Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Spoilers: Up to Unbearable and then some general stuff for the upcoming season.
Rating: Teen
Summary: How Grissom and Sara got together. GSR.
A/N: The initial idea for this story is quite old, but the prompt pushed the plot in a different direction. It was co-written with Folger's Coffee over several late nights.
A Thousand Words
It was a scientific fact – was it not? – that the loss of one sense increases the acuity of the other four? He often wondered if that theory could be slightly altered and extrapolated. The loss of his mother's hearing when he was eight seemed to heighten his own ability to sense sounds. It was as if her hearing had not gone from their house, but instead taken up residence in her son. She could not hear, but he could, and better. Perhaps it was ironic that it was only when she was completely deaf that a young Gil was able to finally master the piano after several years of ineptitude and indifference, but he occasionally pondered the possibility that his sudden increased ability could be attributed to the absence of hers. He had to hear for two now.
Every creak of the floorboards, every chirp of a cricket, echoed in his young ears. It was an annoyance at first. Concentrating on schoolwork, no matter how easy the schoolwork was, proved challenging because the whispers of his classmates distracted him. Their discussions of trivial matters – what snacks they had brought for lunch, what games they planned to play during recess – demanded much of his attention, and it was only after his first and only failing test grade that Gil learned how to ignore the white noise when he was not at home. When he was at home, he turned his ability back on, like a light switch. There, doing homework or reading was not difficult, because the only person at home was his mother, and she was silent but for the click-clack of her knitting needles, and he learned to love that sound.
He could sense her distress at the mere change of rhythm of her breathing heard two rooms away, so skillful he was. And he could hear her smile as she stood over his shoulder, watching his small fingers churn a tune on their piano. Gil was the superhero in his own little world, protecting his mom – shrouded in silence – from the dangers that could befall her with his newly acquired superpower; the incessant barking of the neighbor's poodle was his kryptonite.
His ability carried through to adulthood, made him a better observer, a better investigator. Where others would just scan a crime scene with their eyes, Gil Grissom would use his hearing as a sort of second sight. He quickly moved up the ranks in Los Angeles before leaving for Las Vegas at the age of twenty-six. There he settled, quickly getting used to the constant buzz of the city, no matter the hour. Las Vegas operated on an altogether different frequency than L.A. and he found himself more attracted to the center of the city rather than the newly constructed sprawling suburbs. There was more to observe there.
Gil's days were spent working, his nights reading at home. He pondered purchasing a piano, but decided against it when he realized there would be no one to enjoy watching him play. Instead, he spent his money on books, reading long into the night; the soundtrack of Las Vegas was his musical accompaniment.
Fevered arguments were not uncommon in his neighborhood, and drunken whoops and hollers dotted the night much like the hoot of an owl would in the wilderness. The rare rainfall added a sort of staccato beat to it all. One summer night – the third of continuous, excessive thunderstorms – the rhythm of the raindrops seemed to overpower everything else, silencing the city and all its native noises. The power was intermittent, so Gil read by flashlight and the occasional bolt of lightning. Anyone so immersed in the prose of William Faulkner and the harsh whisper of the storm would not have heard the cries for help, but Gil Grissom was hardly anyone.
He donned his metaphorical superhero cape and charged into the wet darkness.
Grissom could hear Catherine's voice waft into the hall from the break room, her hard laugh piercing the low hum of the lab mid-nightshift. Though he intended to pay her no notice – for the chocolate chip muffin waiting for him at his desk was currently occupying his thoughts – out of the corner of Grissom's eye, he saw the slim form in a familiar black leather jacket, huddled with Catherine over something in her hands. Their backs were to the door.
"Hubba hubba," Catherine chortled.
Sara said nothing.
Had it been anyone else so engrossed alongside Catherine, the muffin would remain his number one priority. Though Grissom had much respect for his colleagues, for the most part he knew their tastes were far different from his. What amused him seldom drew fanfare from anyone else but Sara, although there were times he wondered if her seeming interest was just unfailing politeness. No one humored his quirks but her.
"I can't believe that's him," Catherine murmured, her laughter having finally died down. "I mean, my God. Wow."
Brows raised, he stepped through the threshold and into the break room. "What's so interesting?"
Both women flinched and turned. Grissom noticed a faint blush grace Sara's cheeks as she averted her gaze from his. She looked guilty, uncomfortable. Lips pursed, Grissom shifted his line of sight to Catherine and was confused to see an altogether different expression on his friend's face: she smirked; that was not uncommon, but the juxtaposition of the sly grin of the blonde with the embarrassment emanating from the brunette left him bewildered and almost regretting bumping the muffin down to second place.
"I'll tell you what's so interesting," Catherine smiled. It was then when he noticed the yellowed piece of newspaper in her left hand. She looked down at it, reading from the faded words in front of her: "Hero Rescues Woman from Drowning. July 31st, 1983. Local criminal investigator, Dr. Gilbert Grissom, saved an elderly woman who had been carried away in her wheelchair by the heavy flood current now plaguing much of Clark County. Last night, as Mrs. Dolores Sinclair was attempting to cross Hargrove Street, her wheelchair was picked up by the floodwater, sweeping her more than thirty yards and depositing her in a large ditch that was rapidly filling with water. Dr. Grissom heard her call for help and administered aid, rescuing Mrs. Sinclair and calling for an ambulance. Six deaths have been attributed to the three days of rainfall and citizens are encouraged to stay indoors if possible."
Grissom frowned. He had not thought of that night in a long while. Truth be told, he had never thought much of that night at all. Someone needed help; he helped. End of story. It was in the newspapers for a day or two, but soon forgotten by himself and by everyone else. Catherine had discovered no deep, dark secret of his, though the look on her face was one of nosy triumph. And even still, it was Sara's response that puzzled him more. Her eyes were not only avoiding his, but they were staying clear of the article in Catherine's hands as well. He wasn't keen on this information getting out, but only because he didn't want the attention. There was nothing shameful about his actions that night over twenty years ago, or even her curiosity in them now, and yet her face glowed with mortification.
Brows furrowed, he took a step forward and grasped the thin paper from Catherine's hands, turning it over for examination. He carefully read the words of the article once, twice, searching for a hint as to their odd, opposite reactions. On his third perusal, he noticed that at the bottom half of the paper, under the tale of his heroics, was a picture taken of him as he helped load Mrs. Sinclair into the ambulance. He was drenched, his wavy hair, once a dark brown, was nearly black and slicked straight in the downpour. The white undershirt he wore – what were those things called? Wifebeaters? – was soaked to near transparency. His bare muscled arms glistened in the rain. His piercing eyes, frowning at the intrusion of the camera, seemed electric even in the faded black and white of the old newspaper.
