| Idol - by kyrdwyn |
| Rated: G Spoilers: None Synopsis: A young woman's idol becomes aware of her existence |
 |
| CSI, Gil Grissom and company, and places and etc are all property of Anthony Zuiker, Alliance Atlantis, CBS, and other companies. They did not condone this fic, and I am not getting paid for it. I write because I want to. All other characters not appearing on CSI in any way, shape, or form that appear in this story are my property. If you have any comments - good or bad, feel free to e-mail me at: toxicrev@yahoo.com |
|
| She sat alone in the dark, staring at the face paused on the TV screen. She had taped everything she could find on this man - every clip of him on the evening news, every interview he'd given on local talk shows. She had newspaper clippings and magazine articles kept in a box under her bed. She would take them out and read them by flashlight when she couldn't sleep. Though she didn't understand the technical terms, she made sure she got copies of every paper he'd authored - just to be able to read his words. She'd even managed to attend one of his lectures, though she'd been too shy to say anything to him afterward. What would he think of her? She focused on her screen again. It was a rare shot of him smiling, amused by the question the interviewer had asked him. He really ought to smile more, she thought. He was a mystery, an enigma, and one she longed to figure out. But she was nothing, a nobody. She didn't move in the same circles he did, didn't work in the same field. She doubted he would even be interested in her if he met her. She fast-forwarded her tape to the next news piece about him, sighing. She never heard the man behind her. * * * * * Grissom stood in the living room of the apartment, watching as the coroner's assistants removed the body. Sara was moving around, taking pictures; Catherine was dusting for prints. The young woman had been clutching her VCR remote in her hand. He wondered what she had been watching. After the TV and the VCR had been dusted for prints, he turned them on and pushed play. A local news anchor came on the screen, talking about a murder Grissom remembered working on a few months ago. Sara came over to watch with him. They both went still as Grissom's face came on the screen, discussing the evidence collected against the suspect. At the end of the interview the screen jumped to another anchor, another case, another interview with Grissom. The two stood there, transfixed. Catherine came out of the bedroom, a box in her hand. She, too, stood and watched as the tape unwound. Every item was something about Grissom. When the tape stopped and began to rewind, Catherine wordlessly handed the box to him. He opened it to find newspaper and magazine articles - with him as the subject. He looked at Catherine, then turned and sat down on the young woman's couch, silently reading though the articles one by one. He was unaware of Catherine and Sara moving around him, processing the scene. Each article had some comment written on it, some notation of her thoughts about him, his work, his life. She even had a handout and a name tag from a seminar he'd given. Her collection spanned years, a young woman's fascination with a man she'd never met. He'd seen it before - for movie stars or rock stars. He'd never thought of himself in that light, though. He put the lid back on the box, loathe to refer to it as evidence even though it technically was as part of the crime scene. He joined Sara at the bookshelf, where copies of journals with his articles were carefully shelved, along with reference books to aid in her understanding of them. He turned, not wanting to stay, to paw through her possessions like she was just another victim. He asked Catherine and Sara to finish up, unable to meet their eyes, not wanting to see the sympathy and understanding he knew would be there. He came face to face with her on his way out. On the back of the door was a poster - the kind that came from amusement parks where they took pictures on rides. He recognized the ride she'd been on - though he'd never ridden it himself. Patrons were taken up several stories and then dropped several times - in the dark. She was sitting in the center seat in the back, unlike the rest of the passengers who were on bench seats with barriers in front of them. She had her hands above her head, her mouth open in a scream. He could tell from the way she sat that she was weightless at the instant the picture was taken. He peered closer - her eyes were alight with laughter. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold night, wondering what kind of woman she'd been to see him as someone worth the time and effort it must have taken to amass her collection, and bitterly regretting the fact that she'd had to die to bring her to his attention. |