Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: I'm not even going to bother trying to promise I'll be better about posting, though once again, I do intend to try. :) I want to thank anyone still reading this, it still means so much to me, as does your encouragement. Especially those of you who keep on me about it. You know who you are and even if I don't always get right on it, I listen and it helps. So sorry I'm so inconsistent.

Thanks and enjoy!

Chapter 26: Kaye Shelton

A few days before Christmas, Grissom took me with him to a scene covered in bugs. I mean… just crawling in them. And I don't mind maggots so much, or beetles… but the bugs that fly all over so that you're never really sure where they could be on you… I admit they make me nervous. I would never admit such at thing to Grissom, of course, but they did… bees especially. I hated bees. I mean, borderline actual debilitating phobia kind of fear.

"Just Paper Wasps." He informed me, dismissively, moving in closer to the body of our vic—female, wrapped in a blanket, gunshot wound to the head. It is a testament to my ongoing and all consuming desire to be perfect in his eyes—not only as a woman, but as a CSI—that I grit my teeth and moved forward with him, into the masses. I felt a little light headed… downright queasy, even, but I did my best to disguise it as he listed off the names of The Beatles while placing actual beetles in jars. But when he asked after my beef jerky—which I was apparently 'always gnawing on'—I couldn't restrain myself entirely.

"You can eat?" I asked him, in disbelief… but no, he just wanted to take my food that I always had with me because I worked so much that I didn't have time for three solid meals in a day, and give it to his little bug friends. Logically, of course, I knew that he was preserving evidence for the scene with what he thought we might have on hand… but feeling the way I was about the bees and his impression of me as a person who 'gnaws' their food… I couldn't help it.

At the very least, collection took so long that we really only had time to log evidence in before shift was over. I suspected Grissom would stay a while with his bugs, but I wanted to get the hell out of there… namely, into the closest shower available. The bees… I felt like they were hiding in my pockets and my hair and crawling up my back. I couldn't shake the feeling.

I showered in the locker room before going home, and caught a few hours of sleep, but not nearly as much as I would have liked… my dreams weren't awful, but they were filled with beetles gnawing on beef jerky while a barbershop quartet of bees sang "Let It Be." …I was convinced that if I could just force myself to stop dreaming—good, bad, or just downright strange—I wouldn't be an insomniac. You try to sleep when you have crazy stuff like that filling your head.

So I was feeling exhausted and little temperamental when I went into work the next night, but five minutes with Greg's coffee and a forensic journal, sitting in the comfortable comfort of my colleagues… and I thought it might be an okay night. I still had a headache, telling me I was very overtired, but I wasn't feeling quite so on edge. When time for assignments came and passed and the others started questioning where Grissom was, I spoke up softly, saying we'd had a body covered in insects and that he was likely holed up in his office entertaining himself with them… they chuckled, and Warrick stood to get some coffee, offering Catherine a refill.

Not for the first time, I wondered if there were some unacknowledged sparks between them.

When he did arrive and Catherine asked him how his body with the bugs was… he turned and looked at me accusingly, asking how they knew about it already… like I had been somehow supposed to know that he didn't want me to talk about it? It was instinctual—I lied. "Hey, don't look at me!"

Nick spoke up on my behalf, saying they'd played a hunch and called homicide when he was late… and Grissom raised his eyebrow, passing out assignments… Warrick and Catherine had a missing piece of art, although I had a sneaking suspicion they thought it was a missing person case (the only reason I knew is because I'd taken it upon myself to become an art expert when Grissom told Kelly his mother ran a gallery…), and Grissom sternly informed Warrick to break off when he needed to be in court. Nick got an actual missing person's case and cracked a joke, his eyes sliding to the side to gauge my reaction while I laughed… and then lost his giddy grin when Grissom was stern with him. Apparently he was in a mood tonight. I hid my frown, hoping that I wouldn't fall victim to it next, and followed him out.

We went right down to autopsy, noticing now that she was a little cleaner and in better lighting that our victim had been shot at close range… an intimate killing. "Full of sound and fury… signifying what, Doc?" Grissom asked, and I tried to place it… had that been a quote? Then I mentally chided myself for feeling as though I ought to be able to recognize every obscure reference Grissom spoke. He was my mentor, not my deity of choice.