It was then that he recalled Catherine's words.
Hubba hubba, indeed.
He could not recall ever being so handsome. For years it seemed as if he was the old guy, the one with the gray hair and expanding waistline. Grissom knew he wasn't ugly, but by the time he was conscious of his looks – a time which seemed to coincide with the arrival of one Miss Sara Sidle to the greater Las Vegas area – middle-age had taken hold of him, and he resigned himself to being the smartest man in the lab, if not the most attractive.
But he had been handsome once. Not just a younger version of his adequate-looking self, but truly good-looking. The proof was in his hands.
Suddenly, Sara's reaction made sense. She had always known him as the absentminded professor, and whatever attraction she felt for him – unexplainable as it was – seemed in spite of his looks. He gained weight, lost some, grew a beard, and she never once wavered. But now, faced with what he once was, she could not meet his eye. He was a pale comparison to his young self, a decrepit old man next to the youth and vitality of the figure in the photograph. She felt the folly of her attraction now, he knew. She must be kicking herself for ever glancing his way, for wasting her time on a man so past his prime it was laughable.
"It was a long time ago," Grissom said, finally finding his voice as he handed the paper back to Catherine. "Where…where did you get this? Why do you have it?"
"I'm not supposed to tell you, but I know you'd probably kill me if I didn't warn you: you're getting some award from the city. It's supposed to be a surprise," Catherine explained. "Ecklie is having me compile a file on you – your achievements, yadda, yadda – so he'll have something to say. I think we should use this picture, huh?" she grinned slyly. "Who knew?"
Grissom cleared his throat and looked to the floor. "I've gotta…go make a phone call," he lied.
Retreating to his office, as he was wont to do, he locked the door and threw away the muffin.
It ate away at him, the thought that the man in the picture – the man he once was – probably would've had a shot with Sara. He had never been suave, that much Grissom was sure of, but Gil the Hero had been handsome. Trim and fit, he would have had no trouble keeping up with Sara. He could walk hand-in-hand with her in public and not look like a cradle-robber, or some elderly relative. If only he could go back to 1983, when he was nearly twenty-seven years old and worth her attention. He would seek Sara Sidle out and…
But no.
The night he rescued Mrs. Sinclair, Sara Sidle was in California, and eleven years old.
That gulf of fifteen years between them was ever-present. Whatever point in time he picked, Sara would either be too young, or he would be too old. Or both. It was a fact he couldn't quite admit to himself until he saw that picture. If the universe was giving, perhaps they would be together in another life, happy and content.
For this life, he held no hope. Not anymore.
He left work early and returned home only to leave within an hour, for the silence was deafening. Driving seemed to soothe him. Grissom sought an empty desert road, opened all of the windows, and shattered the speed limit. The wind roared in his ears, battered his face until it was numb. He didn't let himself think about the picture or Sara's response to it. The time would eventually come for him to accept his situation, but he couldn't do that right now. Right now, all he could do was drive.
The next night at work, he posted the assignments on his office door and closed the blinds, claiming urgent paperwork needed attending, and nothing short of World War III would tear him away from it.
In reality, the paperwork was pushed to the side, the phone taken off the hook. Instead of attending to his work, Grissom opened one of his messy desk drawers and rooted through the contents. After several minutes of digging, he extracted six old I.D. cards that he had unceremoniously discarded over the years whenever the department provided him with an updated one. Grissom quickly arranged them by expiration date before he began to study the small square that occupied his face on each one. The earliest card, from 1989, though quite faded, verified what he had learned the night before: he had indeed been handsome. To be sure, the gray hair was already invading his temples by that time, but not so much to make him look old. His face was tan, and there was no hint of the double chin he was currently sporting, now hidden – he hoped – under his beard. He examined the next one, and then the next one, and on, like it was some perverse flipbook. His hair grew whiter, his cheeks pudgier. Grissom tugged at the up-to-date I.D. card hanging from his jacket. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his lips looked thinner than ever. He wondered if Sara saw him as he did: an old, sad man with a beard that wasn't fooling anyone.
Knowing he couldn't stay holed up in his office forever, Grissom paired himself up with Warrick the following evening. He knew the old article had probably made the rounds thanks to Catherine, and Warrick seemed like the least likely person to bring it up. One characteristic he prized in the young CSI was his ability to mind his own business. Had he any opinions of Grissom in his younger years, Warrick was sure to keep them to himself, at least while they were on the clock. They worked together in silence. Warrick was unusually sober, something that Grissom, in his paranoia, suspected was due to the article, but all suspicions were alleviated when Warrick excused himself to answer a tense call from his girlfriend. Her name was Tina, Warrick later explained quickly, and she was none too happy about the hours he worked.
Grissom nodded, but said nothing.
Feeling guilty that his team had worked the previous night's shift while he wallowed in his office, Grissom gave Warrick the rest of the night off and worked the remainder of the shift alone. Halfway into the dayshift, he returned the evidence to the lab for processing. After catching a nap on the couch in his office, he gathered reports from Ballistics and Trace and took them back to his office. The striations on the bullet that had killed their victim matched those of a bullet that killed a man up in Denio two years ago, and the opalescent dust they found on their John Doe's clothes and hands was, in fact, opals. Grissom knew there were opal mines in that area of Humboldt County, making it very likely their victim was from that area, or had, at least, spent time there before his death. He quickly faxed a photo of John Doe to the detective who worked the unsolved two-year-old case and was soon notified that the unknown man had a name. Eager to escape the lab, Grissom offered his services to Detective Phillip Dannick of the Denio Police Department, and was promptly invited to help. After leaving a message on Warrick's voicemail, he went home to shower, change, and pack a bag for his trip. The sun had set hours ago and the drive up North would be long, but Grissom strangely anticipated it. The farther he got from Sara, from her pity, the better, and the lengthy trip would afford him a respite from the inquisitive eyes of the lab.
Denio was sparsely populated, a change of pace he welcomed. The bustle of Las Vegas had begun to wear thin on him, and the rural areas he once shunned now seemed a sight for his weary eyes. He and Detective Dannick arranged to meet at the police station at eight sharp, leaving Grissom no time to find suitable lodging so he could freshen up. The nine hour drive, though a welcome distraction, had worn him out. He wanted to brush his teeth and splash some cold water on his face, but the best he could hope for was some strong coffee at the Denio Police Station.
After going over the case in his head, he headed through the front door of the tiny town's police headquarters. A receptionist sat close to the entrance.
"Is Detective Dannick here? He's expecting me."
"Name?"
"Gil Grissom."
"I'll need to see some I.D."
