Title: Both Sides of the Box
Author: Burked Rating: PG-13, for a little OTT language
Spoilers: Yeah, sort of, but from a decidedly different
viewpoint. The first half is pre-PWF. The second half is
after.
Disclaimers: Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Zuicker, who knows who
else owns a piece of them? I know I don't own any of the
characters. I am merely one of 27 million confused viewers.
Thanks: I appreciate the advice I got from Duckfeat and
Tenof-10. It's hard to have people get drunk, allowing them to
get a little out of character, without losing them altogether.
They helped keep me corralled as much as possible.
Outside the Box, Looking In
"Did you love him?" Catherine asked, after the waitress dropped off two more dripping bottles of cold beer.
"No, not really, not yet anyway, but I loved how he treated me. Or how I thought he was treating me," Sara corrected herself. "Cath, I don't know what's happened to me. Before I came here I used to feel pretty confident about my relationships. I'd try to keep it light, and just enjoy the good times, ya know? When they ended, I'd cry, but I'd try to be philosophical and move on. Now? I'm letting them really get to me," Sara confessed, and then picked up her third beer in the last half hour.
"It's probably that biological clock ticking," Catherine suggested.
"Whatever it is, it is seriously hosing up my life," Sara said.
"Nothing unusual about that, Sara. Everyone wants to feel special to someone," Catherine offered somewhat glumly, trying not to think of herself.
"You know, when I was a kid I didn't understand that Crosby, Stills and Nash song, Love the One You're With. Now it's meaning is all too clear to me." She hummed a few bars, then sang the chorus: "And if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." She cracked a sad smile and picked back up her beer. "God knows I tried, but I just couldn't pull that off either."
"Well, you weren't the only one who tried and failed at that," Catherine sighed, shaking her head back and forth.
"At least I wasn't dating someone who required a permit for a sexually oriented business," Sara hissed.
"Oh, so you heard about that?" Catherine questioned sympathetically.
"How could I miss it? It was all over the lab, the PD, hell, even the guys Hank works with were laughing about it."
"He feels bad about it."
"I guess so! He made a fool out of himself, panting after that S&M freak like a dog in heat."
"Maybe she made him feel special," Catherine offered experimentally.
"I don't even want to think of how or what she might have made him feel." Sara snarked, scrunching her face to match her disgust. Taking a long pull on her beer, she leaned over towards Catherine, "Everyone's wondering who was dominant and who was submissive."
"I doubt it was that sort of encounter," Catherine remarked pointedly.
Changing the subject slightly, Sara continued, "Nick said she was pretty attractive. What did you think, Cath? What did she look like?" Sara asked, trying to adopt a tone of indifference.
"She was attractive, yes. She was about your height, brunette, very strong- willed and independent. Remind you of anyone?" Catherine asked.
"Do not even tell me that you are comparing that freak to me!" Sara shouted.
"I didn't say you were clones. She was very calm, where you're ... energetic. She has light eyes, where yours are dark. You are very different in a lot of ways. But very alike in others."
"Sounds like you liked her," Sara stated hesitantly.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I did," Catherine answered honestly.
"It's hard to understand that, Catherine. How you could like someone like that. How he could sleep with someone like that. She's so ... different."
"I guess you'd have to meet her to understand. You are judging her on what you've heard and what you imagine, instead of what you know," Catherine admonished. "That's not very scientific of you, nor very fair of you."
"Well, she's managed to do in a few days what I haven't been able to do in years, so she must have something going for her," Sara conceded, peeling the label off her beer bottle.
"She had some advantages. But she had some big disadvantages as well. In the end, she didn't have him for long, just a few hours."
"What kind of advantages?" Sara asked, her curiosity piqued.
"She wasn't afraid to tell him what she wanted, in no uncertain terms. She didn't wait for him, she just made her move. She was from the outside, so he didn't have to worry about professional ramifications. She was also temporary, so he didn't have to worry about disappointing her. He didn't have to invest much into it, so it was very low-risk. It's not like he was in love with her."
"He just used her, then," Sara concluded, not really any happier with that thought, unwilling to think of Grissom in that negative light, no matter how annoyed she might be with him.
"Well, if you can't be with the one you love ..." Catherine quoted.
"Grissom doesn't love anybody, not even himself it seems," Sara snapped back.
"Is that what you really think, Sara?" Catherine asked candidly. "You couldn't be more wrong. He loves somebody."
