Title: Unexpected Evidence

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: B:tVS, CSI. Whether or not he was ready for it, Gil had a responsibility to this girl, and he was never one to shirk a responsibility. 1200 words.

Spoilers: B:tVS post-"Chosen"; vaguely season six-ish for CSI.

Notes: For beatriceotter again, by request.

Summers. Gil furrowed his brow as he stared at the name written above the return address on the envelope he held, trying to remember where he knew it from. He didn't think the connection was recent; he was fairly sure it hadn't come up in any of the crime lab's current cases. Something personal, perhaps? But then why would it have been sent to the office?

He weighed the envelope again in his hand: less than half an ounce, barely enough for a couple of sheets of paper. It was a plain, standard sized number ten, the directions hand-written in black ball point ink; whoever had sent it to him had directed it simply to Gil Grissom, with no reference to title or position. It couldn't be a cop or scientist he'd worked with, at least not from Vegas; nor an ex-girlfriend; nor a connection of his family... perhaps it was someone he'd attended school with?

He shook his head, then turned the envelope around and reached for a letter opener. He'd find out soon enough. It wasn't large enough for a wedding invitation, an anniversary party, or any of the other random requests he occasionally received from people he'd known at UCLA or the University of Chicago, but the name still dimly resonated with old textbook-bound memories, and he tugged the paper inside free with quick, impatient motions.

Something else fell out of the envelope as he did so, and Gil froze-- but it wasn't the soft fall of white powder he had briefly feared. It was something altogether less deadly, except perhaps to his own peace of mind. A tiny plastic baggie with a zipper closure landed in front of him on the desk, a long curl of light-colored hair inside, a few roots clearly visible. The kind of thing you'd send a crime lab expert to discover or establish an identity-- especially if there was reason for that identity to be a surprise.

College. DNA. Dark blonde or light brown hair. Summers.

The penny finally dropped, and Gil winced as he unfolded the single sheet of the letter. Not his friend, but the new last name of a woman whose company he'd once thoroughly enjoyed. Not enough to marry her, or to be angry when she left him to go back to her fiancé... and given the circumstances, perhaps the letter should have been a little less of a surprise. Joyce hadn't sent him a birth announcement, but he'd seen the notice in the alumni newsletter, and entertained a moment of speculation. Eventually, he'd decided she'd had no reason to lie to him about something so serious, even by omission, and put the whole subject out of his mind-- but it looked as though he'd been wrong.

He glanced at the hair again, then back to the letter, and drew a deep breath as he began to read.

"Hi. You don't know me, but my name is Buffy Summers.

"I'm a psychology student at Cleveland State University, but I grew up in L.A. That's where my mother went to school. She met Hank Summers at UCLA; and according to what she told me, that's where she met you, too. You would have known her as Joyce Craig. She said you were a T.A. for her biology prof.

"She also said you were smart, so you've probably figured out by now why I've sent this letter. I really hope so, because I never wanted to so much as think about my mother's love life, much less talk about it with someone I've never met. I know you work with the cops, so I thought you might want proof before we actually, you know, talk. My friend Willow said sending some hair would be the easiest way to do that.

"I just want you to know, I don't have any expectations. I'm already an adult, and I'm not hurting for cash or anything. It's just, I know how short life can be. When I saw you on the news with that big murder case a couple of months ago, it made me wonder. You might not want anything to do with me, but I think I'd kind of regret not giving you the opportunity, at least.

"You can write me back at the address below, if you're interested.

"Hopefully,
"Buffy (and yes, that really is my full first name)."

A small wallet-sized snapshot had been tucked into the folds of the page, showing an older version of the gorgeous young art student, two years his junior, whom he'd tutored through general biology. There were a few threads of grey in her dark blonde curls, but she'd aged well, still beautiful despite the lines of laughter and stress at the corners of eyes and mouth. In front of her, wrapped in her mother's arms, stood a girl with long blonde hair and laughter in her eyes-- a girl that, yes, could plausibly be a mix of his genetics and hers.

He could see Joyce in the line of her chin and her eyebrows; his cheekbones, and probably his hair color, judging by the dark roots at the base of her dye job; and definitely his mother's height-- she was several inches shorter than either he or Joyce. Buffy. His daughter, if what she said was true.

Did he want it to be true? He swallowed, considering the question, as he picked up the baggie with the strands of hair. He'd never wanted children; never even wanted to settle down, really, before Sara had come into his life. It just hadn't seemed important to his life goals-- and whenever he'd thought, vaguely, about having kids, the likelihood of passing on the genetic disorder responsible for his mother's deafness and his own recent episode of hearing loss had deterred him. He'd never thought about the possibility that he might have one presented to him already raised.

He glanced down at the photo again, then folded it back into the letter. Whether or not he was ready for it, he had a responsibility to this girl, and he was never one to shirk a responsibility. Even if only to pass on a warning about the risk of otosclerosis. She said she didn't have any expectations, but by her phrasing, she'd lost her mother relatively recently-- she was likely looking for some type of connection, or at least closure, and he could at least give her that much.

More than that... he couldn't say. It depended on whether their personalities were at all compatible; and there was Sara to consider. He'd just started to get used to having to consider another person's preferences in his personal life-- he didn't know what she'd make of him acquiring a grown daughter.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then sighed and paged Greg. First things first: the evidence. He was well aware that the former lab rat still did a little recreational DNA work-- he had a quirk about testing his dates. Greg could run the hairs against one of Gil's off the books, and if they proved the girl's story...

Well, Gil would write her back. And then they'd take it from there.

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© 2011 Jedi Buttercup.