He pulled out his driver's license and handed it to her. A large candy bowl full of multicolored mints sat to her right, and Grissom wanted to take one to freshen his breath, but from the sour expression on the receptionist's face, he thought the better of it and hoped that Detective Dannick was a bit more welcoming.
"Go down to the left, last door on the right."
"Thank you."
He followed the directions and walked down the narrow gray hall, stopping short when he heard a familiar voice.
Sara.
He found her standing, arms crossed, as she conversed with a middle-aged man busily flipping through a file.
"That's all we have so far, but one of our CSIs will be back at the lab soon to make sure nothing was missed."
The man nodded and then looked up. He caught Grissom's eye as the scientist stood silently at the doorway. Brows raised, he addressed him: "And you must be Dr. Grissom?"
Sara turned to look at him. Her face was blank. Grissom ignored her.
"Detective Dannick?"
"That's what it says on my nameplate," the man smiled. Grissom judged him to be around his own age, though Dannick was a couple of inches shorter; his weathered skin gave him a careworn look one would expect of a country cop. "Your CSI Sidle was bringing me up to speed with everything."
"Warrick called me a few hours ago," she informed him. "He said he couldn't get away right now."
"How…how did you get here before me?"
"I flew. I tried to call you."
Grissom's hands moved to his pockets. He retrieved his cell phone; the screen was blank. "I forgot to charge it." He felt stupid, out of place as he tucked the phone back into his pocket and watched Dannick move to retrieve yet another file from a nearby shelf to add to his crowded desk.
"We've been comparing notes, Dr. Grissom," Dannick said, taking his seat at his desk once more and gesturing to the two scientists to sit in the available chairs. "Now, your guy, Ronnie Holden, he's a Denio native. Twenty-four years old. Known him all his life. He lives – or lived, I suppose – with his aunt. Did odd jobs around town after he graduated high school, pretty much kept out of peoples' way. I don't know who would kill him. And I don't for sure know what he was doing in Vegas."
"And your guy?" Grissom asked, leaning a bit closer in his chair.
"T.J. Jasper. Thomas John. He had just gotten out of jail in Oregon when he came to Denio," Dannick continued. "Wanted to try his luck in the opal mines. He was shot just outside of his motel. He'd gotten in a bar fight earlier that night and my initial thoughts were that another out-of-towner opal miner was the culprit, that this was an unfortunate one-time event caused by that lethal mixture of too much testosterone and alcohol. We did our best, but the case was never closed. Had to be put on the backburner, unfortunately."
"And then Ronnie Holden turned up dead in Las Vegas," Sara said simply.
"With opal dust on his clothes and hands," Dannick said, nodding. "As far as I know, Ronnie never went searching in the mines. But it's entirely possible he wanted to give it a shot, make a little money and then try his luck in Las Vegas."
"Holden was found without a vehicle," Sara said.
"Ronnie drove his aunt's truck. Poor dear can't leave the house now to use it, what with her health issues."
"If his aunt's truck is still here in Denio, we can assume Holden was traveling with someone else on his way to Vegas. If the truck is missing, we'll put out a statewide APB. We'll need the stats – license plate number, year, make, and model," Sara said, flipping through a folder in her lap as she rattled off the information she needed.
Grissom felt superfluous as Sara and Dannick discussed the case. Dannick had sent a cruiser to check on Ronnie Holden's aunt and see if the truck was parked in the garage; when the call came in that the beat up Ford F-150 was indeed parked in Estelle Holden Crawford's driveway, Sara Sat back in her chair and sighed. "Well, he must've been traveling South with our killer," she said. "Which means he knew who killed him – or at least well enough to get into a car with him for a nine hour trip."
It was decided they'd start asking around about Ronnie Holden's last known whereabouts so as to pinpoint with whom he ended up spending his final hours. As they stood to go, Grissom rubbed his temple to ward off an oncoming headache and asked the detective if there was any coffee available in the station.
"Sure thing. How do ya take it?"
"Black is fine. Thanks."
Dannick went to fetch a cup for Grissom while Sara watched him silently. Though his eyes were squeezed shut, he could feel her glare. "What is it?" he asked, eyes still closed.
"Do you need to go somewhere to rest? You just drove for hours, and you don't look like you've gotten any sleep."
He winced. He probably looked older, more tired than usual. A tired old man who couldn't keep up. "I'm fine," Grissom answered tersely. "I just haven't had my coffee."
She said nothing more, and soon they were off. Detective Dannick gave Grissom and Sara an abridged version of opal mining in his town: "See, we've got three big contractors, and they hire guys to work the mines. The miners get a cut of what they bring back. The more opals you find, the more money in your pocket. Right now, since it's early, we'll go to each of the companies and see if anyone hired Ronnie to mine for them. The officer who talked to his aunt said Ronnie didn't tell Estelle anything about mining, but then again Ronnie wasn't much of a talker."
They hit pay dirt at the second office they visited. The receptionist made the detective and the scientists a copy of the contract Ronnie Holden signed with her company – where he promised to turn over all gems he discovered in exchange for a cut of the profit – five days before his death.
Grissom eyed the contract. "And was Mr. Holden successful?"
"Was he!" the receptionist said, raising her brows. "He hit the mother lode. We wrote him a check for close to eight grand. Not bad for a few days work." She proceeded to take off her glasses and clean them with a tissue. "Sad what happened to him. He was a sweet boy."
"Thank you, ma'am," Dannick said, and the three left the building and walked to the parking lot.
"Ronnie Holden wasn't found with eight grand on him," Sara said. "He still had opal dust on him. There's no evidence that he actually made it into the city. I don't think he had time to gamble it away before he got shot."
Grissom furrowed his brows. He turned to face Dannick. "What about the other guy? T.J. something or other?"
"Jasper."
"Right. T.J. Jasper. How did he fare?"
Dannick scratched his chin. "If I remember correctly, pretty well. Not quite as good as Ronnie, but he managed to net several thousand. It wasn't on him when we found the body. And he was a rookie, just like Ronnie."
Sara frowned. "Maybe all that beginner's luck didn't sit too well with some of the veteran miners. What's the average weekly take-home pay for an opal miner?"
"It varies. See, it's all about luck. Any miner'll tell you that. I mean, there's skill involved, don't get me wrong," Dannick said. "But I think most of these guys would rather be lucky than good. On average, maybe they get to take home several hundred a week, if that."
"So a newbie miner pulling in a few months of the average miner's pay in a handful of days – that's gotta hurt, don't you think?" Sara asked, leaning against Dannick's police cruiser.
"Depending on the miner."
"Where can we find these miners?"
