Title: Latitudes
Author: Alison Nixon
Rating: PG
Category: Angst, Drama, UST/AST
Spoilers: References to The Accused Is Entitled and Scuba Doobie Doo
Summary: Grissom receives a phone call - G/S
Disclaimers: The usual. None of the characters are mine. They belong to Anthony Zuiker, Alliance-Atlantis, CBS, et al. No infringement intended.
Feedback: Definitely! I'd love to know what you think.
Archival: With permission. Please email me at anixon72@hotmail.com
Notes: I'm fascinated by the dynamics of TAIE, G/S and otherwise. The latter seems to spark things for the former, in more ways than one, I think. ;-) (And thanks again to Devanie for the good first word!)
*****
How long had he been sitting here? It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, maybe ten. Maybe twenty. It was impossible to tell; he had existed outside of time ever since the jumble of sounds coming at him from Gerard sorted themselves into the only two that mattered: "her relationship." The moment he comprehended that series of syllables was the last in which he had been fully aware of where he was and what was happening, the last moment when his feel for the case could be disentangled from his feelings for her. Years of practiced hiding covered his disarray; the others would never have known what roiled him, not even the person who had caused it all. Not that she would have cared anyway. She had other things on her mind…saving her career, defending her work, protecting her…relationship.
How long has it been going on? When did I…lose? He thought he knew what she thought and felt, even after he stopped returning her calls, even after he first made the connection in the casino. "Is Sara with you? Tell her I said 'hi.'" That's not how a lover speaks, is it? He had not thought so, then. Grissom cast his eyes down to his desk, picking through the messy surface as if in search for the clues he had missed. She obviously had intended to keep it quiet. That's why she didn't just admit the truth to Gerard right away. That's why all he said was to tell her hello. That's all he needed to say; Sara would understand what it meant. "We go to movies." Did she really expect that to be believed? She's free, so is he. But they only go to movies. Sure, that made all the sense in the world. No man would offer to be a beautiful woman's movie date, and nothing more. She was too enticing for that, too tempting, as no one knew better than he. You start out with the most innocent intentions, but after enough of those smiles and those eyes watching you with such steady warmth that you feel like the only man left in the world, innocence of thought, want, or need disappears as rapidly as a flash of lightning streaks through the night sky before it runs away. It would be impossible for this man not to want her, and—his throat felt suddenly thick—equally impossible for her not to respond to his want. How long? When did I lose? I lost my life, and I can't even say when. Out of time, outside of time as the rush of life passed him by.
I need to think. I need time to think. It's happening too fast, too soon. And already, it was too late--he had told her to go have a life with the man, to join the rush of what was leaving him behind. How could he undo that now? Once you say that someone is no longer yours, how do you turn back to reclaim her? How do you redraw the lines to make her part of your landscape, your life's terrain, once you have let her go? How indeed, with as little as he had to offer. Choose me; come to me because I can give you…What? Silence? The silent world of an old man who can't even give her the perfection that we all wish we had been and later hope to raise ourselves. A world that would haunt him to his grave, a contaminated realm that would ruin her and anything he helped her create--that was what he had to give. Biological reality-- nothing more, and nothing less--the healthy never choose the sick. They mourn, they keen, they pity the diseased, but in the end, no one chooses them. Life chooses life. It must. It knows no other way.
The ringing intruded so unexpectedly, loud and harsh, that he nearly jumped. The phone. He stared at it with shadowed eyes. The one person he wished to hear from was the least likely to call, here or at home. Those times were gone now. He had only been fooling himself that it could have ever turned out otherwise. But this was the third ring; he had to pick up.
"Grissom."
"Gil."
The heat started traveling upward from the base of his neck, and slowly spread itself over his face.
"Doc?" He looked up at one of the shelves arrayed against the wall to his left, which was filled with dead bits and pieces that floated, ghost-like, in murky fluids. "What do you want?" His voice was like ice. "I think we've said all that we need to say to each other--you, me, and my mother."
A gentle laugh came through the line, smug in its security. I wanted to be like him, all those years ago. Is that how I sound?
"Come now, Gil. Don't take it so hard. You won, you proved your point."
"It's not about winning or losing. You're the one who taught me that, or don't you remember?"
"Ah, but we live in an adversarial culture, Gil. Science, forensics, justice…they are not immune from those forces. Contest brings out the best in people; it forces them to purify their thinking and reexamine their logic in order to prove that they are in the right. If I hadn't pushed you, you could never be sure of what was or was not compromised in this case."