"If not her, then who?"
"That's not for me to say." Catherine had to bite her tongue to keep from spilling the truth, and had to still her hands from wanting to grab Sara and shake her.
"There was a time not so long ago when I wished it had been me," Sara confided, shocked at herself for letting the words spill out. It's amazing how emotional pain and a few beers will loosen the tongue.
"I know," Catherine assured her.
"How did you know? I didn't tell a soul!" Sara argued.
"You didn't have to say it with words, Sara. You said it with your body language every time he came into the room. You became radiant, more alive. Everyone could see it."
"That's embarrassing. I didn't realize that I was acting like some giddy teenager with a crush," she returned glumly.
"You weren't, don't worry. At least not in front of us."
"One question, though. If absolutely everyone saw it, how come he didn't?"
"Maybe he did."
"So that's why he's not even speaking to me?"
"No, that's why every time we saw you two together he was practically draped all over you," Catherine snorted.
"He was not!"
"Puh-leeze! There was rarely room for air to pass between you two most of the time. And you guys would stare at each other when the other wasn't looking. And when you worked together you'd do stuff like finish each other's sentences."
"Catherine! This is really getting embarrassing."
"Look, I'm not trying to embarrass you, and I don't think you should feel that way. I'm just trying to get you to see that you weren't wrong about him. He does care, and he showed it in the only way he felt he could."
"Well, that was a long time ago," Sara murmured, picking up the cold, fresh beer dropped off by the waitress.
"Too long," Catherine agreed.
"Catherine, since you seemed to have the birds-eye view on all of this, tell me, why did he stop?" Sara asked.
"You told him to," she answered simply, as though it were obvious.
"What are you talking about? I never told him to stop. I never wanted him to stop. If anything, I wanted more!" Sara exclaimed in her own defense.
"You started dating another man."
"He told me to get a life!"
"I don't think that's the life he was referring to, Sara," Catherine scolded her. "But since that's the one you chose, he respected your decision and backed off. Way off."
"I don't even know why I did it, to be honest, Cath," Sara groaned. "Maybe I wanted to get back at him. Maybe I just wanted to make him jealous, thinking a little competition would get him to just do something."
"Not every man is competitive that way, Sara. The sensitive ones just want you to be happy."
"OK, maybe I've had too many beers here. Let me see if I can digest all this. You could all see that I was in ... uh, that I was interested in him. You're telling me the feeling was mutual. I thought he was pushing me away when he told me to get a life, but you say he didn't mean it that way. I started dating someone else. He slept with someone else. Because he is in love with me?"
"What do you think?"
"I think that I am very confused."
"Join the club. You're confused. He's confused. All the rest of us are confused just watching you two being confused."
"Well, Hank and I are not together now, so why is he still avoiding me like the plague? He talks to me even less now, if that's even possible."
"Hey, he's got his male pride, too, you know. In his mind, he was dumped and that hurts. He's going to stay as far away from the source of that pain as he can. You being unattached now just makes you all the more dangerous."
"So basically I'm screwed?"
"Not necessarily, but you're going to have to start back at square one, and this time you're going to have to take the initiative. Take a page out of Heather's book and tell him what you want. Ask him out on a date. Don't be too aggressive, but be the instigator. He's going to have to be shown that you really want to be with him, or he'll never open back up. And even then, it's going to be rough. He's going to find every excuse in the book for why it won't work. Just be ready for them so you can defuse them."
"But I don't understand why it can't work. I've never understood what was holding him back if he really cared."
"Well, of course for him there's the age difference."
"That's bullshit."
"To you. Not to him."
Catherine threw out another example. "What's the one thing in his life that's always given him a sense of accomplishment? Outside of any romantic interest, what's the one thing he loves?" she asked.
"His work? I understand that. I love my work, too! That should be a bonus, because I understand what he does and appreciate it, and wouldn't begrudge the time and attention he gives to his work."
"I know. I'm not talking about a work/relationship conflict. I'm talking about one or both of you losing your jobs over a romance that may or may not even last. It's a big risk for him. Too big, especially if he's not sure of the payoff."
"That's ridiculous. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his job!"
"Not on purpose, but shit happens. All it would take is for some lab tech to see you two cuddled up at some restaurant, and next thing you know, he's getting his ass handed to him by Cavallo and Mobley."
