Cath and I are fighting. Again.

We've fought before, it's not new. We've yelled and screamed before; we've even gone as far as not talking, outside of work, for days, but this time it feels so different. It feels . . . heart-wrenching and I feel like I could curl up in this big chair and die. I miss her so much. I miss the woman who invades my dreams and thoughts. I miss the sarcastic, witty, funny, unbelievably sexy woman who I see at work everyday. I still see her; I tell her about the cases she'll have to figure out by herself because I won't be there to help. I can't stand not being with her but I can't bring myself to work with her on a case because of the tension that is boiling beneath the smooth facade that we put up. I miss being the one to make her laugh and I hate being the one that makes her cry.

Fighting is nothing new, nothing foreign. We tend to fight a lot, but it's never like this. Nothing has ever been like this. I suspect I'm at fault---I like to see her angry. I like to see the passion, the fire, in her eyes when she fights. She looks so beautiful when she's mad.

I just wish I wasn't always the one who she's mad at.

But I am. Most of the time, we tease and no damage is done. How I wish this was one of those times. It isn't. We haven't talked for nearly a week and I cannot stand it. Neverthless, she's been mad for awhile but I don't believe either of us remembers what really happened. All I know is that it was over something trivial--- something small. I think Heaven and Earth would crumble if we ever decided to fight over something worth fighting for. Apparently this is something that will continue to happen---if she ever starts talking to me again. Oh, I don't want to screw it up---I don't want to screw this up---anything but this. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. In the past, we've fought, cooled off, and made up soon afterwards. We always find our way back to one another. But, for the first time, I'm not quite sure we will find our way back again.

I miss her. I need her and no one else. She listens to me and hears the things I don't say. I need that again. I need to get all these feelings out . . . maybe not all of them, but most of them---never all of them. It's now when I realize that she's the only one I've ever trusted with my emotions---she's the only one I go to. This only makes me feel worse; knowing that I've damaged my only solace in life. I've damaged her and I've lost her. Oh how I wish I could go back and do it all again. There are so many things I would've changed. I wouldn't have picked that fight; I wouldn't have let her go. They say you should never go to bed angry--I wouldn't have let her go to bed angry with me. I would've . . . I would've cherished the normalcy I felt.

Yes, normal; I was normal. For a few weeks, we were each other's lives. I spent infinate hours with Cath and Lindsey---doing absolutely nothing. We went for ice cream many times and dinner as well, but we played most of the time. I miss that. I miss the little family that we became. We were so happy. For once in my life, I had something to wake up for---something I waited all day and all night for. I waited for the times when I could get Cath alone. I waited for the shift to end so I could drive a tired Cath home to her daughter. I waited for Lindsey to wake up and bound down the stairs to sit in my lap and greet me with an enthusiastic 'hello.' When I would return home for a few precious hours of sleep, I waited to dream about Cath and the possibilities that our growing friendship would bring. But apparently it was time for me to wake up from this dream. Yes, it was a dream: I'm not dating Cath and I'm not Lindsey's father . . . but, in my heart, the three of us were a little family. For once, I had something I never realized I wanted: a family. I never thought I would fit into a family that I wasn't born into and I sure as hell didn't think I'd ever want to fit into one. I never imagined how wonderful it was---how amazing it would feel.

Maybe I should start thinking of the things I never thought I wanted; the things I never imagined I could have. There is so much that I am missing out on by not imagining myself in certain equations. Like the equation of love. . . Love? Yes, another of the things I never imagined I could have. I never thought anyone would ever put up with the way I act sometimes. I know I have a habit of shutting people out---even Cath. I've tried not to these past weeks, but I can't just change the way I am on command. I wish I could. I wish I could leave myself behind and let Cath in so that we could be happy. I wish I could leave myself behind because, like I have reminded myself a lot these past days, I'm the one who started this mess. I have a love and I didn't realize it until now. I'm not saying that I'm glad that Cath and I are fighting, but I am glad that I can finally take a look at myself through a microscope and find all these things I never realized.