"I took these…" he answered, leading me over to her facial x-rays. I found myself speaking aloud as I surveyed her past wounds… nasal bone, orbital bone, mandibular… all facial fractures. "Typical for battered women." Doc nodded, knowing what I was implying.

I felt a sinking feeling in my chest." …These aren't fresh, are they?"

"The old fracture lines indicate this woman was in a long-term abusive relationship."

"Any idea how long she's been dead?"

"The elements really got to her. Grissom and his insects are going to have to figure that one out." Doc turned back to Grissom, who was still hovering over the woman's body. "Have we lost you, Grissom?" He asked, and it hit me.

Macbeth. Shakespeare. It is a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/signifying nothing.

"The worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle on your snout." He muttered, apparently in response to Doc's inquiry. I turned around, separating myself from my horror at the x-rays. It had to come sooner or later… a domestic case that I would have to do with Grissom. And the best way to get through it without revealing too much was to detach myself as best I could manage.

I turned, managing a smile. "Shakespeare again?" I asked, not feeling bad that I didn't recognize his second quote now that I had identified the first.

"An old nursery rhyme," he responded, which explained why I couldn't place it. I'd had too few positive childhood memories to expect myself to know the more obscure nursery rhymes.

"A very special insect, Dr. Seuss?" Doc questioned him teasingly, and I smirked.

"A musket fly. Typical only in urban areas…"

"But you found her in the mountains." Doc pointed out, and the grin Grissom gave—not to me, but to the shriveled up musket fly—made me weak in the knees. It was one of pure happiness.

We just needed to determine who our victim was, find her deadbeat husband or boyfriend or ex and his home in the city in which he'd killed her… Grissom's bugs would tell us when it had happened, and we'd nail the guy. …There was no reason in the world to believe that I would struggle with this case the way I was afraid I would. I didn't want Grissom to see me as weak… and I certainly didn't want him to guess at why it might upset me so much.

The problem was that it didn't happen that way. Brass ID-ed the body using AFIS, found her husband—Scott Shelton—and reported that a neighbor had heard screaming and a gun shot five days previous. We brought him into PD for questioning… and things quickly slipped out of my control. He said that Kaye—that was her name, Kaye Shelton—screamed at him a lot, sometimes got violent, left him several times. And that he had been out of town. It was probably just the TV that the neighbor heard. It was all I could do keep myself from lashing out at the man. I slid the folder across the table to Grissom, letting him lead, because if I spoke I was afraid I was going to lose it.

"Mr. Shelton… Did your wife drive race cars?" Grissom asked, and despite my irritation, I felt myself smirk, a little. I had always known Grissom was a good CSI, but for a quiet man, he was a surprisingly powerful presence in interrogations.

Mr. Shelton scoffed. "You're joking, right?"

"No." he said, his voice a little condescending, a little impatient. "The two most common causes of facial trauma in adult women? Motor vehicle accidents… and domestic violence." One by one, Grissom pulled out her x-rays, and I felt calm return. With Grissom on my side, it didn't really matter that this man felt no remorse, because we were going to nail him. "These are you wife's x-rays."

"Every face and neck fracture your wife sustained over the past six years is highlighted." I said, calmly letting him know that we knew exactly what kind of man he was and what he'd done to her.

He said that she was 'exciteable' and that he admitted he'd wrestled her off of him in the past… a woman's face didn't end up that way from a man wrestling a woman away in self defense. Brass spoke up, pointing out that there had been three complaints of domestic violence against him in the last few years. He reinterated his point, claiming he'd never laid a hand on her… "How about a gun?" I said, feeling my irritation build again. He knew we knew and yet he sat there, flippant, completely uncaring what he'd done to Kaye.

He smirked and spoke to Grissom, as if I didn't warrant a response. "You have your hands full with her."

Grissom smirked back, but he narrowed his eyes at the man. "So do you."

He said we could come on over, no warrant needed, because he had nothing to hide… and I couldn't help it. I had to throw out a "We'll be the judge of that," because I was just so angry with this despicable man. Grissom didn't say anything, but the look that crossed his face was… curious. I didn't usually rise to suspect's provocation, and he was wondering at it.

