Another strange GS story
Nov. 9th, 2004 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nirix5Kudos to anyone who gets this.
The last person to leave Grissom's graveside was Warrick.
This hadn't suprised him. Sara had left first; her eyes had been terribly blank as she'd escaped to her car at the earliest opportunity that propriety had allowed. Nick left soon after that, to go hide the tears he precieved to be weak in the depths of his apartment, or in a lonely drive out into the desert. Catherine hadn't stayed long, choosing instead to go home with Lindsey. The sadness had hung around her like a mist, but Warrick knew that she was strong enough to put it into some sort of perspective that would allow it not to consume her. Greg had taken off, he wasn't sure to where. He half wished Greg had stuck around, since the task ahead of him wasn't going to be pleasant, and he didn't relish the thought of doing it alone. Kicking at a loose clod of dirt in his path and glaring at the sunset, Warrick ambled back to his car. Sliding into the driver's seat, he drove out of the graveyard and headed for Grissom's townhouse.
As executor of Grissom's will, it was Warrick's job to sort out his earthly effects. Somehow, he had to pick through the bits and pieces's of a man's life, and dole them out to the appropriate parties. He wasn't looking forward to it.
Seeing Sara's SUV parked in front of Grissom's building wasn't entirely unexpected. He sighed as he turned off the engine, sitting in the car a few moments to collect himself before heading inside. While Sara was sure to be emotional, her company would be more welcome than the non-existent sounds of Grissom's footsteps.
He was totally unprepared for what he found when he opened Grissom's door.
Sara flung herself at him in a fury, all hundred pounds of her concentrating on him in a rage the likes of which he had never seen from her before. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pounded on his chest with her balled up fists.
"Where is it? Where is it? WHERE?" He caught at her elbows, fighting the instinct to defend himself by hitting her back, trying to hold her arms still. He couldn't make any sense of the words spilling from her lips, and needed calm to figure it out.
"Whoa! Sara! SARA!" He gripped her upper arms tightly and shook her, hard, not stopping until she was silent. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, anguished, darker than usual. All the fight seemed to go out of her as she slumped against him, her harsh breathing the only sound echoing in the house for a few moments. They could both feel him in the air around them; Warrick told himself he was crazy when he imagined Grissom's eyes- disapproving- on them, standing in the entranceway and making a spectacle of themselves. Carefully, as if she would break, Warrick manuvered Sara inside, steering her towards one of Grissom's uncomfortable looking chairs before going back and shutting the door.
She had made a mess of things. Books and papers were scattered all over the floor, drawers in the kitchen pulled out, cabinets opened. The couch cushions had been ripped off- Warrick did a double take. Yes, the couch cushions- sewn onto the frame's upholstery- had been ripped out. He looked at Sara, now sitting forlornly on her chair, and wondered where the slight woman had gotten the strength to tear apart a leather couch by the seams. She'd obviously made good work of the apartment while he'd dwadled in the cemetery.
He looked at her strangely as he passed her, moving through the rest of the rooms, all equally as trashed. She had pulled pictures off the walls, rooted through Grissom's closet and dresser. Their late supervisor's prized butterfly collection lay smashed on the floor, the insect's colorful wings ground into dust by the heel of an angry boot. Sifting through the mess, he picked up a shadowbox, gingerly picking shards of glass away from the butterfly that lay intact on the bottom. Warrick took the box back out into the living room.
Sara's eyes were two burning holes in her face; her look of naked hostility almost shocked him into dropping the butterfly.
"If he gave it to you and you're keeping it from me, I swear by all that is holy that I'll kill you," she said, evenly, as if they were discussing the weather or something of little consequence.
He twisted his lips in derision. "What the fuck are you talking about? Do you think this is some kind of sick game, some scheme to get attention or something?" His voice rose in frustration and emotion that he was trying very hard to repress. "What's going on, Sara?"
Her eyes dropped from his face to the box in his hand. She could just see the monarch butterfly's beautiful markings from the angle at which he held it.
"You know, he only kept those things on his wall to mock me," she said.
He looked at her for a second, expression unreadable, before turning and throwing the case against the wall with all the power he could possibly put behind it.
They stared at each other for a long time after Warrick had turned back to face her once more. Her face grew paler, her eyes blackening until the iris and pupil were indistinguishable, he balled his hands into fists over and over again, clenching and unclenching them.
"If you find anything... unusual... then I want to see it, Warrick."