"We could be discreet."
"For awhile, but that sort of discretion can't last forever. No matter where you tried to meet, there's always someone who could see you. And you can't hide a relationship if you want it to grow."
"So I am screwed."
"Maybe. Maybe not," Catherine answered cryptically. "Where's the absolutely best place to hide something?"
Sara thought for a moment, concentrating on the drops of condensation joining each other and sliding down the brown bottle she held. "In plain sight," she answered, ironically noting that her vision was starting to blur from too much alcohol in too short a time span.
"Um hum. We adjust to what's right in front of us, to the point where it's practically invisible."
"Fine in theory. And what is the real-life application here?"
"Find out exactly what the policies are on 'fraternizing' between a supervisor and a staff CSI. There may not even be a written policy on it. If there isn't, fuck 'em, they can't do a thing about it. If there is, study it for every loophole. You may be able to get around it with just a few 'modifications'." Catherine suggested. "Just don't try so hard to hide it that it looks like you're guilty of something."
"I've got to think about all of this. I mean, I would be risking a lot, too, even if this policy thing works out. After being snubbed for months - even though I think understand why now - I'm just supposed to waltz up and ask him on a date, out of the clear blue. You know that he is just going to shoot me down, right?"
"Probably, at first. Wouldn't you? But don't give up. He's got a lot on his mind right now and he may not want to deal with it. But keep at him, and you'll wear down his defenses. He wants to do it, he just doesn't know how."
"It could all be just a waste of another three years," she posited, dejectedly.
"It could. But the real question you have to answer is: 'Is it worth it to me?' If you aren't sure you love him, the answer is 'no'. It will definitely be more trouble than it's worth. If you do love him, the answer is 'yes'. It's worth whatever it takes. I can't answer that for you. You are the only one who knows."
The two women fell into the most comfortable silence they had ever shared. For once, Sara felt that Catherine was not competing with her, but was honestly trying to help her.
"Hey, Cath, where can I get a copy of those departmental policies?"
Inside the Box, Looking Out
"Here, let me freshen your drink," Brass said, sloshing more Jack Daniels into Grissom's tumbler.
"Thanks," Grissom said. They were sitting in Brass's office, with the door locked, the blinds closed and the light off, save a small desk lamp.
"How'd you get yourself into this mess, Gil?" Brass asked over his glass.
"I just put one foot in front of the other and blindly walked right into it, Jim. At every fork in the road where a decision had to be made, I either didn't make one or made the wrong one, not realizing it was that important. They just all added up, I guess," he sighed, taking a larger than necessary gulp of the smoky brown sedative.
"I mean, you don't go to bed at night a shy science nerd and wake up in the morning saying, 'Oh! Think I'll bang a dominatrix tonight'."
Grissom showed his displeasure at Brass's irreverent speech with a pinched face.
"Well, no, that's not how it happened."
"I know she's good-looking and all, but Las Vegas is full of good-looking women, and most of them don't keep coming up in homicide investigations."
"I know. It was just ... She was ... I just felt ... Oh, hell, I don't know."
Brass nodded sagely and examined his drink, finally deciding that less needed to be in the glass and more needed to be in his bloodstream.
"I guess I was just lonely. It had been a long time since the last time I ... well, you know."
"So, you were just using her?"
"I didn't think so at the time, but maybe so. I guess that makes me a jerk."
"She probably didn't mind. That's her job, after all."
"I didn't pay her, for God's sake, Brass!"
"She still got what she wanted, you can be sure of that."
"How do you figure that?"
"You were a challenge because her thing is so far removed from yours, ya know?"
"What?"
"It's like, hmmmm, like these pimps who turn some Iowa farm girl into a hooker. Part of the thrill is destroying something good, something very unlike yourself. Maybe she was trying to 'turn' you, and she did, at least for a while. Made her feel powerful, I bet."
"She doesn't need me for that. She's a very strong, independent woman."
"...who wanted to be dominated by a strong, independent man. She couldn't fit into your world, so she brought you down into hers," Brass added to Grissom's sentence.
"I liked her, but it didn't take long to decide I didn't like her world. But at first it was ... intriguing," Grissom offered distractedly.
"Intriguing?" Brass questioned, eyebrows raised. "It's disgusting."
