Title: Disclosure Day
By: Jennie M - jenniem159@yahoo.com
Rating: PG for to allow for irate characters' unrestricted expression of their true feelings\
Category: Humor
Spoilers: Utterly insignificant ones from The Accused Is Entitled, Revenge Is Best Served Cold, Let The Seller Beware
Summary: On one of the many CSI lists I've just joined to feed my new (and truly pitiable) obsession, a discussion came up as to whether Gris should just 'fess up about his current hearing difficulties, and whether the gang would be upset if they found out on their own. I believed that they might be slightly miffed at being left out of the loop. It was opined that Grissom's staff would never treat him like that.

Like an annoying sticker weed, this story sprung up in my disordered brain. It presents one of the possible reasons that I believe he might be well served in confiding in his team before they suss everything out for themselves (though we know he probably won't, of course :), and that, if this were real life and not TV-land, they might be a bit cranky with him. This is a one-off, not to be taken seriously, no disrespect intended, could never happen, exists only for the purpose of amusement. This is my vision of one of the many worst-case scenarios he might face.
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS Broadcasting Company. I promise to put the guys and gals back when I'm done, undamaged, in their boxes, and in ready-to-sell condition. Since I've never made a profit off of anything in my life, why should this instance be any different? :)
Author's Acknowledgment: This could also be a considered a sort of cautionary tale about what happens to people with too much time on their hands when it's way late and they are also suffering from painfully intense CSI next-ep cravings. :)

 

 

Grissom sat at his desk at what should have been the end of a truly grueling shift, staring in despair at the heap of paperwork now scattered on his desk. He toyed with the fantasy of sweeping an imperious hand across its surface and gracefully sliding the entire pile into the recycle bin that stood so temptingly next to the desk. Why, he wondered, had the bureaucrats managed to keep their hooks in him despite all his efforts to the contrary? Seemed as if even pure brilliance--if he did say so himself--could elicit no mercy from them. The accounting must be made, the reports filed.

He looked up wearily, expecting to see only the first pale rays of the Vegas sun over the horizon flooding the office. Waxing romantic, he wondered if it were hyperbolic to believe the pink to be a slightly jaded shade from too many risings against the backdrop of the garish neon skyline.

Was that a Valkyrie framed in that rosy glow, arms folded over its tank-top clad bosom?

"Y'know, Grissom, I could put it down to distraction," Catherine said in a voice hinting of sarcastic annoyance. "But after the first 50 instances thereof, I have to start looking for some other explanation."

Grissom replaced the glasses he had laid on the desk; he needed their shield from the glare in front of him. Of course, they were no help.

"What are you talking about, Catherine?" he asked, trying for a tone of indulgent patience.

Had she grown lately? She seemed suddenly taller just then, the red parts of her titian hair fierier than he'd ever seen them. Idly, he decided to file that approach under "U" for "Useless"; then, he considered "D" for "Detrimental" to be a better choice, upon observing the cold steel glint in her eyes.

"Oh, well, why don't we stick to the ten minutes I've been standing here trying to get your attention, as if I had nothing better to do?"

Grissom opened his mouth to reply, but quickly closed it when he realized he had nothing to say that would make any sense.

"Look, Grissom," Catherine continued ruthlessly. "If you were anyone else, I'd decide you'd picked up a new recreational drug habit, or maybe just a taste for the sauce."

Grissom knew he had the option to rein her in, remind her of their respective positions, but he knew that doing so would end a very satisfactory friendship and working relationship. Besides, a part of him was enjoying the sight of her in her current state of glorious indignation. This abstraction made him all the more unprepared for her next volley.

"But only people with lives would take up such vices," she concluded.

Grissom furrowed his brow at her. While Catherine was not known for pulling her punches or for her overwhelming restraint, she had never shown him a vitriolic side. (And what was this "life"
business--had she been talking to Sara?)

"Catherine, what in the world is wrong with you?" he asked concernedly. "Something happen out there I need to know about?"

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned on the doorframe, the Valkyrie ready to fulfill her destiny, to deliver her slain hero to Valhalla.

"What in the world is wrong with *me*," she said, repeating his words back to him with a carefully-paced inflection that let him know that she was about to hit him with something he didn't want. What, he couldn't guess, but...

"You know, you might have pulled it off. I probably would have not really been suspicious if it weren't for your having to have that rotten, garbage-eating second-rate excuse for a lawyer repeat herself three times, Grissom. Three times. Now, the first time, I thought you might have just been setting up some sort of sideshow 'let's humiliate the two-bit circus-freak glory-hound lawyer' thing."