I love Cath. I've said it. Now, all I have to do is tell her; for me, this is the hardest part of loving someone: expressing it. I've always repressed my emotions, especially love, out of some need to keep myself from getting to close to anyone. I've always thought that if I told anyone, especially Cath, too much about me---or my emotions--- I'd lose them. I was too afraid of telling her how I felt because I was afraid of telling myself. I knew that if I ever thought about Cath as anything more than a friend, I would not be able to be with her without telling her my feelings. So, I ignored all the feelings that were boiling under the surface and just stuck to a 'close friendship,' even if I knew that I wanted it to be more. I didn't want to lose her and I sure as hell don't want to lose her now. So now, I'm going to do the one thing I was always afraid to do: I'm going to tell Cath how much I love her.

** This ruined puzzle is beige with the pieces all face down
so the placing goes slowly.
The picture's of anything other than it's mean to be.
But the hours they creep,
the patterns repeat.
Don't be concerned, you know I'll be fine on my own.
I never said "don't go." **

I've always told myself that I was an independent. I never needed anyone else. Until now. Now, I need someone . . . but the someone I need is Cath and she won't talk to me. What was I thinking when I let her go? Why didn't I stop her? Why didn't I stop and think about how much I need her?

One of my many mistakes was never telling her how much she's meant to me (and still means to me), as a friend, being there for me through everything . . . through both good and bad. I miss her being there for me. I miss her and I have to find a way to tell her that I need her. I need her to know that I love her. But first, I need to apologize.

I look at the notepad in my lap that I have been fumbling with absent-mindedly. Realization strikes me and I quickly grab a pen. Dear Cath, no . . . Dearest Catherine, no, this is not a cheesy romance novel, uhm . . .

Catherine~
I know that currently you do not want to hear anything that I have to say, but hopefully you will find it in your heart to read a few things that have come from your old friend. Very plainly my dear, I miss you. You are my every thought and you occupy every moment of my life. Though you are far away, by my doing, I still think of you and have found it hard to think of anything else. You are my everything and, as of late, I have taken you for granted. This one mistake, this fight, resulting in the loss of my best friend, has brought to the surface what I now realize is my greatest fear: losing you forever. Please tell me that I have not lost you forever, that we have merely drifted apart. I don't think anyone, myself included, can stand to lose their best friend . . . and their only love . . .

After writing the introduction, and getting over my own nervousness, the letter seemed to write itself. For the first time in my life, I put everything on the line. I put my feelings, my emotions, on paper for Catherine to see. If I had told her, I could take the words back for my whole life because spoken words only go so far, but, on paper, I can never take them back---this is the way I want it. I want Cath to be able to take out that letter for her whole life to read and re-read, so that she will never be able to doubt the emotions I've expressed to her. I want her to have them always so she will know that she, and only she, holds my heart. I wrote her the things I've always wanted to tell her: of the love, of the need, and of all the things she is to me. I told her about the things I never realized I wanted. I told her of the family that I felt we had become and how wonderful this was to experience for the first time. I told her everything that I had always wanted to say, but was too afraid to.

Now I wait.

** I've written a note,
it's pressed between pages that you've marked to find your way back.
It says, "Does he ever get the girl?"**

I felt like a schoolboy again walking down the hall with a beige letter grasped in a sweaty hand. I felt flushed and nervous . . . Cath has a way of doing that to me. I was reveiling myself to the secret crush . . . I was as frightened and as happy as I had ever been. I now felt what millions of teenagers feel everyday. It was agony---no wonder the teenage years are the hardest. I drew in a shallow breath and continued on, past the offices of my peers, the same ones that would laugh me out of the building if they knew what I was holding: a love letter.

As I approached the breakroom, I saw Cath leaned over a large book. She's more than halfway done with it and seems to be enjoying herself. I almost don't want to enter---I don't want to disturb her. She amazes me---no one else could live the life she has and still find the time to read a book. Barely enough people read books who have the time to do it and Cath, who hardly has the time, still finds time to pursue a healthy reading habit. What am I talking about? Reading habits? I feel like a stalker . . . I know little things about her that serve no ultimate purpose---Cath liking to read must be one of them. In the few minutes a day I actually think of things other than Cath, I think of how weird I am. Analyzing everything, doing crosswords, leaning over dead bodies and looking at bugs . . . not quite the normal day for the average male. Hell, not the average day for a CSI. It's at times like this that I hope to God that Cath finds these things endearing and not creepy.

