"Forgiveness"

People are starting to avoid me at work. I'm glad.

It's been two days since my mom decided to show up in Vegas. I haven't seen her since. I'm hoping she's flown back to Texas with the knowledge that my being shot and going through about nine hours of surgery wasn't really an adequate excuse for not being around to visit Dad after his stroke. I hope this because I want her gone. It's easier having her out of my life. Not having to care.

Even as I think this, I know it's not true. If I could really make myself not care, then I'd be able to shake myself out of this bad mood that I've been in for the last two days. I'm pissed at Mom, pissed at Greg, and generally just sort of pissed off at anything or anyone that comes my way. More than anything, I want to fast forward a couple of months to where this is all past stuff, all history. Everyone will remember that I was a little upset after my dad died but that was months ago and now things are better. I'm ready to skip to where things are all better again.

I don't know if things ever get better. Maybe you have to rewind your life to find that time.

But who am I kidding? At nine I learned that childhood isn't all it's cracked up to be.

It's easier when people step out of the way so they won't have to confront you. Yesterday, Bobby saw me heading down the corridor and quickly hid in another room until I passed by, so he wouldn't have to tell me that there was no evidence on the home invasion gone wrong case I had been working on. He didn't know I saw him, and I didn't bother to let him know. I'd rather people avoid me than have them ask me what's wrong.

The only three people in the lab who haven't tried to steer clear of me whenever they can are Greg, Catherine, and Grissom. Catherine, not in an excellent mood herself, came over to me after we finished interviewing a suspect last night and asked me directly what I was being so bitchy about. I shrugged her off and she hadn't come back, so maybe she decided she just didn't care enough at the moment or she had enough on her plate to deal with. That was fine by me. Greg had tried to corner me a couple of times and I refused to discuss anything with him. I was still mad that he had told my mom what happened. I could have told him it wasn't going to make any difference. It's not like she's going to care.

Then, of course, there is Grissom. Grissom is harder to deflect.

"You got a second, Nick?"

I don't look away from my microscope. The fact of the matter is that I have several seconds, minutes even, for Grissom to attempt to probe into my life, because my case is going nowhere and I'm getting close to packing it up for the night. But I don't want to talk to Grissom. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want them to leave me alone.

Grissom, naturally, doesn't care about this. He picked some week to try and learn how to be human.

"I'm kind of busy, Gris," I say shortly, continuing to peer into the microscope, analyzing the single strand of hair found at the scene that was not the victim's. The case dealt with a young boy who had been sexually assaulted and then stabbed to death, and each piece of evidence was more conflicting than the next. Just another thing to brighten up my day.

"I know," he says. "Let's go to my office."

I lean back from the microscope and feel myself glaring sullenly at Grissom, as though I'm the teenage son who just learned he doesn't get to go to the huge party that night. I'm about to protest that I really don't have the time when I catch that look on Grissom's face. You see it there every now and then, but it's rare. It's the look the says "I just realized I'm the boss and I'm about to do something with it". One way or another, I'm going to his office, and the less fuss I make now, the easier it will be to slip away later.

I sigh and get up, following Grissom down the hall. He watches me as we walk; if he means to be subtle about it, he needs to start getting lessons. "You haven't been acting quite like yourself since you came back from Texas, Nick."

I make a noncommittal noise. I'm annoyed again, and I can't help but think that for all Grissom's wonderful genius, he continues to use what's probably the most inane and overdone comment any worried friend has ever made. After all, how can you not act like yourself anyway? You don't really get a choice in who you are.

"I've asked some of the others what they've thought of your behavior. Particularly, I questioned Greg a great deal, as I know you two are fairly good friends."

I want to say that good friends don't sell you out to your mom and your boss. Instead, I ask tightly, "What'd he say?"

"Not a lot," Grissom says. He continues to watch me in a way that's becoming immensely irritating. "He seemed to be worried about betraying your confidence. He was far less open than anybody else I asked. Still, he seemed to be worried."

I bite my lip, feeling a little bit bad about immediately assuming Greg had told everybody about my mom and what happened Monday night. I try to shrug it off, figuring I have reason to be mad at him anyway, and look at Grissom as he watches me, gauging the rise and fall of my mood based on physical indications. "I'm worried about you to, Nicky," Grissom says and briefly I wonder how long it's been since he called me that.

