I leave CSI, there won't be any cake in the break room. I'll just be gone. So I wanted to see if you could step in.
“ELLIE”
~*~*~*~
Warrick had lost his bet.
He had been so sure Grissom was wrong. No-one on the graveyard shift would’ve let him walk away without saying goodbye. Hell, even the sheriff would’ve insisted on some sort of presentation for the papers. Good for publicity, you see.
But Warrick had still been worried. It would have been just like Grissom to think he could get away without a party or a presentation. In fact it would’ve been just like Grissom to make sure he didn’t. Just to drive the point home.
Warrick had to make sure that didn’t happen and so the bet was made. His reputation staked against throwing the best damn farewell party a man had ever had. Information was gathered, retirement dates collected. Brass was hired to ask Grissom periodically about his future plans. Eckley was even bribed with the occasional free lunch to make sure that someone knew. Contingency plans were made. Even if Warrick and the rest of the gang had only two hours he was pretty sure they could come up with something special. Grissom’s leaving present had been sat in the Evidence Vault for almost two years. Come hell or high water, there was going to be cake.
There was no cake in the break room.
There was just a small glass of sherry round at Catherine’s house. Just black-clad figures milling around, trying to make small-talk and failing. Red-rimmed eyes and occasional looks of devastation as fragile masks slipped momentarily.
Sara held up the best of them all, on the surface. Her hard-won emotional detachment holding her together like a cast around a pulverised bone. You couldn’t put any weight on it and removing it would destroy the limb, but it looked solid enough. Warrick wasn’t so sure she would heal though.
Catherine had surprised them all by crying only once before turning around and organising everything from the funeral to making sure Grissom’s tarantula was cared for. Sara had called her a ‘cold bitch’ - behind her back of course - but Warrick recognised her as acting out the surviving spouse role. Catherine was burying her grief in the jobs that needed doing.
Nick was inconsolable. Warrick had caught him crying on at least ten occasions in the last week. Sometimes an object would trigger a memory, sometimes a phrase, sometimes it could be nothing at all.
Greg alternated between utter sombreness and mad-cap hilarity. Warrick knew that Greg was torn between wanting to act just like Grissom had always wanted and hoping that if he were to raise just the right amount of hell, Grissom would be standing there, fixing him with one of his trademark piercing glares and caustic remarks.
Brass and Doc. Robbins both held up better. Grief at losing a dear friend was in plain sight on their faces, but both men had lost too many good friends to not believe life really did go on.
Warrick wondered when he’d become a psychologist. Not that he could sort his own emotions out. Surprisingly there was a lot of anger. Anger at Grissom being right, even if it was in all the wrong ways. Anger at not being able to finally show the one that mattered exactly how much everyone had cared. There was frustration at never being able to get the advice he needed ever again. Disappointment that the man had proved to be mortal after all. Guilt over the fact that, had he recognised the signs and dragged Grissom to a doctor, they wouldn’t all be stood here now telling fractured tales of incidents of amusement or poignancy or learning. There was a sense of loss as Warrick realised that he would never hear that voice say “what a good job he’d done on case X” ever again.
More than that, Warrick felt shaken. He’d read once, somewhere, that losing a friend or relative was like losing a small piece of yourself, but losing a parent was like losing your centre. A blow that shook your world. Warrick knew he’d lost a father.
So there was no cake left in the break room after all and Grissom had left as silently as he had predicted. His last breath had puffed down the corridor as silent as a ghost as he collapsed across the case file he’d been reading. Knocking over the open pill bottle as his head hit the desk. The Imitrex, a futile remedy against the massive stroke, occurring from what Grissom had felt sure was only a migraine, scattered across the floor and crunched underfoot as colleagues rushed to the sound of Sara’s scream.
Warrick had been at a crime scene. Just a routine B&E. Nothing much to do but take a few photos and dust for prints. Catherine had driven over. ‘Couldn’t tell you over the phone’, she’d said. It didn’t occur to him at the time that she was hardly in a fit state to drive. To his dying day, Warrick knew that he wouldn’t remember what Catherine had said. Only single words stood out. Sorry. Grissom. Stroke. Instantly. No pain. The world had gone grey and, if Warrick was honest, he was still waiting for some of the colour to come back.
So there was no cake, no presents and no fond ‘we’ll miss working with you’. Just an empty hole in their hearts and an empty chair in the supervisors office. Catherine had, unsurprisingly been offered the position. She had, more surprisingly, turned it down. She muttered sentences like ‘responsibilities of a single mom’ and ‘Lindsey doesn’t see me often enough as it is’, but not anything about ‘dead men’s shoes’. Warrick had taken over temporarily. By necessity using Grissom’s office, but by deference using one of the hard chairs from the break room. It was getting crowded in the office. The specimen jars and other remnants of Grissom’s life still stood on the shelves, unmoved and untouched, although Billy the Bass had been discreetly moved after Catherine had burst into tears on hearing him sing. Warrick knew that he would have to get everything boxed up and disposed of before whoever was permanently appointed moved in, but it could wait another day or so. In the meantime he had a job to do.
Fin.
If anyone can tell me where I read the quote
"Losing a friend or relative was like losing a small piece of yourself, but losing a parent was like losing your centre. A blow that shakes your world."
can you let me know so I can credit it. I'm 90% sure it was Lois, but I can't find it any where. (Plus I would like to quote it properly, and I'm almost sure it's wrong!)