I made my way into the breakroom, clearing my mind of its strange topics, and I sat next to Cath with a fairly large grin plastered on my face, like the idiot I am. Then, when Cath got up abruptly to "refill" her full coffee cup, my grin was wiped away and I realized that she was still mad at me. Losing all the courage I'd tried to work up in coming here to face her, armed with a letter and a shaking hand, I shoved the letter in the book, just behind the bookmark she'd placed between the pages. I knew that as I walked out of the breakroom, I'd lost all my dignity. I took the coward's way out. Why couldn't I just face her? It wasn't that hard . . . I've faced an angry Cath before. But, as I thought about it walking down the hallway, I found that I had changed overnight. I was no longer the same Gil Grissom, no, I was different. I was a better man than before. Maybe cowardice didn't force me to shove the letter in her book, maybe it was a rediscovered sensitivity.

** But what if the pages stay pressed,
the chapters unfinished,
the storied too dull to unfold?
Does he ever get the girl? **

After a few minutes at my desk, the shift starts and I make my way to the breakroom once again, this time to hand out assignments. I fear that I should have given Cath the letter after the shift. Now, if she's gotten the time to read the letter, it will be awkward and nothing will be resolved until after work because we're professionals and personal and work lives never mix---well, sometimes.

Handing out files to the eager faces of my team, I find it extremely hard to look at Cath. I'm scared. If she doesn't feel the same, what will I do? How will this effect work? How will this effect our friendship? STOP. Just take it slow. Nothing ever came out of worrying.

I purposely put Cath, Sara, and Nick together, hoping that everything will be less awkward that way. Just before Warrick and I head off to our crime scene, I approach Cath, hoping to alleviate my curiosity.

Nonchalantly, I ask her if she's finished her book yet. I only pray that she doesn't walk away from my unusual question. Thankfully, she hasn't yet. She rolls her eyes and offers a huffy 'no.' She looks at me, expecting another question like a teenager expects another question concerning drugs and alcohol at a party they have snuck off to. Hearing no such question she lets out a maddening sigh and tells me that the 'disturbance' I caused in the breakroom made her lose her concentration and she couldn't even finish the chapter she was on. At least she acknowledges my presence in the breakroom earlier. Then again, she's even more angry at me for making her lose her will to read. This either means I'm having an effect on her or I'm going to feel really terrible when she never reads that book again . . .

Something I never thought of: what if she never reads the book again. What if I made Cath lose her desire to read? Oh no . . . this means she'll have to find another hobby for me to analyze and she'll never read the letter I placed in her book when she wsn't looking. I'm beyond sad right now. I'm at a point where I don't think I can work . . . I've never felt this awful ache in the pit of my stomach before. I lean against a wall for support as Cath walks away from me in a hurry. I close my eyes in agony and wait for the universe to engulf me . . .

Warrick comes running into the breakroom, asking if I've died. I look at him in pain and he just nods his head in the direction of the waiting Tahoe. I pry myself from the wall that was holding my heart together and I leave the breakroom, knowing the bitter memories that will resurface there everyday for me. We've got to find a new place to hold our beginning of shift meetings . . .

** This basement's a coffin.
I'm buried alive.
I'll die in here just to be safe.
I'll die in here just to be safe.
'Cause you're gone.
I get nothing
and you're off with barely a sigh.
I never said, "Goodbye." **

After shift I wander into my office, my sanctuary, hoping that I can prolong my trip home because I don't think I can make it. Thinking about home for a minute I realize that there is alcohol there, just waiting to be opened again. I don't normally drink, but I believe this is just cause. Still, I sit in my office, rethinking all the events of the night. I'm back to wishing again. I wish that I would have given Cath the letter in person. I also wish I wasn't a complete idiot. Personally, I've never really believed myself to be an idiot--- yes, I'm out of touch with people in general and sometimes I get some rather 'unknowing' times (usually in the comfort of my own home with no witnesses) but I've never been stupid. Until now. These past weeks have been one stupid moment for me. First the fight then the letter. What have I done to myself? Soon I'll be singing the ABCs to find out what letter comes after T.

I never said goodbye to my best friend. I'll never get her back, I'm drained . . . I tried, failed, and have no will to go on. I will just live out the rest of my days with the company of bugs, dead bodies, and crossword puzzles . . . maybe not even crosswords. I hurl the half-done crossword book across the room after giving up. I give up. I give up on everything. I always screw things up---personal things at least and now, I've screwed up the intellectual things. I sigh and get up to check on my bugs . . . my only friends left. The few I keep at home are the special ones. I look into the cage and see that one of the taratulas is unusually still. I look at the sight before me and tap the cage, hoping that it is just immobile for the moment. It doesn't move. I open the cage and stick my hand in to nudge it a little. It still sits immobile. I hit it harder and tumbles backwards, stiff and unmoving. I shut the cage, not wanting to deal with another loss. I try to console myself and when that does not work I resort to denial. I just pretend like it is asleep or something and will be awake tomorrow because I cannot stand another loss tonight. Everything is leaving me . . . everything is gone.