That's not important. Dodge the comment. Make his worry sound frivolous.

"Is that why you wanted to call me into your office?" I ask, as if such a thing is ridiculous and time consuming. "'Cause, if it is, I've got to tell you that I'm on this case right now, and I don't think that my own personal state of affairs should be inter-"

"It's not," Grissom interrupts, not bothering to hear the rest of my excuse. I realize we've arrived at his office. "Actually, you have a visitor."

I look at him, surprised, and then look into his office. Sitting with her back towards us is a woman with short hair, absently playing with a string of pearls around her neck. I know who she is before she turned. The pearls and the seven hundred dollar shoes she's wearing are a dead give away.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?" I mutter under my breath, and then realize that's exactly what Luke had said to me when I had first walked into Hank's Pub. Grissom looks at me sharply and I shrug at him, not knowing how to explain. We step into the office.

"Hi, Mom," I say dryly and sit down in the chair next to her.

"Nick," she says. Her voice is regal and aloof, as always; you'd mistake her for a British queen of some sort if she didn't have the deep Southern accent. "I've just been in discussion with your supervisor, Mr. Grissom." She glances around the room, an expression of slight disdain passing over her face as she notices some of the more unique items on the shelves, particularly the dead pig that catches everybody's eye. "Interesting place," she comments.

"I try," Grissom says with a very light smile on his face. I think it gives him some kind of weird pleasure to know that his office creeps out everybody. He stands in the doorway, watching us a minute, and then says, "I'll just step out a moment to let you to talk."

"No, please wait, Mr. Grissom," my mom says before he can leave. "Of course, I've come to talk to my son, but I also would like to have a word with you, if I may. I'm most curious to your professional opinion on a certain matter."

Gris raised an eyebrow at her and then at me. He opened his mouth as if to protest and then abruptly shut it and sat down in his chair behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Stokes?"

"Well, the truth of the matter is that Nick and I haven't maintained a very close relationship the past couple of years-"

"Mom!"

"-and apparently I've missed out on some of the more colorful episodes of my son's life. Recently, a young man who Nick has apparently befriended made mention of an incident a few years ago that involved and Nick and. . .some form of injury with work? The young man said that Nick had to have surgery."

I look at her. It occurs to me that Mom is waiting for Grissom to say, 'I don't know what you're talking about. Your son was never shot. He's the ungrateful bastard you've always thought he was'. I find myself biting my lip again and glance quickly at Grissom.

Grissom looks utterly nonplussed. The expression would be more comical if there wasn't a touch of hurt beneath the surprise. He looks at me for a long time and then slowly lets his eyes wander back to my mother. "Mrs. Stokes, are you talking about Nigel Crane?"

"I really couldn't say," my mom says, still poised as always. "I don't recall the name the young man spoke. Is it possible my son was shot more than once?"

Grissom looks back to me again. There was a very complete confusion to his eyes, as well as a sudden need to not be involved in other people's family matters. "Perhaps this is something I should leave you two alone to discuss," he says, starting to rise again. Clearly, he has little interest in being involved. This is understandable.

"Well, Nicholas refuses to tell me much of anything," my mother says, ignoring what Grissom obviously wants. He sits back down again. "And I have to say I was hoping for an unbiased opinion of whatever it was that transpired a few years ago."

Gris just sits there, looking utterly lost. "Well," he says, attempting another route to get out of this strange conversation, "I'm not entirely sure I could give you an unbiased opinion, Mrs. Stokes. We all feel very close to Nick here at work."

My mother's lips thinned into a very small smile. "I'm sure," she says in a way that means 'stop telling bullshit'. "But if you would just try, Mr. Grissom. It would mean a great deal to me."

Grissom looks at me, silently asking for my help. I can't help but smile wryly. I don't want him to talk about what happened. I don't want to have to think about it again. And yet, I can't help but be morbidly curious as to how Grissom saw that night.

