Title: Crumbling Like Ash

Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sara/Warrick

Spoilers: Missing scene from The Strip Strangler

Feedback: Makes my day

Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/csi/csific.htm) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

Summary: How Sara reacted when she left the grocery store.

Author's Notes: This scene popped into my head when I finally got to see this episode on Monday night, and was in shock at how wonderfully creepy and evil the ever fabulous Michael Cerveris was in his part…thus, if it makes no sense, I'll apologise now!

***

Grissom didn't say a thing to her as they drove back to the CSI lab, and for that, Sara was grateful. She knew he had to be pissed off at her; after all, he was her boss, he'd told her that under no circumstances was she going to act as a decoy for Special Agent Rick Culpepper, but she hadn't listened to him. She'd gone ahead with it, sure that she was doing the right thing, sure that she could stop another woman from being murdered. Danger to her hadn't even entered her head, not until that guy had stopped her in the aisle, looking for a cigarette. The more she looked at him, flirted with him, the more she'd realised how well he fit the profile. Not only that, but she'd realised anew how well she fit the profile of a victim. When he'd moved in closer to her, when she'd heard the cavalry entering, she'd spun around, getting as far away from him as she could, pressing herself behind a grocery shelf, almost able to feel his hands on her, and the sensation made her stomach rock back and forth.

Her stomach dropped to her shoes when Culpepper informed them that there had been another murder over at the Monaco, because all she could think of was that she'd failed. She hadn't been able to stop it happening to someone else and she should have because it was her job.

"Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to do nothing," Grissom had told her, taking her arm and leading her out, and she hadn't been able to say anything in response to that.

They drove back to the lab together, and she thought that she'd be going to the crime scene with him, but Grissom made it clear that that wasn't going to happen. "Take a break," he'd told her, going to find Catherine, leaving her standing in the hallway looking after him. She considered going to the break room, but the thought of food made her nauseous, and she knew she wouldn't be able to handle as much as a cup of coffee; there was enough of a bitter taste in her mouth already. So she made her way to the locker room, sitting down on a bench there, resting her head in her hands, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

When she recovered her equilibrium, not a lot, but a little, she stood, yanking open her locker and throwing her jacket into it. Her attention then turned to the small mirror she had hanging on the door, and she hardly recognised the face looking back at her. Seeing herself all painted and powdered up was a rarity; a surreal experience in any circumstances, made all the more so by her surroundings now. Impatiently, she reached for the make-up bag that she'd stashed there before she left, grabbing the cotton wool and cleanser from it, the makeup vanishing in quick, almost angry strokes. When all the war paint was gone though, she felt strangely vulnerable, naked in her own skin, and she shivered despite the heat in the room.

She knew that she should get changed, put some more work-like clothes on, but she suddenly couldn't face it, and sucked in a whooping breath, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. She knew only one thing, that she had to get out of there, and she reached into the locker, grabbing her purse and heading outside.

The back lot of the CSI car park was deserted, and it was an easy matter to find a bench to sit on, a secluded one where no-one would see her unless they knew where to look. Reaching into the purse, she took out the crumpled packet of cigarettes, a shudder coursing through her as she remembered the look in that guy's eyes as he'd reached for one. She'd told herself on countless occasions that she was quitting, she'd been honest about that much at least, and for the amount of Nicorette gum she'd bought, she should own shares in the damn company, but right now, she craved a cigarette like nothing on this earth, and she forced the lung cancer statistics out of her mind.

It took her three tries to light the thing, and she thought that someone somewhere might be trying to tell her something. But just like with Grissom earlier on, she didn't listen to those mythical celestial advisors, concentrating on the pale misty trail of smoke as it rose into the air, floating up to mingle with the stars.

She thought of those three women, four now, as she sat there, wondering who would be next. She knew that Culpepper had been right, she did fit the profile of the victim to a tee, and she knew that the rest of the CSIs had noticed it too. She'd caught the sidelong glances, the concerned looks at the crime scenes, and she'd tried to ignore them. Everyone knew that this was the kind of case that got to her, and they avoided mentioning the resemblance to her, but she knew that they'd seen it. It was in the way that Catherine hovered over her at the start of every shift, in the way that Nick insisted on walking her to her car when they were leaving at the same time, in the way that Warrick insisted on her making sure her cell phone was on at all times so that he could get in touch with her at any time, in any place.