We searched his home, and it was like being back in my parent's home… what I could remember of it. Scott had pictures and trophies and everything else under the sun on covering the walls, and yet there were only a couple pictures with Kaye in them. …There were none with just her, or with her and anyone other than Scott. It was like she didn't exist except in his shadow. My dad hadn't had a wall enshrining himself, per se, but he made all the decisions about the home. All the decorating, the furniture, the pictures… they reflected who he was. His hearth and home. His sanctuary. My mother didn't warrant one.

Despite the occasional barb I threw at him, unable to contain myself, I knew we were going to nail him. He had a gun that matched the gun that had killed Kaye, a single bullet missing—strange bullets, in fact—his gun recently cleaned, a missing throw pillow from the couch that had left green fibers behind, and when I moved into the hallway that led out to the garage, there were signs of a struggle. It smelled like bleach, there were scuffs on the wall, and a few sprays told me there had been quite a bit of blood on the walls. Kaye had been killed here. It was so obvious, an airtight case, and he insisted on not only acting like there was a chance he was innocent but like it didn't even matter. He had promised to love and cherish this woman, had killed her, and he didn't even fucking care!

My breaking point was when Grissom and I both turned to him, the pink streaks on the wall proclaiming his guilt, and he had the nerve to say "I have no idea how that got there." Right.

I don't even remember exactly what I said, short of accusing him of Kaye's murder. But I didn't see him when I stepped forward, pointing my finger. I saw my father, and I was accusing him of killing our family. He slapped my hand away, and I pushed him. He swore at me, I threatened him, and Grissom pulled me out of the man's reach while he continued to yell, his voice both scolding and disbelieving, literally lifting me off the ground in his effort to pull me away.

Jim arrested Scott Shelton, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Grissom kept his hands on me. Touched me in a way that implied that I was more than an employee. His hands rested on my upper arms, but his voice was not as soothing. "Hey! Hey! What is the matter with you?" He asked, and our faces were so close I could see the wheels turning in those deep blue eyes. I grit my teeth, breaking away from his grasp.

"I am a woman and I have a gun and look how he treated me!" I shouted, indignant, wondering how he could not be equally outraged. "…I can only imagine how he treated his wife…" I said, my voice weakening as I broke away from him, already berating myself for letting him see me that way. For being so obvious… surely, now, he had to know. The man was a CSI for god's sake. He would be putting two and two together.

He didn't say anything to me. I rationalized, because I had known the man intimately, that it was how he knew how to handle the situation. With our relationship being so strained, he might not feel like he could ask… but if he helped us nail the guy, then he was still helping me. I wasn't upset he hadn't asked, and I let him get on with the bugs. I didn't even approach him about the case until I had news on the bullets… which is when he told me that his insects indicated Kaye had died three days previous. Not five. Three. Scott was in New Orleans three days previous. Fuck.

I tried to find some other way to nail him… tried to figure out a way around Grissom's insects or Scott Shelton's alibi. I stayed up all night and through the next day, catching only about an hour around four a.m., combed through every demo car that Scott had driven—he worked for a dealership—and found absolutely nothing. I fell asleep in the break room over her file, and woke up to Grissom coming in for the night, a frown evident on his features. He seemed concerned that I'd slept there, but not enough to linger on it… No, he had something—someone—more important on his mind.

Warrick.

"I need you to do some background for me on Warrick without letting him know why."

"Oh." I said, irritated that we were going down this route again. "Warrick. Your favorite CSI." The last time I'd investigated Warrick, I'd recommended he be fired, and I'd been ignored. I didn't know why he had me bother—put me in a position to be at odds with the team, now that I was just finding my place among them—if he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted anyway.

He didn't deny that Warrick was his favorite, despite the bitterness in my voice. "That's why I want you to handle it… so that Ecklie can't accuse me of favoritism if it turns out that Warrick's clean."

I knew I should have refused him, but I found myself more inclined to prove myself his star pupil—his teacher's pet—and realized that professionally or personally, there was very little I would deny him. I exhaled, already hating myself for the weakness. "…What do you wanna know?"