"The Sparkle Shack. It's a bar. Whether you had a good day at the mines or a bad day, you always end up there." Dannick checked his watch. "But it's barely eleven. No one's gonna be there now."
"I'd like to search Ronnie's home, question his aunt," Sara said as she reached into her purse and retrieved her sunglasses.
The detective nodded. "We can do that."
Ronnie's aunt spent the majority of the time crying into Dannick's shoulder as Grissom and Sara tried to glean any pertinent information from her sobbing and barely coherent account of her last few days with her nephew. Grissom was finally glad to have access to Ronnie's room where he and Sara could search in peace.
"He was twenty-four?" Sara asked, incredulous, as she examined her surroundings.
Grissom's eyes wandered the room. It was a bit spartan, but nothing struck him as particularly alarming. Actually, it reminded him of his own bedroom: neutral and without much personality. "What's wrong with it?"
"Well…he's twenty-four. Where's the gaming system? The pinup posters? The skateboard? This place is…it looks like an old man slept here. A boring old man."
Grissom felt his ears grow hot. "Maybe he didn't need all that."
Sara just shrugged as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves. They combed through the small room for the next hour. Besides a few Stephen King novels on the dresser and a tube of lube in the nightstand, Ronnie Holden's life didn't seem very exciting.
Grissom heard Sara sigh and pull off her gloves. "I think it's a safe bet that Vegas wasn't Ronnie's idea."
He opened his mouth to speak, but his stomach beat him to it. It groaned loudly, echoing in the sparse room. She had to have heard it, but he spoke quickly, hoping she wouldn't call attention to it. "Maybe Ronnie was looking for a change of pace."
"His aunt said she didn't know anything about him going to Vegas – or at least I think she said that. If this were a planned trip, wouldn't he tell her he was going? I'm betting the killer told him he could call his aunt from Vegas and let her know he was fine."
"Anything is possible."
They rejoined Detective Dannick in the living room a few minutes later and together they left the house.
"Find anything interesting?"
Sara shook her head. "Not really. You learn anything new?"
"Nope." They all climbed into Dannick's cruiser. "Where to? Back to the station? It's still too early for the Sparkle Shack."
Sara spoke up as she buckled herself in: "Is there anywhere to eat?"
Grissom's eyes momentarily met hers in the rearview mirror before he looked away.
Dannick started the car. "Sure thing."
He took them to a barbecue joint near the station. Sara picked at a limp salad while the men devoured ribs. Grissom was relieved to finally have something in his stomach.
"That's all you're gonna eat?" Dannick asked, looking at Sara's pathetic bowl of greens.
"I'm fine," she said, giving him a small smile. "Not that hungry."
They finished their meal in silence.
After the check was paid, the detective suggested they go to the bar. The miners wouldn't be there yet, but the owner, Louella Tompkins, was usually around. "She'll be able to answer some questions," the cop explained. "She was probably the only sober one there."
They found Louella tallying receipts in the small office next to the bar's restroom. She was a large, stern looking woman in her late fifties. It didn't look like much got passed this barmaid's eyes. Dannick introduced the CSIs and broached the subject of Ronnie Holden.
"Was he here on Friday night?"
"He certainly was. Bought the whole place a round of drinks. Apparently, he struck it big that day."
"Indeed he did, Louella. Indeed he did. Did you notice him talking to anyone in particular? Did he get into any arguments with anyone?"
"You buy a bunch of already drunk men some more beer, you make a roomful of friends, not enemies."
"Was he particularly…friendly…with any of the men?" Grissom asked. "By all accounts, Ronnie Holden was a loner. Was he spending more time with any one person?"
"You'll have to ask Lisa that. She was tending bar. Friday was the night I had to leave early and babysit my grandkids last-minute. My daughter's bum of a husband needed to be rushed to the hospital on account of a burst appendix." Louella looked as if she had a lot more to say about her son-in-law when a female voice called out to her from the main area of the bar. "Nice of you to show up today," Louella yelled back sarcastically.
"I told you I had a stomach virus," the voice said. "Louella, why is there a cop car—" The four faces inside the tiny office turned to the doorway. "Oh, I see you've got company."
"Hey, Lisa," Dannick said to the woman now in their view. She was much younger than Louella Tompkins, and far better looking. Her long shiny hair, the color of ink, matched her large eyes. Grissom guessed her to be in her late twenties. She was incredibly gorgeous and the arch look on her face told him she knew it. "This is Lisa Graves. Bartender here. Lisa, these two are from Las Vegas. We're investigating Ronnie Holden's murder."
"Vegas, huh? Never been there. That's where he died, right?"
"Yep. Lisa, did you see him talking to anyone in particular last Friday night?" Dannick asked. "Did anyone seem more interested in Ronnie than they should be?"
"He sat by himself most of the night, if I remember correctly," she shrugged. "But it was Friday and the place was busy, and I didn't have Louella to help me, so it's not like I could pay much attention to him. He tipped well, though." Grissom saw her eyes wander down to his watch. "You aren't a cop, are you?"
"We're scientists," he said.
She raised a perfectly plucked brow and gave him a sultry smile. "You're a scientist? I always got good grades in science."
Grissom, immediately uncomfortable, shifted uneasily as he looked at the exit, now blocked by Miss Graves.
Sara cleared her throat after a few moments of silence and turned to Louella Tompkins. "What time would you say customers start to come in? Hopefully someone will be able to tell us something about that night." Her voice was clipped, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Grissom felt embarrassment wash over him. Over the years, he'd questioned women who flirted openly with him, but never while he was working a case with Sara. That she was witness to a woman more than two decades his junior practically lick her chops as she made a play to make him her sugar daddy was mortifying. He wanted to toss his expensive watch – the last gift his mother ever gave to him – in the trash and douse his wrist in bleach.
Dannick, Sara, and Louella discussed a good time to be arrive at the bar and ask questions – early enough so that no one was blind drunk, but after the men had a beer or two to loosen their tongues – while Grissom stared intently at a crack in the wall so as to avoid eye contact with Lisa Graves. Lisa, however, kept her eyes trained on him.
They returned to the police station and Dannick's office. As the detective took his seat at his desk, he sighed loudly. "I think we're going to need a list of all the men hired to work last week."
"Won't they be at the bar?" Sara asked as she sat down as well.
"Remember, not all of the miners are from Denio. T.J. Jasper was from out of state," Dannick reminded her. "Guys from all over come here to try their luck at mining. Then they go back home, some richer, some not. The contractors would have the only records of them. We could see who worked alongside Ronnie."
Sara nodded but said nothing. She looked deep in thought. Grissom tried his best to get comfortable in the gray metal folding chair. He was terrifically tired. All he wanted was a place to sleep. Then he could face the case, face Sara. Just as his eyes were beginning to drift closed, her voice split the silence in two.