She thought of all the years she'd spent learning her trade, all the years she'd spent studying, working, to catch scum like this. All of the knowledge, all of the forensics, all of the people that were working with her.

And they were nowhere.

She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice footsteps approaching, and she jumped when she heard the voice come from right beside her. "Those things are going to kill you Sara."

Her head whipped up, and a vague sense of guilt flashed through her, followed immediately by the thought that it had been stupid to let down her guard when there was a Strip Strangler still around, and she still fit the profile. "Yeah, well," she shrugged, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "Better these than the other."

He lifted an eyebrow at that, then looked up at the sky, at the bright stars above them. "Aren't you cold?" was his next question, eyes narrowing at her skimpy top and knee length skirt. It was May, with summer just around the corner, but it still wasn't warm enough to sit out in the early hours of the morning, dressed like that, and she'd left her jacket behind her in her locker in her rush to escape the confines of the lab. She shrugged nonchalantly, but the hand that wasn't holding her cigarette crossed to her opposite arm, rubbing up and down it absently. He caught the gesture, he always caught everything she did, and he sighed and shook his head, sitting down beside her. He had his own jacket over his arm, and he slipped it over her shoulders now, but made no other move to touch her, waiting for her to make the first move.

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. "Just don't Warrick. Don't say it."

Brass hadn't been too pleased about her plan to act as a decoy when she'd told him about it. She'd expected that. Grissom she'd kept in the dark completely, knowing what his reaction would be too, because she knew he'd order her not to take part in the operation, and she didn't want to have to disobey a direct order from him. She hadn't told Nick, or Catherine.

But she had told Warrick.

He'd been incandescent with fury, and continued to voice his opposition right up until the time that she'd walked out the door. He'd sat on her bed, watching her dress, watching her choose her clothes carefully, applying her makeup with a steady hand, and if his voice hadn't been making loud objections, the disgusted set of his jaw, the purse of his lips had more than given it away. "This is my choice Warrick," she'd told him, for the umpteenth time, and he'd shaken his head in disgust.

"Your choice to what? Set yourself up as bait? Put yourself in danger to catch this guy? Sara, we're going to get him. It just takes time."

"And while we're waiting," she'd countered, frustration in every syllable. "This guy is getting away with murder."

"I just don't want him to get away with your murder," he'd responded, rising from the bed and pacing the room restlessly. "What if something goes wrong? What then?"

"I'll be in a public place. I'll be wired up, there'll be cameras…" She'd stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand and laying it on his elbow. "It'll be fine."

He'd shaken his head, contempt not abating. "I oughtta call Grissom right now," he'd grumbled. "Get him to bench your ass…"

"Don't you dare." It hadn't been an idle threat and they both knew it, and her temper flared. "This is my life Warrick, my choice. You don't get to tell me what to do."

He'd glanced down at her, appalled. "I don't? I don't even get a say?"

"Not in this." She'd turned back to the mirror, brushing out her hair with fast, furious strokes, and it crackled around her face. She'd tried to concentrate on her own reflection, but her eyes were constantly drawn back to his, his hands on his hips, head turned down towards the floor, moving back and forth in disbelief.

"I don't get a say?" he'd repeated, looking up and meeting her gaze in the mirror. "You're walking out of here, putting yourself in the path of a serial killer and I don't get a say?" His voice had been growing louder, more agitated, and despite herself, Sara had shivered. She'd never seen him like this before. "What the hell have we been doing the last few months Sara? Doesn't it mean anything to you?"

Her breath had caught in her throat. "You know it does," she'd whispered, brush frozen halfway to her head.

"Then how can you stand there and expect me not to object to this?" His voice had been as low then as it had been raised mere seconds ago, and she'd dropped the brush, turning to him, moving towards him slowly.

"I have to do this Warrick," she'd told him carefully. "I can't explain why…I just need to."

She'd reached him then, reaching out, taking one hand in hers, looking into his eyes, begging silently for understanding. He'd drawn in a deep breath, the exhalation moving her hair against her face, and his other hand had moved her to her cheek, brushing the hair back behind her ear. "What if I asked you not to?" he'd whispered.