In the hospital, I remember everybody visiting or bringing flowers, and I remember being secretly thrilled that Grissom took the time to show up and say hello. I remember what he told me when he was trying to explain Crane; he had talked about Maslow's hierarchy of needs, of the fascinating psychology behind it all. And I remember thinking for maybe the first time ever that Grissom didn't know shit.

I just shrug at Grissom. I don't really know what to do.

It becomes apparent that neither does he. He opens his mouth once, closes it, and then tries again. "Well, we were investigating the murder of Jane Galloway," he begins. "We discovered that the murderer had been living upstairs in her attic and had been watching her every movement, stalking her before he ultimately strangled her. We began to look at the repairmen Miss Galloway had used at certain utility companies. Nick, alongside another CSI, went to investigate Miss Galloway's cable repairman, Nigel Crane. At the apartment, Crane managed to surprise your son alone and pushed him out of a two story window."

My mother makes a small sound, almost like a gasp. I stare at her. I guess I wasn't expecting much of a reaction from her.

I know I'm having a reaction. I remember a blur of a face, quick hands, a sensation of lifting and then being pushed through the glass with incredible strength. I remember falling but not hitting the ground. In my memory it seems like the fall never stops.

Mom looks at me and I try not to look at her. I don't want her to see what I'm remembering. "Nick, that's-" Mom stops before she finishes and I wonder what she would have said. She sounds so unlike my mother, so much warmer and emotional.

She looks back at Grissom. "I thought that the young man said that Nick was shot."

"Yes," Grissom says, "but not then. After Nick was pushed through the window, he was taken to the hospital where the doctors said he was mostly okay. He suffered some injuries, which included a concussion, a few broken ribs, and a sprained wrist. He was sent home to get some rest. And then soon afterwards it was discovered by my team that Crane's obsession had little to do with Miss Galloway at all. He had actually been obsessed with your son."

Grissom pauses for a minute and watched me. I avoid his eyes like I had avoided Mom's and am beginning to wish I had told Grissom to keep his mouth shut about that night. I remember the crashing sound of the psychic's body breaking through the ceiling and slamming into the floor. I remember Nigel Crane's voice so well I can practically hear it in my head. I remember briefly wondering if my brains would really look like a strawberry cream swirl and I remember wondering which one of my friends would have to be the one to process my body when I was dead.

I remember the gun in my face and the fear that it brought. The knowledge that I couldn't be so lucky this time. Nobody was going to come to my rescue.

And I was wrong. People were coming. Just not soon enough.

"Crane had also installed Nick's cable," Grissom is saying and I try to pull my attention off of the memories, to focus on the words instead of the images. "That night in Nick's home there was a struggle. The police were called but they didn't arrive in enough time to prevent Crane from shooting Nick in the stomach."

My mom opens her mouth but no sound comes out. I don't move. I try to keep my face expressionless, as if hearing none of this bothers me, as if it all happened to someone else. Grissom watches us and continues, slowly.

"He was taken into surgery. The doctors managed to recover the bullet and stop the bleeding, although there were several complications that lengthened the surgery. He was in the hospital for a couple weeks before he was allowed to leave, and he left before the doctors were really satisfied with him leaving anyway. There were a few minor setbacks and a small, delayed infection, but eventually Nick healed and started working again." Grissom pauses and seems to hesitate for a moment before directly talking to my mother. "He was very lucky, Mrs. Stokes. There were a few moments there when we thought that we had lost him, when I was sure I was going to be processing the murder of one of my own CSI's. If I were you, I'd want to take some time and try to mend whatever went wrong in your relationship, because I am very serious when I say that we came very close to losing Nick a few years ago. We're lucky to have him alive. I consider myself lucky to have him alive."

Grissom stands. "Now, I'm going to give you two some time alone. Don't worry to take as much time as you need; no one will bother you in here. Nick, when you're done, I'll be in the lab with your hair sample. We don't want to lose time on the evidence."

"Sure," I say, and my voice sounds hoarse, cracking just slightly. Grissom nods, looks as if he might want to say something else, and then quickly moves out of the room, closing the door behind him. My mother and I look at each other and I are silent for a long time.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me," she says finally, softly, staring at me as though she's never seen me before. "I can't believe you didn't yell at me and tell me to shut up and to listen to what had happened to you."