"Isn't it odd…"
"Isn't what odd?" Dannick asked, putting down the file in his hand.
"Isn't it odd that we have a killer who targets rookie miners that have struck it rich, men none of the regulars know much about…and he's only killed twice in two years? I mean, you have to figure," Sara continued, "if new faces aren't a rarity here, the miners see a lot of men come and go, men who make their money and then leave. Men they wouldn't miss."
Grissom sat up in his chair. "You think there are others?"
"I think it's possible. What if the killer targets new miners – successful ones – and tags along with them when they pick up and leave Denio? There could be murders spread out all over the state."
"But Jasper was killed here," Dannick pointed out.
"He'd be the first," Grissom murmured, catching on to Sara's train of thought. "The killer killed close to home the first time, and then got nervous and started targeting out-of-towners."
"Ronnie was most definitely not an out-of-towner."
"No, but he had eight thousand dollars. Maybe eight thousand dollars was too much to pass up. Maybe that's why the murder was committed in Las Vegas," Sara said quickly. "Killing Ronnie in his hometown would raise suspicion, but killing him in Sin City..."
"I get what you're saying," the detective said, nodding.
"This is a possible serial," Grissom breathed. "Why kill two men for less than fifteen grand when you can kill more men for a lot more money?" He summoned up a second wind as best he could and the three began to cold call neighboring counties, inquiring after unsolved murders. By the time they had to leave for the Sparkle Shack, they had amassed a collection of cases resembling the two murders they were working.
"This is always what I pictured the bar in the song 'Pianoman' looking like," Sara said softly as they entered the Sparkle Shack – now dimly lit, crowded, and smoky – for the second time that day. "And there's even a piano. I didn't notice that before."
Grissom barely heard her. He was doing his best to stay out of Lisa Graves' line of sight. Detective Dannick quickly began introducing the CSIs to the miners, gently easing them into conversation about their now-dead comrade. Some were more receptive to this informal interrogation than others, but most everyone had nothing more to say than the kid seemed nice, but they were too drunk that night to notice much more than that.
Dannick wiped his brow and exhaled loudly. "Can I buy you guys a beer?"
Sara's eyes grew wide, her gaze involuntarily shifting to Grissom's. He immediately recalled the last time alcohol had come up in their conversations. "I, uh…I'll have a water," she said before excusing herself and going to the bathroom.
Grissom sighed and sat down at a table while the cop went to pick up two beers and Sara's water. Their case seemed to be going nowhere, and unless one of the other murders panned out, the deaths of Ronnie Holden and T.J. Jasper would likely remain unsolved.
"You guys should get lodging soon if you don't have some already."
Grissom blinked as he watched Dannick sit down with their drinks. "Hmm?"
"Lodging. Do you and Miss Sidle have a place to stay?"
"I…I don't. And I don't know if she does."
"I don't," Sara said as she took her seat between the two men. "Thanks for the water."
"No problem. And you'd better look for a place soon. Judging by the number of men in here, the mines were crowded today. The motels 'round these parts fill up pretty quick," Dannick explained before getting up to go play a game of pool.
Grissom watched Sara nod absently while her eyes wandered the room. They locked on the piano.
"Do you play?"
She looked at him and raised her brows. "What?"
"The piano. Do you play?"
"Oh. No, I don't."
"No, you don't play anymore, or no, you've never played?"
"No, I've never played," she said, and took a sip of her water. "I wish I did."
He glanced at her hands, wrapped firmly around her glass. "You have long fingers – piano player's fingers."
Sara let go of her glass to get a better look at her hands.
"It's too bad you didn't have lessons when you were a kid. I bet you would've been great," he told her, raising his voice slightly so it would carry over the noise of the bar.
She gave him a half smile, a sad smile. "It wasn't in the cards, I guess."
He felt as if an iron fist had punched him in the gut. Sara's childhood had been far from idyllic. The thrice weekly lessons he took for granted had probably not been feasible for someone in her situation.
"We should go. I'm getting tired," she said, standing up and waving goodbye to Dannick, who was in the middle of a game.
"Yeah," he sighed, glad that he had thought to bring his car to the bar and not depend on the detective for transport.
They headed for the exit.
"Leaving so soon?"
Lisa Graves pouted at him from behind the bar. Grissom mumbled something about it being a long day and hurried out the door.
"Are you okay to drive?"
He opened the driver's side door and climbed in. "I only had half a beer."
"I'm not talking about the beer. You look exhausted," she said.
"I'm fine." He pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the road, unsure of where to go next.
"I saw a motel with a vacancy sign about a mile down this way, close to the police station," Sara said.
They passed three or four full establishments before they came across a small, old-looking motel. The vacancy sign proved true, but barely. One room was available. Grissom knew the extent of his exhaustion when he realized that fact didn't faze him. Sara, too, seemed too tired to do anything more than look a bit surprised.
Their room had two twin beds as opposed to a full-sized mattress. And that was probably its only saving grace.
Sara surveyed the space and cringed. "I think I'd rather sleep in the car."
"Right," he said, his voice heavy with sleep. "In the town with a possible serial killer on the loose. Don't even think about it." With that, he collapsed on a mattress.
It was her breathing that woke him. He wasn't used to hearing someone else's breathing while he slept. Grissom sat up in bed and blinked while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The alarm clock on the nightstand let him know it was just past two in the morning. He'd slept four hours and was still tired, but the bone weary fatigue had dissipated. Grissom slowly toed off his shoes – for he had fallen asleep fully clothed – and settled back down in bed. The room's only source of light was the red neon glow from the clock and it bathed Sara's face, giving her pale skin a crimson tint. He studied her sleeping form, mere feet away from his own body, and imagined what it would be like if there was no space between them, to wake up every night to her breathing and be able to reach out and touch her. Had he still been the man in the old photograph, he would've been able to do those things. He could see himself young – his skin smooth, his hair without a speck of gray – climbing into bed with her and just holding her. Of all the things in the world he wanted to do, number one on his list was hold her.
But he couldn't, so he watched her.
Tired though he was, he fought sleep and kept his eyes on her. Her own began to flutter open.
"Hey," she said, her voice gravelly with sleep. Sara lifted her head from her pillow slightly and squinted at him in the darkness. "Can't sleep?"
"Lumpy mattress," he lied.
She smiled. "I'd say let's switch, but mine has a crater-sized hole in the middle. I'm too tired to care, though." Her eyes wandered to the alarm clock. "Did you at least get any sleep?"
"Yeah. Some. I'll probably go back to sleep soon."