She'd held his gaze, a sudden tightness in her throat. "I have to," she'd whispered, the only words she could think of, and he'd sighed, pulling her into his arms, so that her head was resting on his shoulder, and their arms had automatically gone around one another's waists.

"Just don't do anything stupid," he'd said to her then, pressing a kiss to her temple. "No heroics, you promise."

She'd pulled back, managing to give him a tiny smile. "I promise."

"OK then," had been his verbal response, but he'd moved his hands up so that they cupped her cheeks, drawing her face to his for a kiss that had been as much about benediction as conciliation. When he'd pulled back, she'd rested her head on his shoulder for a few more precious seconds before stepping back, continuing to get ready.

She'd driven to the lab on her own, Culpepper bringing her to the grocery store, and she'd returned with Grissom. This was the first time she'd seen him, and she wasn't sure what he was going to say to her, hence her initial words were ones of warning. He greeted them with a mystified expression though, eyes narrowed in confusion. "Say what?" he asked.

"Don't…just don't say I told you so." She ground the words out with difficulty, holding herself together as best she could, not looking at him. "I don't need to hear that right now."

"You think that's what I'm here to say?" His voice was soft with amazement, and he scooted closer to her on the bench. "Sara, I'm worried about you. I want to know that you're all right."

The words had the ring of truth, and something else, about them, and she raised the cigarette to her lips, blowing the smoke up into the air, a misty wall between them. "I'm fine," she said, concentrating on keeping her voice steady. "It wasn't the guy."

"You didn't know that." His voice was mild, devoid of inflection, but still she shivered. "This is me Sara," he reminded her at length. "You don't have to keep your game face on."

How many times had he told her that over the last few months? A bitter laugh sounded in the recesses of her mind, and she wanted to tell him that she'd wiped her game face away, that it was smeared on cotton wool in the wastepaper basket of the locker room, but she couldn't form the words. Instead what came out was, "He fit the profile."

"I know." His voice was a little closer, and she could feel the heat of his leg against hers, denim against her calf, warm even through the flimsy material at her thigh. His arm was behind her on the bench, not touching her, but she knew that it was only a matter of time.

"I was scared," she admitted, another hit of cigarette smoke giving her the courage to admit it. The column of ash was getting long, and she flicked it idly, the grey crumbling to tiny flakes, some falling to the ground, some catching the breeze and floating away. She could feel tears beginning deep in her stomach, moving up her gullet, and Warrick's hand came down heavy and warm and comfortable on her shoulder.

"I thought it was him…and I heard Culpepper coming in. I don't think I've ever moved so quickly…" Another hit, and the smoke twisted in her throat going down, mingling with the rising tears. She'd thought that one would counteract the other, but the opposite was true, the sting of the nicotine hastening the rise of the prickling emotion. "When he said there'd been another murder…I thought I'd be angry…but instead…"

Her voice trailed off and she hung her head. The hand holding the cigarette dropped slightly, enough to dislodge a glowing ember of ash, orange falling slowly to the ground, burning out halfway there.

"I felt relieved." They were her words, her most secret thoughts, the one she was ashamed about admitting, but they hadn't come from her, and she looked across at him now. He wasn't looking at her, his gaze fixed at some unknown spot across the parking lot, so he couldn't see her amazed stare. "God help me…some other woman is dead, we're supposed to be catching this bastard…and I was relieved, because I knew it wasn't you." He looked at her then, green eyes holding brown, and he shrugged with the shoulder furthest from her. "If something had've happened to you…"

The smoke from the cigarette caught a gust of wind, blowing back into her face, blurring her vision; the blur disappearing slowly as tiny drops of clarity rolled down her face. She dropped her cigarette, and it skittered across the pavement, tip glowing orange, the odd spark hitting the tarmac, a pinprick of flame burning bright, then burning out. It came to rest against the wall of the building, turning grey and fading into the concrete, unseen, forgotten. She didn't take any notice of its orange and grey path, staring into the green of his eyes, dark with concern, and her breath caught at the difference in colour, and the emotion behind it. When she inhaled again, it was it was with a desperate sob, and then she was throwing her arms around his neck, and he was holding her, catching her as he always would when she crumbled like ash into his embrace.