Las Vegas

Feb. 9th, 2006 09:26 pm
gris_bug_man: (level look -- wicked_one)
[personal profile] gris_bug_man
"I spoke with the DA," Grissom said somberly to the weeping woman in his office. "He's willing to give you some community service time for your assault, and said he understood your motivation. Frankly, Heather, you are very lucky."

There are many emotions underlying his words. Sorrow, for the loss of a bright and promising young woman. Empathy for the mother. His eyes turned, unbidden, to the picture on his desk.


If someone harmed Georgia...

But he won't let himself think of that. "I would also recommend you meet with a psychiatrist, one specializing in grief counseling. It is the least you should do for yourself."

"I told you, Grissom, that you lost the right to dispense advice for me," Heather began, though the words lost much of their sting through her tears.

"Then it is fortunate I so frequently refuse to listen to what people say to me," he rejoined, calmly.

"What would you do if someone deprived you of your daughter?" she asked hollowly, blue eyes narrowed. "You cannot tell me that you would remain so calm and detached."

"I pray we never have to find out what I would do," he said lowly, her eyes widening in response to his tone.

Sara rapped on the door, a sheet in her hand. Grissom waved her in, and she gave Heather an understanding look. "Results are in and he made a full confession. Wanted you to know," she said, though whether her words were directed at him or at Heather, he could not have said.

"Ms. Sidle," Heather began, her tone regaining its cultured resonance, "you are not threatened by me."

It is not an observation. It is a confused statement.

And Sara laughed silently, shoulders shaking. "You're right. I'm not. Glad we're on the same page." She left the office, still laughing to herself.

"Would I have been a surrogate for her, had we progressed beyond your boundaries?" she asked Grissom, not missing the calm affection in his eyes.

"Again, Heather, we will never find out," he said pointedly. "Sara is a dear friend. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less." He handed her a card from his rolodex, the name and number of a reputed grief counselor. And he was glad when he saw her place it within her handbag.

"When can I retrieve my whip?" she asked calmly.

He shook his head regretfully. "You would be better off replacing it. It's evidence."

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Gil Grissom

May 2007

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