Sara's head hit her pillow once more, but she still watched him. "Me, too. The longer I stay awake, the more time I spend wondering how infrequently these sheets are washed."
He chuckled. "Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight."
Several minutes past, but he could tell from her breathing that she was still awake. He was finding it hard to fall asleep himself, knowing she was so close.
"You can take a Hazmat shower when we get back to Vegas."
Sara let out a short laugh. "I'm going to boil these clothes," she told him sleepily. "This place is so gross. You have no idea how gross people get in motel rooms. Well, I guess you do," she added after a few seconds. "It's like…they lose their inhibitions. It's not their home; they don't have to live with what they do, so they go to extremes. They do what they'd never do normally."
Her train of thought would've had him squirming, but her tone was not of suggestion, but of a sickened sense of wonder.
"My parents used to own an inn," she continued, yawning and shifting on her mattress. "I used to help clean the rooms."
"So you speak from experience."
"Yeah. I got exposed to a kaleidoscope of weirdness at a very young age."
His heart broke for her. Though his childhood was not without turmoil, it also housed quiet joy. The more he learned of Sara, the more he realized how devoid of happiness her young life really was. "I didn't know your parents owned an inn."
"Yeah." She yawned once more. "One of my dad's get-rich-quick schemes. Only without the rich and quick. The place went under in less than eighteen months."
"Oh."
"He was always doing stuff like that. And my mom would just blindly go along with it all," Sara sighed. "I used to think she was so stupid. She would mess up and he'd hit her and I would think she deserved it, because she broke a rule or didn't do something correctly. She never stood up to him. Until the end."
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
As if in a trance, Sara stated the following with an eerie sense of calm: "I was twelve. He gave me two dollars to go to the store and buy ketchup. We were out, and he wanted ketchup on his hot dog. He sent me because he had hit my mother for not having ketchup on hand in the first place, and he cut her lip pretty bad." She inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I came back with the ketchup. The wrong ketchup. He wanted Heinz, but two dollars wasn't enough, so I got the cheaper brand. He backhanded me across the cheek."
Grissom felt his entire body flinch. His pulse beat loudly in his ears.
"It stung." He could see Sara reach up to her face and touch it lightly, as if the pain were still there. "I remember feeling so small. And for the first time, I understood my mother. I understood that there was no logic to my father's ways. I understood how hard it was to fight back, how self-preservation often manifests as inaction. This all happened in the kitchen," she continued. "I guess that's why she used a knife."
Grissom felt the bile rise in his throat. He was sick with the pain he felt for her. His conscience was begging him to say something, to share something with her about his own childhood, about the loneliness he felt after his father died, about what it was like not having friends. His experience was nothing to hers, but he wanted to let her know he related to her on some level. He wanted to tell her he felt her pain as keenly as if it were his own personal tragedy, as if her past was his to mourn. Tell her, his mind pleaded. Tell her. Tell her you know hurt. Tell her what it was like seeing your mother set an extra place setting at the table for a man who was never coming back. Tell her what it was like when you thought he was sleeping on the couch and you touched his hand and found it cold.
"I…I'm sorry Sara. I'm sorry."
Coward, his conscience accused. She needs empathy, not sympathy!
He said nothing as he listened to her fall asleep.
Grissom himself flitted in and out of consciousness, visions of Sara and the case flooding his mind, mixing in a swirl. He thought of the miners who had died, and of the faceless person who had so coldly murdered them. How did he trick them? How did he win their trust? Was it the lure of adventure? Grissom pictured himself as a miner, spending day after day picking away the earth, piece by piece, for tiny morsels of treasure. It must've been thrilling to uncover opals after tedious hours of finding nothing. It must've felt like victory. He imagined walking into the Sparkle Shack with a chunk of money burning a hole in his pocket. Would the other men be jealous? Would they pat him on the back and congratulate him on his luck? He would sit down at the bar. Sara would pour him a drink, give him a wink, and ask him how he intended to spend his money. He'd shrug and say he wasn't sure. Maybe he'd go to Las Vegas, try his luck with the roulette wheel. All he'd need was a pal…
And at that very moment, the moment he surveyed the barroom full of miners in his mind, he knew. No man high on life with eight grand in his pocket hightails it to Vegas with a fellow dirty, sweaty miner. No, he'd be taking Sara.
And Ronnie…the shy, quiet Ronnie…there's only one person who could charm that meek little mouse into breaking his routine and heading South for sin.
"Lisa Graves," Grissom whispered. Every young man who struck it rich in the opal mines hit the Sparkle Shack, and every one of them came in contact with the beautiful Miss Graves. No doubt they apprised her of their successes while she poured them their beer. It probably didn't take more than a few sultry smiles to have them eating out of the palm of her hand.
Grissom sat up in bed and rubbed the tired from his eyes. "Sara," he whispered loudly. He repeated her name again, causing her to wake with a start.
"Huh? What's the matter?"
"It's Lisa Graves," he said.
She blinked at him. "Who?"
"The bartender. She's the one who's killing them."
Grissom slowly took Sara through his line of thinking, connecting the dots for her until she was awake enough to do so for herself. Without discussing it, they each began locating their shoes. Sara pulled her messy hair into a ponytail. "Do you think it's too early to call Detective Dannick?"
"Too bad for him if it is."
In under a half hour, they had convened a block away from Lisa Graves' apartment building. "Now, we don't have a warrant," Grissom whispered to the detective and Sara. "But the outside of her car is fair game. We're looking for anything that puts her in Vegas – like sand or clay in her tire treads that is specific to the southern part of the state. Hopefully we'll find something that will get us a warrant."
Lisa Graves' tires were clean, but a careful, hands-off inspection of her dashboard console through the passenger side window with a penlight revealed a hundred dollar chip from the MGM Grand. "And she told me she hadn't ever been to Vegas," Grissom said, smiling to himself. Within minutes, they were back at the station. Dannick was taking care of securing a warrant while Grissom called Archie and told him to comb over the footage from every camera on every entrance and exit at the MGM Grand since the day before Ronnie Holden's murder. "You're looking for a petite young woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Lisa Graves. Use the picture from her driver's license. She might be with a young man, but she most likely killed him before heading to the casino."
"Can do, boss."
The next few hours flew by. They had their warrant, they had their video footage. The small counties where the other murders took place were sending evidence to whatever ballistics lab was nearby. Soon they would see just how high the death count was. Detective Dannick and a few of his men searched Lisa's apartment and when Grissom got word that they had found the gun used to murder Ronnie Holden and T.J. Jasper – among others – he turned to Sara and sighed. "Let's go home."