"I don't know why I didn't," I tell her. "Maybe, for awhile, it was easier to not be the good son."

She nods then, slowly, and we're quiet again. "We can't get back what we've lost, can we?" she asks finally, playing with her pearls again, a nervous habit most wouldn't notice. I shrug at her, knowing we've come too far, too long to be anything but honest. We've been lying for too long to pretend any longer.

"I don't think so," I say. "I think some things are never going to heal completely, no matter how many apologies or promises are said." And I think of Molly the babysitter, of protecting Luke, of waiting for Mom to come home. "Some things can never be fixed to be what they once used to be."

Mom nods again. "I have to catch a flight in a few hours," she says. "Back home to Texas."

"Okay," I say, and then ask, in a rush, "Are you still mad at me?"

Mom leans back in her chair and does something that I've never once in thirty-six years seen her do. She shrugs. "I don't know what I'm feeling," she says quietly. "But yes. I still think I am. I still feel. .. . I don't know."

"I'm still mad at you too, if it makes you feel any better," I tell her truthfully and she smiles at me for what feels like the first time in years. When I do the math I realize that it actually has been years.

"I feel like we should be doing some tearful reunion and saying our forgiveness," Mom says. "Isn't that what they do in the movies?"

"Since when do you watch movies?"

"I love the movies," Mom says, her nose in the air, composure slightly regained. "I just don't like anything after the 1950's. Lillian Gish, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart. . .now those were film stars."

I roll my eyes. "Boring, Mom," I tell her. "The Die Hards, Lethal Weapons, Indiana Jones. Those are movies."

"Tasteless junk," Mom says. "I prefer my cinema to have a touch of class."

"I just like some humor," I tell her, and we're quiet again. I think we're both thinking the same thing: that we can't agree on anything. I guess family doesn't really have to have anything in common.

"I don't think we're ready for a tearful reunion yet," I tell her. "Luke and I didn't really have one either. I think some part of us is never really going to forgive each other for everything that's happened so I don't think we should lie and say that it will. I think I'm a little tired of telling lies all the time."

"All right," my mom says. "I don't really forgive you."

"Me either," I say. "Do you wanna get some breakfast?"

II.

We argue about where to eat for a long time before I finally convince her that IHOP is not second-rate. She orders crepes and coffee where I eat a huge stack of pancakes, and then some bacon, and then some eggs, and then some toast. She fails to be amused when I accidentally get maple syrup on her sleeve and tells me she isn't forgiving me for the three hundred dollar blouse I just cost her either. I tell her she can add it to my tab of the many unforgivable things I have ever done. She tells me that is the most trite metaphor she has ever heard and she very much sounds like my mother.

We only consider screaming at each other a few times during the meal. No one is slapped across the face and the breakfast is considered an unspoken success.

I drive her to the airport and we're almost late because of traffic. The flight attendant announces that all passengers need to board; the plane is getting ready to leave.

I kiss her on the cheek but we don't hug or touch in any other way. She opens her mouth as if she's about to tell me something important, but at the last minute ends up saying, "You got syrup on your shirt as well," and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. I think I'm glad for that too. Long goodbyes aren't my strong suit.

I leave the airport and head home. I've got to get laundry done and straighten the apartment before I get some sleep. Tonight's likely to be a long shift and I'll have to do some explaining, to Grissom, to Greg, and to Bobby and anybody else that's afraid I might kill them.

It occurs me as I drive that I'm almost happy, in a strange sort of way. I still feel strange about what's happened, still feel that my privacy has been invaded. But I feel sort of okay, too, like maybe life does sort of move on.

I turn up the radio and realize that either way, whether things or good or not so good or however they stand with Mom, she's currently flying back to Texas and I don't have to deal with her for a little while.

And because I'm not necessarily the good son anymore, the thought makes me grin and I sing along to the radio as I drive home.

Off: well, okay. There's that. I was thinking about doing a small sort of epilogue about nick and the other csi's a couple of days after, nothing too, too angsty. Otherwise, this is pretty much the end of the story. Please review and let me know what you think, and if I should do the epilogue or not.