THE DYING OF THE LIGHT
by Stephen Greenwood
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 8x01 Dead Doll. Set before 8x07 Goodbye & Good Luck.
Disclaimer: I don't own a house, never mind CSI. Title taken from Dylan Thomas' 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'.
Thanks to laura27md at LiveJournal for the beta read. Having been away from this fandom for over four years, I'm easing myself back in gently.
Summary: Sara never paid much attention to rain before.
It is raining as they leave Las Vegas and they drive with the reassurance of clear skies over Pioche, three hours away. It's a straight shot up Route 93, and as Grissom commandeers control of the vehicle and Greg chatters nervously from the back seat, Sara gazes out of the window. Lights glide by like flashes from a camera, documenting the desert's neon scars, but once they're away from the casinos and the motels and the strip joints, the darkness encroaches and, for now, is welcomed. Greg is silenced by the moonlight, turning from stilted conversation to his MP3 player, closing his eyes. There's something intimate in sharing the night with another, in the newfound silence that exists because words are no longer needed. These early hours lend themselves to musings too meaningful for sunlight, so delicate they must be caressed by shadows.
As Sara watches the rain fall, she drifts out to sea. Her thoughts lean toward the dark side of the moon lately, focusing not on cases solved and lives saved but on the ones that got away and the things that might have been. What ifs occupy her mind when it is free to roam and she likes to bury herself in work to keep it on a tight leash; thinking about alternate outcomes of the abduction never rallies her optimistic side.
She's going there again, to that place where fears and nightmares manifest into actuality and she sees life as nothing more than an illusion, when she feels a warmth on her knee. Grissom's hand, once again, tugging her back to herself. He is her anchor, her reality check and fantasy all at the same time, and she loves him for that and so much more.
He glances at her while the road ahead is clear. You okay?
She sends a half-smile back. I will be.
A quick check of the rear view mirror to make sure Greg is still preoccupied with music – he knows, the entire team knows now, but public displays of affection are still shrouded in paranoia – before risking a longer look and a frown. If she asked him to he would pull over immediately, engulf her in his arms and tell her it's okay, she's okay, he's okay, they're all okay. But those are the actions of other people and they aren't them, and so they keep driving, words lying unspoken between them like a fourth passenger. They never have mastered verbal communication. They don't need to when they can read each other's eyes.
Sara briefly curls her fingers around his, a thank you, before letting go. Grissom moves his hand back to the wheel and focuses on the road. She looks out of the steamed-up window and toys with writing her mind in the condensation, wishing the rain could clean her ideas like it could the glass.
In the end she refrains. A blank slate might be nice, but not now. Not yet.
Soon, maybe.
The road before them is long, and they keep driving.