She furrowed her brow and stared at him quizzically. "But…don't you want to find out why she killed them? Don' you want to—"
"She's crazy, Sara. She killed human beings for a few grand apiece. She's nuts," he said simply. "We can stay, but that means another night that motel."
"I'll drive," she said quickly.
They passed the hours on the road in virtual silence. Grissom was uncomfortable bringing up what she had confessed to him about her family in the middle of the night, and small talk seemed out of the question. When he had first learned details of her past, he had held out hope that she'd been spared from any physical brutality. The thought of anyone striking her…it made his blood boil. Grissom was not a violent man by nature, but he now understood the will to kill. Senseless murder was a crime, but the death of Sara's father was nothing more than justice. Of that, he was certain. And of one more thing he was absolutely sure: He would kill for her.
She was his life, though they could never be together, and he would just have to be thankful that he had her near, that he could see her smile on occasion, and be the recipient of her friendship.
He wanted her to be happy.
In a rare moment of inhibition, Grissom reached for the Yellow Pages the moment he got home. Hungry though he was, and in bad need of a shower, his first move was to hit the 'P' section.
"Party planners, pastry chefs," he said under his breath. "Aha! Piano teachers."
Within minutes, he had set Sara up with a year's worth of piano lessons – provided she liked the teacher of course. He didn't let himself overthink things for once. He just…acted. Before their next shift, Grissom wrote her a note:
Sara,
You seem to be good at everything you try. I doubt the piano will prove any different.
—Gil
He included the instructor's business card and slipped it into her locker, pleased with himself until she stopped at his office after shift looking more confused than he had ever seen her.
"You…you got me a year of piano lessons?"
Grissom shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. I thought…I thought you'd like them."
"It was very nice of you. You really didn't have to—"
"Sara, just…I wanted to."
"I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything." He attempted a smile, but stopped once he saw that her confusion wasn't clearing up. She looked down at the note in her hand and then back up at him.
"Thank you," she finally said, although it sounded like more of a question than a statement. He watched her leave and was reminded why he tended to overthink things in the first place. He thought she'd be touched, and maybe she was underneath her bewilderment, but he didn't sense that happiness was her overriding emotion. Did she think he was making a play for her? Trying to woo her? Grissom's stomach tied in knots as he remembered her discomfort after she had seen the picture of him in the newspaper article. She had looked ready to jump out of her skin in both instances.
Mortified, and not for the first time that week, Grissom cursed his actions. She'd probably avoid him at every turn now. He had to…he had to diffuse this. He had to subtly but firmly let her know he wasn't after her, let her know she was safe from his advances.
So he asked Sofia out to dinner.
In the middle of the lab.
He felt slightly guilty for using Sofia, but he was sure to make it clear it was a business dinner once they got to the restaurant. He thanked her for standing up to Ecklie on his behalf and did his best to bore her to tears with talk of entomology, all while trying hard not to think of how Sara would really be interested in all he had to say.
Time went on and Sara said nothing – not of Sofia, not of the piano lessons. She was more guarded, more sober than usual, but she didn't seem angry.
He kept a careful eye on her and life went on without much incident for some time, the routine of life uninterrupted until Catherine reminded him of the upcoming event where he would be the center of attention.
"I helped Ecklie write the speech he'll give when he presents you with your award."
Grissom grimaced. "Catherine…is there any way I can get out of this?"
"Suicide?"
"I don't want an award."
"But the city wants to give you one so you can be in the newspapers and the citizens of Las Vegas can read about it and go, 'Hey, we've got an award-winner looking out for us!' Seriously," she continued, taking a seat on the edge of his desk, "it'll be quick and painless. Just smile and say thank you and then feel free to melt the award down and sell it for scrap metal. Come on," she said when she saw he was still resisting. "We'll all be there, cheering you on."
He shook his head and sighed. "I hate this kind of stuff."
Grissom said it again to himself in the mirror as he tied his black bowtie and studied his reflection. He looked good for his age, he supposed. It was probably the tuxedo. He recalled watching his father don one for a friend's wedding over forty years earlier. "It you want to get yourself a pretty gal, Gil," his dad said with a wink, "wear a tuxedo. It's how I landed your mother."
Wear a tuxedo. It was the sole piece of advice his father ever gave him about women. The elder Grissom probably thought he had lots of time to teach his son the ropes. Unfortunately for both of them, that did not prove to be the case.
He left his house and drove, but in the opposite direction of the awards ceremony. Grissom, clad in his tux, found himself circling Sara's apartment complex. Her light was on and her car was parked across the street from the building's entrance. She was probably still getting dressed. Women always took a long time getting ready for big events.
At least that's how it was in the movies.
Grissom double-parked at a hydrant and got out of the car. He just wanted to see her, to look at her without anyone else around. He wanted to tell her she looked lovely – for she would surely look lovely – and not have to worry about their colleagues overhearing.
He got to her front door before he turned around and headed back down the stairs.
Go to her, his conscience demanded. Just do it!
"Shit," he muttered to himself. "Here goes nothing." Grissom turned around and bounded up the steps once more. He lifted his hand to knock on her door when an odd noise stopped him.
Music. A piano.
He leaned closer and listened carefully to the methodic notes coming from inside the apartment. Sara was doing her scales. A small smile graced his lips as he pressed his ear to the door. She was practicing.
He stood there for five full minutes and listened.
When the sounds stopped, he swallowed the lump in his throat and knocked, prepared to encounter Sara clad in a beautiful gown, more stunning than he had ever seen her.
Grissom's jaw did drop when she opened the door, but for entirely different reasons.
"Why aren't you dressed?" He scanned her attire: flannel pajama bottoms, an oversized sweatshirt, no makeup, and messy, curly hair pulled in a haphazard topknot.
Her hands flew to her hair, attempting to neaten, but to no avail. "For what?"
"For…for the awards ceremony."
"Oh…" She pressed her lips together. "I'm actually on call. Some of swing is going to be attending the ceremony, and they needed to have a nightshift person on call in case they got swamped. Congratulations on your award, though."
He couldn't stop staring at her. She had been the only reason he was looking forward to going to the blasted event. He had planned his entire night around stealing glances at her.
Sara linked her fingers together and raised her brows. "I, uh…I've been taking those piano lessons. Thanks for them. They really are interesting."
His mouth quirked up into a smile.
"I'm not good or anything. But it's really great to look at notes now and at least have a vague idea of what they mean."
"It's like learning another language, isn't it?"
She nodded. "You play?"
"I did, at my mother's insistence." He grinned at the memory.
"Were you any good?"
"I was."
She arched a brow at him. He could see there was a part of her that doubted his claim. He arched a brow right back and took a step closer to the electronic keyboard that sat on her coffee table. "May I?"