He kept his voice cold and ignored the tears still falling from her lashes as he responded with a terse, "Yeah."
Standing shakily, she looked once more around the living room. There was a strange desperation in the way she held her shoulders, the way her eyes darted around the room, as if she was reassuring herself that she'd looked in every possible spot for whatever she was searching for. Warrick watched her leave, quietly shutting the door behind her, thinking that she looked smaller than she had the day before.
He squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his forehead with his hand for a second before moving over to the table near the window, taking Grissom's will out of his pocket as he did so, and spreading it on the smooth surface.
The list was short and to the point. His lips tipped up in a wry smile; the will was totally Grissom. Who was to get what was spelled out in black and white so that there could be no other interpretation.
He noted with irony that Grissom had willed Sara his butterfly collection; he wondered if she had known what he had planned for his favorite insects before he'd died.
One of the footnotes caught his eye. He frowned, focusing on the tiny script. It was unusual in that it was a personal note, with no legal jargon included. He wondered if this small post script-like instruction was the reason that Grissom's lawyers told him that he and they alone could look at the will.
Warrick. Guest room closet, top shelf. Take down the false ceiling. Don't let Sara see. Grissom.
His frown deepened as he headed for the guest room.
Sara's whirlwind had hit here, too, and ripped the contents of the closet off of their shelves and hangers and strewn them over the carpeting, but apparently she hadn't known about the false ceiling in the closet. Warrick could see why; it took him half an hour to figure out how to open it, so well was it hidden. Finally he removed the panel, and set it to the side. He felt around in the darkness, wishing for a flashlight, before his fingers bumped into something. A box, by the feel of it. He pulled it down and climbed back down to the floor.
The lid wasn't too dusty; someone, presumably Grissom had opened it, and quite recently. Digging his fingers under the edges, he lifted the lid to reveal... another note, this one pinned to a swath of crimson velvet.
Don't lose her.
Eyes widening at the cryptic message, Warrick gently parted the folds of fabric, and all his mythology classes came back to him in an instant. He rubbed his fingers over silver-white fur, a soft whistle of amazement escaping through his clenched teeth.
He dragged his hands away, shutting the box quickly. He understood them now. Grissom. Sara. The butterflies in the boxes and her frantic search.
Picking up his precious inheritance, he walked out, locking the door behind him.
The last person to leave Grissom's graveside was Warrick.
This hadn't suprised him. Sara had left first; her eyes had been terribly blank as she'd escaped to her car at the earliest opportunity that propriety had allowed. Nick left soon after that, to go hide the tears he precieved to be weak in the depths of his apartment, or in a lonely drive out into the desert. Catherine hadn't stayed long, choosing instead to go home with Lindsey. The sadness had hung around her like a mist, but Warrick knew that she was strong enough to put it into some sort of perspective that would allow it not to consume her. Greg had taken off, he wasn't sure to where. He half wished Greg had stuck around, since the task ahead of him wasn't going to be pleasant, and he didn't relish the thought of doing it alone. Kicking at a loose clod of dirt in his path and glaring at the sunset, Warrick ambled back to his car. Sliding into the driver's seat, he drove out of the graveyard and headed for Grissom's townhouse.
As executor of Grissom's will, it was Warrick's job to sort out his earthly effects. Somehow, he had to pick through the bits and pieces's of a man's life, and dole them out to the appropriate parties. He wasn't looking forward to it.
Seeing Sara's SUV parked in front of Grissom's building wasn't entirely unexpected. He sighed as he turned off the engine, sitting in the car a few moments to collect himself before heading inside. While Sara was sure to be emotional, her company would be more welcome than the non-existent sounds of Grissom's footsteps.
He was totally unprepared for what he found when he opened Grissom's door.
Sara flung herself at him in a fury, all hundred pounds of her concentrating on him in a rage the likes of which he had never seen from her before. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pounded on his chest with her balled up fists.
"Where is it? Where is it? WHERE?" He caught at her elbows, fighting the instinct to defend himself by hitting her back, trying to hold her arms still. He couldn't make any sense of the words spilling from her lips, and needed calm to figure it out.
"Whoa! Sara! SARA!" He gripped her upper arms tightly and shook her, hard, not stopping until she was silent. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, anguished, darker than usual. All the fight seemed to go out of her as she slumped against him, her harsh breathing the only sound echoing in the house for a few moments. They could both feel him in the air around them; Warrick told himself he was crazy when he imagined Grissom's eyes- disapproving- on them, standing in the entranceway and making a spectacle of themselves. Carefully, as if she would break, Warrick manuvered Sara inside, steering her towards one of Grissom's uncomfortable looking chairs before going back and shutting the door.