"Come on, Brass. There are a lot of people out there who wouldn't understand how we can do what we do every day. But to us, murder and mayhem are intriguing. Others find it as disgusting as you find Heather's world."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Look, we've got a whole bottle of JD and neither of us has to work tomorrow - thank God. Why don't you just start at your first wrong decision, and tell me the story from there?"
"I don't think I can go back to the first wrong decision. It was too many years ago to remember."
"Well, at least back up a little. I have a feeling there's more to this story than you just being horny one night."
"Did anyone ever tell you that you have a poetic way with words, Brass?"
"Yeah, all the time."
"I'm definitely going to need another drink for this," Grissom said, pushing his glass towards Brass, who obliged like a seasoned barkeep. Grissom was already three sheets to the wind, and his usual reticence was starting to crumble. He'd known Jim Brass for somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 or 16 years, all told. He had never talked to anyone about his 'problem' with Sara, other than Catherine, and then only metaphorically, with Catherine doing almost all the talking. But Sara's offer of a dinner date shook him up, and he felt the need to talk to someone who really knew him, and could relate better than Catherine.
"I kind of had my eye on someone else that I was interested in. But she took up with someone else."
"Um hum. Anyone I know?" Brass asked too innocently.
Grissom just shot Brass a questioning look, then continued, "I tried to hang around her as much as I could for a little while, but it just got too uncomfortable, so I decided I had to avoid her."
"Let me interrupt here, if that's OK with you?" Brass inquired.
Grissom nodded and took the opportunity to re-fortify himself, ensuring his blood alcohol level didn't drop into legal tolerance.
"Did this other person know you were interested in her?"
"I thought so."
"But you didn't actually say anything?"
"Not recently."
"OK, go on."
"But a situation came up where I had to be around her ... alone ... a lot. It was almost too much for me to handle, Brass. It got me pretty worked up."
"Stands to reason."
"So I decided that I really had to avoid her altogether, to keep from losing control over the situation. I mean, she was involved with someone else, so it wouldn't be right. And there were other issues as well."
"You realize of course that nothing about this story makes any sense, with the way you're telling it?" Brass chuckled.
"Well, it's hard to go into more detail and still respect other people's privacy," Grissom entoned solemnly.
"Hang on. Maybe I can help you out," Brass said, taking out his cell phone. Holding it so that Grissom couldn't see that he wasn't really dialing, he suddenly spoke, "Hey, it's Brass. Look, I'm sitting here with Grissom over a bottle of JD, and he'll trying to explain to me how he fucked everything up. Uh huh. Yeah." Brass nodded.
Grissom looked at him incredulously and tried to snatch away the cell. "Who are you talking to?" he shouted. Brass just kept slapping away his hands and continued, "Yeah, I was wondering if it was OK for him to just say your name, because the story's getting real freaking confusing with him trying to hide it. Yeah? Thanks!" Brass slammed the phone shut. "Sara said it's OK."
"You didn't! You wouldn't!" Grissom bellowed.
"I would, but you're right, I didn't," Brass choked out between peals of laughter.
"Asshole!"
"Better men than you have called me worse!" Brass rejoined.
"I can believe that!" Grissom said, picking up his glass with a shaking hand and taking a long pull.
"Anyhow, you had the hots for Sara. This is not news to anybody, with the possible exception of Sara. Now, go on."
Rolling his eyes, but giving up, Grissom continued, "You remember the Hanson case? The one where the boy was stabbed, then run over by the taxi driver?"
"Yeah, and the mob killed the driver, right?"
"Right. Sara was supposed to be going to a continuing education seminar on forensic anthropology. I called everyone else on the roster, but no one could get free. I tried to get Catherine to come in, even though she was on vacation and it was Lindsey's birthday, that's how desperate I was."
"Bet that went over well."
"I believe her exact words were, 'Eat shit and die, Grissom'."
Brass chortled, "That's our Cath."
"So I called Sara in anyway. She was smiling but sarcastic when she reminded me that she needed to go to the seminar, but I convinced her to stay."
"How?"
"I told her I needed her."
"Double entendre?" Brass shot back.
"I'm impressed, Brass. Kind of a fancy phrase for you, isn't it?" Grissom chuckled into his drink.
Brass shrugged good-naturedly and motioned for Grissom to continue.
"Like I said, we worked very closely together ... and I mean very closely. If I got within 5 feet of her it was like I had to touch her, you know?"
"Did she seem to mind?"
"No. That's the bad part."