Grissom gripped the phone tightly, but forced himself to sound disinterested. "Don't flatter yourself. I was sure about the evidence before you showed up, and I stopped needing any pushes from you a long time ago. I know this was personal to you, just a way of getting back at me for what happened in L.A., but you didn't hurt me at all, Philip." He had lapsed a moment before; this time he carefully marked off the new and permanent distance between them by using the first name of his false friend.
"All you did was hurt a bunch of decent, hardworking, dedicated people who didn't deserve to have their personal lives exposed to the world just to spite me."
He heard Gerard's breathing dip briefly before he recovered his usual smooth tone.
"Personal, Gil? I don't think so. I don't carry a grudge about the way our…association…ended. I was just doing my job, you were just doing yours. Perhaps there was a tinge of biting the hand that fed you on your part, maybe a touch too much pleasure in refuting me, but I've long since forgiven you."
"Forgiven me? I don't need--"
"And, let me just add, that while the majority of your team's personal issues are their own and do not reflect on you, there is one that you should take responsibility for."
He knew that his little stratagem had worked when Grissom did not reply.
"You do know the one I mean, don't you? That rather sweet girl, Ms. Sidle. Smart and lovely—must be a heady combination to work with every day."
"Maybe you should ask her out, since you seem to take such an interest."
The quiet laugh, again. "She's a little…young for me."
"Since when?"
Gerard's eyes narrowed. "None of my younger friends worked under me, Gil. And besides, I wouldn't want to step on your toes with this one. You've proven to be a formidable adversary when…roused."
"Is this why you called? Haven't you spent enough time at the bottom of the barrel for a lifetime by now?" Grissom said coldly, not bothering to disguise his disdain. "Perhaps you have nothing better to do, but I do. Goodbye."
The man's voice was like a wave battering his ears, forceful, insistent, impossible to evade.
"Don't take out your frustration with your own behavior on me, old friend. The others are on their own, but you have to take responsibility for whatever…damage…Ms. Sidle may have suffered."
Grissom could feel the surge in his heartbeat like a physical shock. "Damage?"
Gerard spoke as if he were contemplating a calamitous disaster from very far away. "She's so young, really. Still establishing her professional reputation, her credibility with colleagues, with the courts…with herself."
The silence at the other end reassured him that he was on the right track. "I have to hand it to her. She handled Marjorie's badgering about Hank Peddigrew very well; I would swear she didn't blink once or even turn her eyes away. Either she's the coolest woman I've ever met, or…she really doesn't have anything to hide regarding him. I bet she would have passed a polygraph at that point," he chuckled. "Very smooth performance." He seemed to pause to consider something before continuing in a more puzzled vein. "But then, something happened. I could see it in her face—a little crack in the veneer. Her eyes flickered, she swallowed as if she were about to choke…"
"Sara wouldn't crack; that shows how little you know--"
"Chalk. From plaster, right?" Gerard smiled faintly. "Yes, that was it."
Grissom couldn't speak.
"The poor girl was completely caught off guard. She tried her best, but she couldn't quite recover in time, I think. I don't know why, but she looked at me after Marjorie asked the question. J'accuse." He shrugged. "I was just doing my job. It's hardly my fault that someone saw that strange…encounter outside the Renteria apartment building, is it? Why did they make a note of it? I have no idea. Must have struck a chord, somehow." He waited for the question to form in his adversary's mind. "The inappropriateness of it. Supervisor. Subordinate. Physical contact. On the job." His sigh was thoughtful. "Really, I can't imagine what she was thinking when she did it."
Sara…"Can you?"
Grissom was numb with some inexplicable cold. Flushed skin, racing heart, flashing eyes, and yet, frozen.
"She must be rather…emotional."
He willed himself to find his tongue. "She's…she's not emotional. She was being kind."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Gerard laughed out loud. "Sorry, I just couldn't resist using Marjorie's line--did you know she practices that kind of remark as part of her trial preparation? I heard her try out a number of variations of it the night before as we prepped." He sighed appreciatively. "But I think she ended up going with her best one, after all."
"But do you know what's the strangest thing, Gil? I could actually be persuaded that Ms. Sidle wasn't influenced by any improper emotion for the EMT, I really could. But I think she could easily be influenced by emotions for you. Isn't it…curious?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about. I'd suggest you stop now before you make a complete fool of yourself." The words fell from his lips in much the same way that a slot machine releases coins, with a kind of furious indifference. He would be damned if Gerard made him lose his composure now, after the immediate danger of the case had passed.