** I've hidden a note,
it's pressed between pages that you've marked to find your way back.
It says, "Does he ever get the girl?"
I've hidden a note,
it's pressed between pages that you'll read if you're so inclined.
It says, "Does he ever get the girl?"
But the hours they creep,
the patterns repeat.
Don't be concerned, you know I'll be fine on my own.
I never said "don't go."
Does he ever get the girl? **

I return to my seat and close my eyes, wishing the world away. Just before rising again, this time in search of hard liquor, I hear a soft tapping at the door. I choose to ignore it and start to search through the cabinets, looking for anything resembling alcohol. The knocking persists and I turn around quickly and angrily, only to knock the only remaining bottle of alcohol off the kitchen shelf. I curse loudly and storm to the door, ready and willing to hurt the intruder at my door. If it's a salesman, I think I will have an aneurysm.

Much to my surprise, I throw open the door to a teary-eyed Cath---not crying, but I can see the emotion in those beautiful eyes. She is looking down at her hands and my face turns soft as I notice the pained expression on her face. She holds her hands together and asks if she can come in. Feeling like the all-too-familiar idiot, I stumble over my 'yes please do.' Like before, I find myself nervous and my palms are sweaty, hoping that she is here because of the letter I never thought she'd read.

**Does he ever get the girl?**

Cath sits on the sofa and I sit next to her, but not too close because I'm not quite sure if she is still angry at me. She looks up from her hands and into my eyes. My expression must give away the anxiety and curiousity that I feel because she starts to talk.

"Gil . . . I don't exactly know where to start. I ummm . . . I found the letter that you put in my book. And I, I was taken aback by it. I never . . . I never knew you felt that way. I never knew . . ." She starts slowly and unsure.

"I'm sorry Cath, I uhhh, I don't mean to make this uncomfortable. If you feel differently then I understand, but I came to lots of conclusions when I wrote that letter . . . conclusions I thought you needed to know. I wanted you to know and I'm not going to take back anything I said in it. I said what I've been waiting almost fifteen years to say and I, I just wanted you to know what I've never had the courage to say." I feared rejection . . . it seemed so imminent, so unavoidable. I felt my heart aching and yet, I could not wait for her reaction. I watched her as she had no idea what to tell me and I watched her gather her purse and coat, seemingly ready to leave. My heart sank; she was leaving me again.

She flipped through her belongings and pulled out a beige letter. She handed it to me. I feared that she was returning the letter I wrote to her. I closed my eyes as I took it from her, not wanting to look inside it. As I opened it, I noticed one line of small delicate writing: I love you, too. Realization dawned on me as it had all week . . . she loved me. The thing I never thought possible was happening. Someone I loved, loved me too. My heart skipped a few beats and I looked at Catherine's blushing face. She looked at me expectantly. I took her hand and pulled her across the sofa to me, kissing her softly. I had waited my whole life for this . . . this love, this kiss, this woman.

I stopped suddenly and asked, "So, do you forgive me?"

"Well, with an apology like that, it's becoming a possibility." Catherine's eyes twinkled and I laughed, relieved. I went in again to kiss her and she met me with full force. Her hands wrapped around my neck and into my hair. I laid a hand on her hip and one on her cheek, caressing it gently. I loved this woman more than everything and anything.

We pulled back once again for air and Cath uttered a few words."Okay, you give a compelling arguement. You've been forgiven."

"Where do we go from here?" I ask.

"Well, let's just say we'll go wherever this relationship takes us, as long as you're ready for the long road ahead."

"I'm never going to be ready . . . but as long as you're with me, I'll go willingly and happily. I love you." I won't ever be ready because this is one of those things that I never knew I wanted and I never knew I could have. But it's better that way.

I know this won't be our last fight, but hopefully, this will make all the other fights go smoother. She'll always have her letter and I'll always have mine. I love her too much to let any fight ever come between us. I love her too much to ever let another fight keep me from the thing that I finally know I want in my life.

THE END!!!