"Be my guest."
He took his seat on her couch and began to flip through her lesson book. "Let's see, let's see, so much to choose from. We have 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' – such a classic – or maybe I'll play 'Jingle Bells.' A little late for it, of course, but you can never have too much 'Jingle Bells.'"
Sara rolled her eyes.
Grissom smiled slyly as he set he lesson book down on the couch placed his fingers on the keys. An odd and familiar feeling coursed through his body, and before he even realized it, he was a quarter of the way through 'Fur Elise.' It had been years since he had played anything, but his fingers knew what to do, and he managed to get through Beethoven's bagatelle in A minor without a mistake. He looked up at Sara, whose jaw was on the floor.
"You're good," she said, surprise evident in her voice. "I mean…I knew you liked classical music and opera…I just didn't know you – you always seemed more like a music connoisseur and not a musician."
"I'm not a musician," he said, shaking his head. "I'm just someone whose mother made him practice the piano every day, rain or shine."
"She was a stern taskmaster?"
"Far from it. She just loved music. She was very encouraging," he explained. "And that love rubbed off on me. Even after she lost her hearing, she'd stand behind the piano bench while I practiced and watch my fingers."
"A boy's best friend is his mother," Sara grinned.
"Very funny," he chuckled. "Although in my case, I suppose it was true. Except for the whole dressing up in my mother's clothes and killing random women in showers. I haven't done that in years."
She laughed loudly and he scooted over on the couch. "You play something now."
"Oh, no. I'm really not good. I'm—"
"Sara, I need to know I'm getting my money's worth."
She exhaled loudly and took her seat. "You make fun of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb,' but I can barely get through that."
He could see she was embarrassed. Sara was not the kind of person who was used to being mediocre at any task. She was competitive by nature, and clearly she was outmatched when it came to the piano. He pitied her, knowing how frustrating music could be. She would eventually come to a point in her training when everything would click, and music wouldn't be so much of a struggle, but until then, he knew it would be hard. "Here, we'll play a duet."
"I don't know any duets."
"This one is easy. Watch my hands." He began to play the simple A section of 'Heart and Soul': four notes, repeated continuously. She watched his fingers carefully before bringing her own to the keyboard. He waited until she had the rhythm down before he began the slightly more complicated B section. He sung the words silently in his head and smiled.
"There," he said softly after they finished. "You play very well."
Her eyes met his briefly, and he thought he saw…something in them, but they darted away before he had a chance to decipher the look in her eyes. She stood up from the couch quickly and rubbed her hands on hips. "It's getting late. You're going to miss your award. Ecklie's giving a speech and I know Catherine spent a lot of time on that slideshow."
"Oh, Jesus," he said, slumping back on the couch. "A slideshow?"
"Yeah. I…don't think you were supposed to know about that."
Oh, God, he thought to himself. The picture of me in the rain…
Grissom's stomach churned. He wondered if Sara's mind was on the same subject as his. She certainly looked uncomfortable. "You really shouldn't miss it. She managed to find a lot of pictures of you when you first came to Vegas. So…yeah. Lots of stuff to see."
"Sara," he began, getting up from the couch so he could attempt to meet her gaze, though she seemed wary of looking at him.
"Look, I get it," she said quickly, agitated.
"Get what?" he asked, nonplussed.
"I just…I just wish you wouldn't give me mixed signals. I know you're just trying to be nice, but maybe it'd be easier if you weren't."
"Sara, what—"
"I get it, okay? You're out of my league."
"What?"
"I guess it didn't hit me until Catherine showed me that picture of you saving the old woman, but I get it now," she said quickly – too quickly for him to follow.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Look, you don't need to pretend. I…I guess I always thought you didn't make a move because of the job and the rules, but…well, never mind. It doesn't matter now. I get it."
It was as if she were speaking in another language. His mind worked furiously to translate. Out of his league? Did she think that – she couldn't possibly – but did she? How? How, when she was so beautiful, so young? How could she think that he would even consider himself good enough for her, let alone too good? Grissom could only shake his head slightly as confusion etched lines in his face.
"Maybe you should go—"
His mouth was on hers, muffling the rest of whatever it was she wanted to say. There was no way he'd be able to fumble through an explanation, so he poured his feelings into the kiss. His hands cupped her jaw, enveloped her neck, as his mouth devoured hers. Getting the words out would be difficult, but he could let the kiss tell her what she needed to know.
Dimly, he heard his cell phone ring. Grissom would've ignored it, but the trill seemed to bring Sara back to reality. He reached into his pocket and threw the damn thing on the floor. It might've shattered; he didn't know. His attention was on her, and he was soon gratified with her avid response.
He laid her down on the couch, careful not to break the kiss. Grissom would later look back on their first time with wonder – not only at the intensity of it, but at his sheer boldness. There was no hesitancy as he slipped his fingers into her pajama bottoms, no moment of self-doubt as a hand wandered up into her sweatshirt to take hold of a breast. She needed to know how much he desired her, and he was only too glad to show her.
They were practically inseparable from then on. She moved in with him, keyboard and all, and they were happy until a madwoman made it her mission to destroy him.
She nearly succeeded.
Sara stopped playing the piano after she was kidnapped. He should've known that was a bad sign but he was so happy that she was still alive, still breathing, that all thoughts of music went out the window.
When she left he stored the keyboard in his office closet. He couldn't bear to look at it without his heart aching.
The night Warrick died, he broke the news to her on her voicemail before he began the sad task of telling the rest of the lab. He watched the members of his team – his family – in various stages of agony and confusion, and he did his best to console.
When he finally made it home many hours later, the dog failed to greet him at the door. Grissom opened his mouth to call out to Hank, but a sound had him keeping silent.
'Heart and Soul.' The B section. It was coming from the office.
He knew he'd find her there. She had to be there. This couldn't all be some figment of his overtired and overtaxed brain. The walk from the front door to the office seemed unending. The sound grew louder the closer he got, and when he pushed the door open and saw her crouching over the keyboard playing half of a duet, he nearly collapsed against the doorframe.
"Sara…"
She held him as he slept; she listened to him as he talked. And he listened to her.
When it was time for both of them to leave, they packed up everything but the keyboard. They didn't need it anymore. A piano was waiting for them at their new home.
For a year and a half, the two-man band lived in bliss until their cozy little partnership was thrown into upheaval: the duo became a trio. To be sure, the new band member was not very skilled, but she had her mother's long fingers, and her father was sure she had great potential.
THE END
A/N #2: I made up a lot of stuff about opal mining. So I'm sorry to all the opal miners out there. I hate that this is so long.