The older man continued in his paternal way, just making conversation, it seemed. "Curious."
He left it there; both men fell silent. Gerard leaned back in his chair, content to wait, his expression the picture of indulgence. He knew Grissom quite well enough for this. One, two, three…
"What's curious?"
Even when he lost with his former protégé, he won. Too bad the boy had not realized that by now. Gerard's eyes brightened as he moved in for another strike.
"Well, whatever her motives, you let her touch you, didn't you?" The question, brutal in its simplicity, twisted in the static between them. "She must have felt free to do that, somehow, free to…expose herself to you. She strikes me as a rather guarded personality, much like you in some ways. One wonders why she would take such a risk."
"Are you enjoying this? Is that it?"
"No, no, Gil. I'm simply trying to piece together the puzzle of what I saw up there on the stand. And what I saw on your face when I brought up Peddigrew. If fascinates me, for some reason. Actually, I think it rather fascinated Marjorie, too. She didn't see your face, but I described the whole scene to her. Being a professional woman herself, she was rather harsh in her assessment of Ms. Sidle. I think she rather enjoyed sharing her opinion with the court and the gallery. How did she phrase it again? Oh, yes. 'How far would Sara Sidle go on evidence to please her boss, Gil Grissom?' " He traced a circle pattern against the dark wood grain of the table in front of him, continuing almost idly, " 'whether he returns those feelings, or not.' "
"You're lying. The judge would never allow that kind of slander."
"Oh he didn't like it, I think that's safe to say, but you know how prelims are…wider latitude. Something you turned to your advantage in the end," Gerard noted with grudging admiration. "But before you saved the day, the question was put out there, and I'm sure Ms. Sidle will hear it echoing in her ears for some time to come. I would, if I were her."
"You're not her."
"Oh, I know. But she seems like such a sensitive young woman. Vulnerable, despite the coolness. I wonder if she might rethink her…position."
I can't think…my head is too full, I can't even think…"What…" Grissom fought for calm, "what are you talking about now? She's happy here at the lab. I know she is." I hope she is.
"I'm not questioning that. I just wonder if Marjorie might have given her a little wakeup call about her position…with you. Maybe it was a healthy thing, in the end. She might begin to see herself as others do, and to appreciate that you're a man far too professional, too analytical and…" he pronounced the word with relish, "shuttered…to get into some 'office romance' with a girl nearly half your age who is also your direct subordinate. Not to mention the matter of involving her in your…impairment. No, that's not the Gil Grissom I know."
The tragic irony of it made Grissom catch his breath. Hearing a man he despised describe the situation so decisively, as if he had nothing but the purest logic on his side was the best proof. Gerard did not know him; whatever he thought Grissom would never do was, by definition, something he could do. Who is the Gil Grissom that I know, that I want to know? It rushed over him in a moment, something rather like a continuous electric current strong enough to set his senses on fire. Something I could do, by definition. Strangely animated, he opened his lips to explain to Gerard just how wrong he was, how he had missed the point entirely, when he stopped short, his mouth open. How could he have forgotten? How could he? Territory lost. Out of time, outside of time. She was no longer his.
Grissom brought his hand to his mouth and made a fist against his lips. He struck himself there, again and again, and closed his eyes. He hadn't done that in years; it was an old habit of his youth, light blows to force himself to remember, to force himself to accept. Delivering a sensory reminder to himself to pay attention to the reality of what was in front of him and what was to be done, no matter how tired or unhappy or distracted he felt. His mother used to grab his fist and hold it away from his body to stop him. She would look at him and he would look at her, wide eyed, wondering at her concern. It was just a reminder. Everybody needed those. Didn't they?
Grissom opened his lids with an effort. He forced his hand back down to the desk. The fist collapsed into a flat plane that he pressed, palm down, into the thick cardboard blotter that covered that most of its surface. His pulse slowed, the current receded, and his breathing resumed.
"My mother says 'hello'," he said softly. The phone reclaimed its place on the cradle with a definitive click.
When he looked up, he caught a flash of movement in the glass panel of his door.
She still looked nice.
He stood slowly and circled in front of his desk. Maps are redrawn all the time. In time, inside time as the rush of life awaited him.
Their eyes met through the glass for a long moment. He gave her a silent nod, and let her open the door.
TBC…
