Title: We Always Knew
Summary: "He didn't want to struggle any longer, not really. And now that Sara was there beside him, he realized he didn't have to..." [G/S]
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Spoilers: None.
Archive: Just ask. And if I don't email you back, don't worry about it. I've been known to let it slip my mind. I just like to know where my stuff is appearing.
Author's Notes: Kudos (and bagels) to ThePlant and boofadil for their lovely, constructive beta-ing. Especially buggs, 'cuz she wasn't all that fond of it. Feel free to disavow any knowledge of this. g And don't you talk to me about potential… for someone who hasn't written in how long, you've certainly got a way with words.
Category: Angst. Cheesy, over-done angst. Bite me.
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, I don't own CSI. I'm not making a profit from this, as I'm sure you are all aware. Blah, blah, blah. I could just type out my entire life story (all thirty words of it). It's not like people read these things anyways.
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Ten years hadn't changed Sara much. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but she still moved with the same grace and beauty. When she saw him at the arrivals gate, she smiled and waved enthusiastically.
"Hi, Jim," she greeted him. "It's been a long time."
The homicide captain gave her a brief, comforting hug. Her body stiffened at the contact, knowing what would come next.
"He's worse, isn't he?"
"I'm sorry, Sara. The doctor says he probably won't make it through the night."
She took a steadying breath, forcing a small smile onto her face. She shook her head when Brass headed towards the luggage claim, motioning to her small overnight bag. She wasn't planning on staying long.
"Hospital or hotel?"
"Hospital."
The ride was silent; once or twice Jim tried to start a conversation but Sara was unresponsive, which didn't surprise him given the circumstances. He eventually put the radio on; the music was upbeat, but it wasn't fooling anybody.
Desert Palms hadn't changed since Sara had left Las Vegas; it was the same building she had visited countless times for work. She had never visited the seventh floor in that time though. Oncology. From the Greek onkos, meaning mass or tumour.
When he pulled into the parking lot, Brass had given her a questioning look. Did she want him to go with her? She shook her head again. She had to do this by herself.
--
The nurse let her into the room, even though visiting hours didn't start for another twenty minutes. She had winked at Sara when asked for Gil Grissom's room number, and then told her he was a favourite amongst the nurses. At sixty-nine, he was still a good looking and sporadically charming man.
Sara could do nothing more than give a small smile of acknowledgement.
He was asleep when she got there, his eyes closed in a deep slumber. Soon that slumber would be permanent, and the thought unsettled Sara. He looked paler and thinner then she had ever seen him, but still Grissom. In the poor light, his hands and the hospital sheet were both a pale blue. She pulled a chair to the bedside, taking one of his hands into hers. His grip was deceptively strong; his skin still calloused to the touch. She sat there for what seemed like an eternity, memorizing the feel of his hand in hers.
He awoke eventually, a slow process that sapped his energy reserve. She was still staring at his hand, only peripherally becoming aware of his blue eyes watching her.
"Are you really here?"
She didn't want to remember his voice that way, weak and unsure.
"I'm here, Griss. My plane just got in."
"Good."
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he fought the unrelenting fatigue. He didn't want to struggle any longer, not really. And now that Sara was there beside him, he realized he didn't have to.
In the years since she had left, their friendship had grown into something so peculiar neither of them had a word for it.
Initially glad to leave their complicated mess behind, communications began after only a few months. Slowly at first, but quickly regaining the pre-Vegas comfort and frequency. Some days she wondered if those thirteen years in Las Vegas were nothing more than a bad dream; they certainly never talked about it, or the events that led to her leaving. Through the years they kept in constant contact, and every time Grissom was in LA they went for dinner.
They had kissed several times, tender but chaste expressions of the peace they had made. Even in the beginning they knew it would never be anything more, that it could never be anything more.
"How's LA been treating you?"
Sara filled him in on all the details he had missed since the hospitalization. A rash of violent crime had her working twenty five hours a day and she hadn't spoken to him. Or so she insinuated; friendship and experience with death aside, this wasn't a situation she wanted to see. So she talked mindlessly.
The national rankings had come back earlier that week; LA had risen as it had every year since she had taken over the lab….They nailed a serial rapist after he hid evidence in the police station after an interview….
He listened, not to her words but to the sound of her voice. He eventually fell asleep again, but Sara didn't move from his bedside. One by one, the others came to say goodbye, each giving Sara a reassuring pat on the shoulder or resigned glance before quickly making their exit. They were relieved that she was there to bear the responsibility that no one wanted for themselves.
He woke again around seven. Sara asked if he wanted a drink, holding his glass as he took a sip of water.
"You're certainly being nice to me," he observed, managing to make his tone slightly flirtatious. "Is this your way of letting me know you love me?"
"We never said as much."
"But we always knew, didn't we?"
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, cursing herself for the solitary tear that fell from the corner of her eye.
"Yeah. We always knew."
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-Fini-
