Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	!first geekfiction ficathon, misscam

Ficathon entry (Arthur Miller's Wrong)
I was allowed by velocityofsound to post early, so here goes.

Arthur Miller's Wrong
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: Not mine. CSI is CBS's and this is merely written for fun and no profit.

Summary: Sometimes, it seemed Arthur Miller could be entirely too right. [Smidge of GSR]

Author's Notes: For piecesofalice, as requested. Quote from Arthur Miller's play Death of a Salesman. Much love and chocolate to briasoleil for beta'ing and gum advice.

The assignment was:

"Make it Brass-a-riffic, with a smidge of Griss/Sara or Warrick/Sara. Rating is not a problem, nor is the subject matter. As long as it is not mega fluffy!"

Three things desired included:
1. Use of a quote from an Arthur Miller play (Yes.)
2. A bit of humour (Yes.)
3. Colour and sound (There is some about.)

II

In the calm of the centre of the storm, it was a line that Grissom had once quoted at repeated itself again and again in his mind, like drumbeats of a requiem.

'After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive,' Brass thought distantly, watching the vultures already circling. The media, always eager to cover the latest death and despair, waiting for the smell of blood. Grissom's blood. Their despair.

Sara was standing nearby, as still as a statue in the night, skin of marble and eyes of granite on the horizon. No tears, but not quite entirely composed either. It was as if she had frozen herself from time, detached herself, waiting somewhere within to be awakened again. As a contrast, Catherine seemed almost like the grieving widow, tears and uneven breath and the image of despair. Even so, Brass knew very well that, in a sense, their roles were reversed.

But they were all Grissom's family either way and this was a wake. One armed hold-up gone wrong. One CSI at the wrong place at the wrong time with all the wrong equipment. No gun. Though perhaps if Grissom had had a gun, it would be a funeral already. Instead, they were waiting. One hostage had been shot already, but they didn't know who.

Grissom might be dead.

"There's gotta be something we can do," Warrick said for the hundreth time, balling a fist.

"What, light the Antsignal and wait for Grissom's little friends to come to the rescue?" Brass replied and Warrick made a sound that might have ben a laugh if not for all the fear and anger in it. "The SWAT team will be going in. They've staked their claim on this one."

"He's our friend," Nick said defiantly.

"And the big guns are theirs," Greg pointed out, without souding too enthusiastic about the fact.

"I don't care!" Nick snapped. "One of us should be there."

"One of us will be," Brass cut in. "I'll go in."

Finally, Sara did look at him, ice in her eyes, but somewhere beneath it, a sort of desperate plea that echoed across his own mind.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "I will bring him out alive, if I can."

"Yes," she agreed. And for a moment, it felt almost as if their minds met and Brass understood very well why Grissom could never let go. Hard to let go when you were already bound. There was nothing quite as frightening and alluring as someone who understood and no web quite as strong as to be caught in it.

"Wish me good aim," he said and felt their eyes on him as he walked away, hope and fear and the chill of the night a web all around him.

II

In the end, the vultures had their blood.

But not Grissom's. Not Grissom's. Grissom was alive and, if not quite well, he would be eventually. The man who had held him at gunpoint would not. More than one bullet had seen to that, maybe even a bullet of Brass's. Brass didn't find he cared that much. Not now, not as his family was safe.

"Thanks," Grissom muttered at his side, looking dazed as an emergency worker dabbed away some splatted blood. Catherine had fussed over him, Nick and Warrick had said little and Greg had said too much. Grissom had allowed it all with an air of a patient grandfather, one by one drifting off to get coffee or food. Leaving Brass, who felt an urge for something he better not get at this hour.

"What were you doing there at such an hour?" he asked after a moment, feeling his own mind slowly start to anchor to reality again.

For the first time, Grissom looked hesitant. "Wrigley's gum. It's vegan-friendly. Sara likes to chew gum when dealing with a bad decomp. I think I lost it."

Brass fought an urge to laugh, though out of amusement or relief or simple joy he could not be sure. "I'm sure she'll take you over the gum."

Grissom didn't appear to listen, spotting Sara a few feet away, still a statue, but eyes now of the dawn, beckoning. And Grissom didn't resist, getting on his feet and walking slowly towards her.

"Hey, Gil! After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive - you remember where it's from?" Brass called after him.

"Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller," Grissom called back, still walking towards Sara with shining eyes.

"Right you are," Brass said mostly to himself as he watched the body of the dead criminal being wheeled away with the media ever circling. Sometimes, it seemed Arthur Miller could be entirely too right.

He took one last look at Sara and Grissom, standing still in the pale light of the rising sun, a subtle hint that maybe, maybe it wasn't all right. Sometimes, a life's worth was simply in living and nothing seemed more valuable.

He went home and the sun rose over life and death alike, the slow passage of time ever proving Arthur Miller right - and wrong too.