She had made a mess of things. Books and papers were scattered all over the floor, drawers in the kitchen pulled out, cabinets opened. The couch cushions had been ripped off- Warrick did a double take. Yes, the couch cushions- sewn onto the frame's upholstery- had been ripped out. He looked at Sara, now sitting forlornly on her chair, and wondered where the slight woman had gotten the strength to tear apart a leather couch by the seams. She'd obviously made good work of the apartment while he'd dwadled in the cemetery.
He looked at her strangely as he passed her, moving through the rest of the rooms, all equally as trashed. She had pulled pictures off the walls, rooted through Grissom's closet and dresser. Their late supervisor's prized butterfly collection lay smashed on the floor, the insect's colorful wings ground into dust by the heel of an angry boot. Sifting through the mess, he picked up a shadowbox, gingerly picking shards of glass away from the butterfly that lay intact on the bottom. Warrick took the box back out into the living room.
Sara's eyes were two burning holes in her face; her look of naked hostility almost shocked him into dropping the butterfly.
"If he gave it to you and you're keeping it from me, I swear by all that is holy that I'll kill you," she said, evenly, as if they were discussing the weather or something of little consequence.
He twisted his lips in derision. "What the fuck are you talking about? Do you think this is some kind of sick game, some scheme to get attention or something?" His voice rose in frustration and emotion that he was trying very hard to repress. "What's going on, Sara?"
Her eyes dropped from his face to the box in his hand. She could just see the monarch butterfly's beautiful markings from the angle at which he held it.
"You know, he only kept those things on his wall to mock me," she said.
He looked at her for a second, expression unreadable, before turning and throwing the case against the wall with all the power he could possibly put behind it.
They stared at each other for a long time after Warrick had turned back to face her once more. Her face grew paler, her eyes blackening until the iris and pupil were indistinguishable, he balled his hands into fists over and over again, clenching and unclenching them.
"If you find anything... unusual... then I want to see it, Warrick."
He kept his voice cold and ignored the tears still falling from her lashes as he responded with a terse, "Yeah."
Standing shakily, she looked once more around the living room. There was a strange desperation in the way she held her shoulders, the way her eyes darted around the room, as if she was reassuring herself that she'd looked in every possible spot for whatever she was searching for. Warrick watched her leave, quietly shutting the door behind her, thinking that she looked smaller than she had the day before.
He squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his forehead with his hand for a second before moving over to the table near the window, taking Grissom's will out of his pocket as he did so, and spreading it on the smooth surface.
The list was short and to the point. His lips tipped up in a wry smile; the will was totally Grissom. Who was to get what was spelled out in black and white so that there could be no other interpretation.
He noted with irony that Grissom had willed Sara his butterfly collection; he wondered if she had known what he had planned for his favorite insects before he'd died.
One of the footnotes caught his eye. He frowned, focusing on the tiny script. It was unusual in that it was a personal note, with no legal jargon included. He wondered if this small post script-like instruction was the reason that Grissom's lawyers told him that he and they alone could look at the will.
Warrick. Guest room closet, top shelf. Take down the false ceiling. Don't let Sara see. Grissom.
His frown deepened as he headed for the guest room.
Sara's whirlwind had hit here, too, and ripped the contents of the closet off of their shelves and hangers and strewn them over the carpeting, but apparently she hadn't known about the false ceiling in the closet. Warrick could see why; it took him half an hour to figure out how to open it, so well was it hidden. Finally he removed the panel, and set it to the side. He felt around in the darkness, wishing for a flashlight, before his fingers bumped into something. A box, by the feel of it. He pulled it down and climbed back down to the floor.
The lid wasn't too dusty; someone, presumably Grissom had opened it, and quite recently. Digging his fingers under the edges, he lifted the lid to reveal... another note, this one pinned to a swath of crimson velvet.
Don't lose her.
Eyes widening at the cryptic message, Warrick gently parted the folds of fabric, and all his mythology classes came back to him in an instant. He rubbed his fingers over silver-white fur, a soft whistle of amazement escaping through his clenched teeth.
He dragged his hands away, shutting the box quickly. He understood them now. Grissom. Sara. The butterflies in the boxes and her frantic search.
Picking up his precious inheritance, he walked out, locking the door behind him.
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