She took a deep breath, her shoulders slumping with fatigue from both the night's work and the current fracas. The glacial look on her sculpted features faded to reveal sorrow, with a tinge of hurt showing in her eyes. Grissom found this to be worse than her anger.

"But then I took a good look at your face, Grissom. Maybe someone who didn't really know you wouldn't have seen the out-and-out fright, but I *do* know you and I *did* see it, little though I wanted to."

She unfolded her arms.

"So, level with me. Is all the confidence you've shown in me as an investigator based on reality or just a sham?"

Even just before his carefully constructed house of cards crumbled, he couldn't resist one last sally.

"Are you really going to make me answer that?"

Catherine snorted.

"Cute, just cute. We'll cut the crap. My examination of the evidence trail you've left all over creation tells me that something might be up with your hearing. Am I correct?"

Grissom sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"It's not as if I made any attempt to hide anything from anyone, Catherine. You wouldn't be here with these questions if I had."

Catherine laughed.

"Yup, neither confirmation nor denial. Can't accuse you of duplicity that way. I'm certain that strategy works well for you. Funny, though, it does nothing to erase the pain from having someone I have believed to be a long-time friend decide I'm no more worthy of being trusted than, oh, let's say, Ecklie."

Grissom laughed shortly and mirthlessly.

"You've never been ridiculous before, Catherine."

"Did you think I was going to run to the department with my juicy information? Or use it as leverage? For what, I ask you? I think I've proven my worth on my own merits."

Grissom now felt it was safe to smile at her.

"No, you know you have and don't want to be thought immodest. No, Catherine, as I've been told by so many people in the past, this time, it's not about you."

This gave her pause, and her expression softened. But she didn't make the mistake of gushing about how sorry she was or making lukewarm offers of help.

"All I have to say is this, Grissom--I think you know you could have told me. What you decide to do is up to you. But at the very least you could have saved me the hassle of standing here all night waiting for you to acknowledge me."

He made as if to apologize, but Catherine held her hand up, straightening up from the doorway in preparation to leave.

"That part is not your fault. As for the rest, I hope you will someday chose to repair our friendship by deeming me worthy of some of the already meager crumbs of information about yourself you choose to dish out. Not all of us are like your so-called mentor. See you tomorrow."

And she was gone.

That made twice in one week that he had been admonished and abandoned by a female colleague. Well, at least this time he had actually seen her turn and leave.

With a sigh, he turned away from the desk to face his computer, upon which resided yet more reports in need of completion.

The touch on his shoulder was gentle, but still enough to make him whirl around in his chair. Maybe if he'd went ahead and put the batteries in the singing bass over his door, he wouldn't be subject to these constant shocks, he pondered.

He turned around to face the expressionless green eyes of Warrick Brown.

"'A good player always hides his tells,'" the younger man quoted his sometime mentor. "Why was I stupid enough to think that you might have just been making some offhand comment?"

Grissom sat up straighter in his chair. Catherine had seemed so sincere just moments ago. Had it all been a smokescreen? If so, for what purpose?

Warrick put him out of his misery.

"Some 'tells' can't be hidden, Grissom. Not forever. I wasn't just that I've been standing here for a lot longer than you seem to realize. You likely don't know about that time when Nick and I were yelling at you awhile back, during that case of that girl with the eating disorder? You kept right on walking as if you didn't hear a thing. I didn't think anything of it that time, decided you were just off in your own world as usual."

Warrick stepped back, folding his arms not unlike Catherine had.

"You might have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for that courtroom thing."

Grissom didn't insult his young colleague by asking what he meant.

"Some mentor. With mentors like that, who needs enemies?" Warrick continued rhetorically. "But now I wonder if I could say the same."

That remark irritated Grissom enough to bring him to his feet.

"What the hell are you talking about, Warrick? I don't recall having done you any harm. Quite the contrary, as I recall."

Warrick raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. You rescued me from myself. Saved me from personal disgrace and career suicide. Don't think I don't appreciate it. It's just that, looking at it now, I wonder if I was just some ego-driven project of yours. I had thought that all those talks we had were actual exchanges, not one-sided feedings of a Christ complex."

Grissom laughed heartily, his anger evaporating.

"No, Warrick, you may safely discard the idea of Gil Grissom believing himself to be the latter-day Messiah. It benefited me just as much as it did you to help you get yourself straightened out. Good CSIs don't fall from the sky--I couldn't afford to waste one."

"Gee, that's reassuring," Warrick said, narrowing his eyes to accent his scornful tone.

"Look, Warrick. I've just had a variant of this conversation with one of your colleagues, believe it or not, so I think I can get right to the heart of what's bothering you. You feel betrayed, belittled, treated as if you bared your soul to me and got nothing in return."

Warrick was reduced to silence by this uncannily accurate summation of the feelings he was harboring upon his discovery.

"This was not my intention. How's this for a personal confidence: As soon as I had gotten to the point where *I* knew what I was going to do, you--all of you--were going to be the first to know."

Warrick's eyes were sympathetic, but not uncomfortably so.

"Look. I know it's not really about me."

Extra points to the lad, Grissom thought; he'd had to remind Catherine of that fact. Maybe some mysterious day far in the future when they were all laughing about this, he'd mention it to her. Far, far in the future.

"Just next time, maybe give me a little credit for knowing when to keep my mouth shut. If I hadn't found out, I could have inadvertently done something to expose you before you were ready. I don't know how many people saw Nick and me trying to get your attention that day..."

Grissom shook his head.

"No use worrying about it now, that's for certain. Oh, and by the way, you just passed your annual review for the year."

That had the intended effect; Warrick's expression lightened and he smiled.

"All right. You do what you need to; you'll tell us what you need from *us* when you're ready. See you around."

Grissom took the chance he had missed with Catherine.

"Thanks, Warrick."

Warrick just waved him off and turned to go.

Standing in the doorway watching him leave, Grissom shook his head. "To misquote that weird guy from that paranormal TV show, these folks put the 'eye' in CSI. Wonder when they'll connect the dots and realize that they can stop the cloak-and-dagger skulking around," he muttered to himself.

"Maybe when *you* do," said a voice somewhere off to his right. Grissom turned, disbelief showing plainly in his face. He had wondered what this day might be like when and if it came, and it was beginning to live up to--and exceed--the nightmarish quality his imagination had dredged up for it. He stood face to face with a beleaguered-looking Nick.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But some of us still are able to do that." He gave Grissom a significant look.

Grissom held up both hands this time.

"Let me spare you a lot of angst, Nicky. The cat's out of the bag. You're on to me. I realize that I hurt you by my lack of confidence in your discretion and promise not to do it again."

Nick looked at him somberly.

"I really believe you think you're being funny, Gris."

Grissom shook his head just as somberly.

"No, Nick. Trust me, no. All I can offer you is my most abject apology, as well as kudos for you demonstrated skill as an investigator."

Nick laughed, a genuine sound of mirth.

"Gris," he drawled, "Catherine's eight-year-old would have found you out. Just be careful, boss. Anyway, the reason I'm really here is to ask for next Wednesday off..."

Grissom looked at him in suspicion.

"This would not be a clumsy attempt at extortion, would it?"

Nick looked so genuinely wounded that Grissom wasn't able to press the joke on to its merciless conclusion as he usually would.

"Contingent upon your double checking with Sara and Warrick, you have my approval. Don't forget your pager, though," he warned seriously.

"But if I do, I might get that chance to go solo after all," Nick joked gently, his equilibrium restored.

Grissom smiled at him faintly.

"Nick, get lost," he dismissed the young CSI.

Finally giving up on the paperwork for the night--he was entitled to go home *some* time, wasn't he?--Grissom shut his office door and decided to call it a day. Night. Whatever. The last person he needed to run into just then was Ecklie; he'd had enough excitement for that shift, thank you
very much. The very possibility of such an encounter quickened his steps as he strode down the hall toward the exit.

He felt the pounding on the concrete floor before he heard it. Grissom turned to wait for his pursuer. Greg, dressed in street clothes and obviously ready to head home, came jogging toward him with a look of concern in his young-old brown eyes. Not for the first time, Grissom wondered when Greg would pay them all back for their constant use of him as the proverbial class clown; there was more to this young gentleman than a cursory glance at his spiky blonde hair and easygoing demeanor gave away.

"Greg, if this is about the mildew, I realize that I was on ethically shady ground there."

Greg nodded amiably.

"Indeed you were, Gris. But that's not why I'm here."

Grissom believed he had an inkling of what the lab tech might be about to mention. But out of morbid curiosity, he refrained from interrupting.

"I just wanted to warn you..."

Grissom's impatient lifting of his eyebrows prompted the younger man to continue.

"Look, it's really none of my business. But you might think about changing the ring on your cell phone."

Genuinely intrigued, Grissom looked at the tech intently.

"And why is that?"

Greg delivered an inadvertent reminder of very young he still was when he started shuffling his feet and looking highly uncomfortable.

"Well, the others were sort of talking about...well, Gris, to be honest, they were mentioning how that phone rang all while you were at the crime scene tonight without you seeming to be bothered by it. I happened to be in the break room after you all got back, and the theories they were throwing out...let's just hope none of them were true."

Grissom looked sharply at Greg, who returned the glance with serene innocence. It was impossible for him to gauge if the kid was on the level or not. Questioning him would only make him wonder if the others were right, if he truly were as guileless as he appeared. But was he?

But whatever the case, he had discovered the true reason for the office-wide clairvoyance of which he had just been a victim. Darned phone; during his growing-up years, he had heard it portrayed as the enemy by his mother and her deaf friends, but had never quite understood the attitude. Now, he too had been betrayed by it. He produced the cell phone from his pocket and looked at the call list; several unanswered calls from Brass' number showed up on the LCD.

Why on God's green earth hadn't *someone* let him know the accursed thing was ringing? Now he was in the soup for sure; Brass was going to want to know what was going on.

But it was the famous "poker face" that Greg saw when he looked up again.

"Gotta stop thinking so hard, I guess," Grissom offered, expecting to see dubious amusement on the tech's face. But no, Greg's aspect remained as blue-sky innocent as it had been throughout the encounter.

"Uh...ok, Gris," he replied, flashing his usual radiant surfer-boy smile. "See you tonight?"

"Without fail," Grissom assured him.

When Greg's springing step had taken him far enough away from his boss, Grissom pulled out the cell phone again, paging through the unanswered calls and mumbling imprecations to himself. So much for the multiple demonstrations of sincerity he had seen that morning. His head would be neatly displayed on a platter by tomorrow morning that same time.

"Brass dialed my number right after calling yours," a familiar feminine voice somewhere to his left informed him. He looked up again to meet another pair of brown eyes, these ones the color of Hershey's chocolate and gently ringed with dark lashes. "I told him that you must have let your battery die; he accepted that without a problem. Anyway, all he wanted was to make certain you got the message he left about that meeting tomorrow night. I told him you had, and he was satisfied."

"As a matter of fact, I'd forgotten all about it. Thanks for the heads up, Sara," he thanked the junior CSI. "But why-"

"No one knew what to do, Gris," she replied sorrowfully. "Well, just speaking for myself. I mean, coming right after whatever went wrong during the pretrial hearing...nobody knows what could be going on with you."

Grissom smiled at her.

"Wrong tense, Sara. They sure do *now*. Greg? Well, I still can't tell about him. But all the others have guessed. So why-"

"How could any of us know what the other might or might not know? It was immobilizing. Nobody knew what to say to you. And it was so *loud*, Gris, I just don't understand how you could have missed it."

"Though the rest comes and goes, I have a severe-to-profound high frequency loss that stays constant. Things such as whispers and high-pitched cell phone rings...wait a minute, that means that the little rat does know exactly what's going on, just like everyone else."

Sara tilted her head in puzzlement, her dark hair sliding attractively to one side.

"He told me to change the phone's ring, not simply to turn it up. Uh huh. I knew it. If he thinks mildew is an inconvenience..."

"Like the rest of us, he didn't want you to feel forced to make revelations you weren't ready for. But it got bigger than that really quickly this time," she said with regret. "And cortisone aside, I don't think the mildew thing was very nice, either," she scolded. "If you did that to me, I just might have your job--sir," she said brattily.

"Just be glad you're not Scandinavian. And if you wait a while, you just might."

"Might what?"

"Have my job." Grissom smiled, but his eyes remained serious.

Sara shook her head with iron firmness.

"None of us would let that happen, Gris."

She looked at him speculatively.

"Tell you what. Let's go over to McDonald's for breakfast. We'll have a brainstorming session. I'll throw out some ideas about keeping the upper echelons out of your business, and you can share with me just how you intend for me to get the life you were so magnanimous as to confer upon me."

He glared at her. She smiled back as serenely as Greg had earlier. Shrugging, deciding that he had nothing to lose, he nodded in acquiescence, and the two of them averted their steps from the parking lot and headed instead for the golden arches, one more tawdry light marring the early
morning skyline.

***

Sorry, folks. (evil grin)