"Yeah, I can see where that would be bad," Brass countered, with a look of total confusion on his face. "You wanted her big time, you kept touching her, she didn't do or say anything to stop it. And that's a bad thing, right?"
"Right."
"You know, I'm starting to see how this got all clustered up. But, please, go on." Brass just shook his head.
"Well, it got so bad that I was afraid I was going to embarrass myself, if you catch my drift," Grissom shared in a hushed voice, leaning forward as though there was anyone else who could have heard. "I had a couple of close calls."
"Ah-ha, yeah, I think I know what you mean. Couldn't a cold shower have done the trick?"
"I haven't had a hot shower in three years, Brass," Grissom retorted to Brass's amusement.
"Then what?"
"I was successful in completely avoiding her, other than handing out assignments, for about five weeks, then I hear through the grapevine that Sara called Hank 'baby' at a crime scene. I just snapped."
"But you didn't want to see her at that point, so what difference was it to you?"
"I don't know. I guess I felt like I was trying to be in control of the situation, then I realized that there wasn't a situation to control anymore."
"OK, I've had a lot to drink, so let me make sure I'm on track here," Brass interrupted. "You didn't actually want to have sex with Sara yourself - you just didn't want anyone else to? Is that right? Just kind of keep her on ice?"
"I don't think that would be an entirely accurate statement, Brass. Maybe the 'keep her on ice' part, though, to be honest."
"OK, how 'bout, you did want to have sex with Sara, but you didn't for whatever reason, and you didn't want anyone else to? Is that more accurate?"
Rubbing his eyes and then moving his hands to his forehead, Grissom thought for a moment. "I guess that would be more accurate, yes. But don't reduce it to just sex."
"OK. Go on."
"Then you and I started working the dead gigolo case that led us to Lady Heather."
"I think I'm starting to get the picture."
"She just came on so strong, and it was just so different having someone just say exactly what they wanted from me. No games."
"So you were all worked up over Sara, but you slept with Heather?"
"I guess that about sums it up."
"Here, have another drink. Have you seen her anymore?"
"I went by later to apologize. Not only for treating her like a suspect, but for using her. But I couldn't go in. I was afraid if I did that I would just end up staying again, and I knew I didn't want that."
"Has she contacted you since then?"
"No."
"Then I think she knew the score and is OK with it."
"I hope so. She really didn't do anything to deserve how I treated her."
"Oh, lighten up, Grissom. She wanted a roll in the hay with you. You needed to get your mind off Sara and get your hormones straightened out again. You're both grown ups. You both got what you wanted. Move on."
"You sound like Catherine."
"But I don't look as good without my clothes on," he winked.
"I don't know if I can stand up," Grissom murmured suddenly, tentatively putting some weight on his legs.
"Then don't," Brass offered.
Grissom obediently gave up the attempt to move and continued, "So, I decided to stay away from both of them. But then, when the lab blew up, all I could think about after they took Greg away was whether Sara was OK. She was just sitting there, all alone on the curb, in a daze. I couldn't stop myself. I had to make sure she was OK."
Grissom began to think of the chaos swirling outside of the lab. People he worked with every day walking around crying, bleeding. People hugging friends they found. People searching for friends they haven't found, panic in their eyes. He took another long drink and sucked in a deep breath.
"I slipped and called her 'honey'."
"She probably didn't realize it."
"I don't know ... A couple of days later, she asked me out for dinner."
"What did you say?" Brass asked, suddenly interested at this new wrinkle.
"I said 'no'. It came out wrong, though, as usual. I meant, 'No, I don't think that's a good idea,' but it came out like 'No, why would I want to have dinner with you?' I was thinking about how dangerous it would be - there's no way it would have stopped with dinner. It would be like playing with fire."
"What did she say?"
"She ignored it. She smiled and asked me again - said 'Let's see what happens'. I knew what would happen."
"Gutsy gal," Brass asserted, lifting his drink to her. "What'd you tell her?"
"I told her the truth, for once. I told her I didn't know what to do about this."
"About what?"
"This. This 'thing' between us."
"You honestly don't know what to do?" Brass asked, raising his voice and his eyebrows. 'God!' Brass thought, 'How can someone with a genius-level IQ be so freaking stupid! This is not rocket science. Nevermind,' he reminded himself, 'He'd probably get it if it was rocket science. But what to do with a warm-blooded female who thinks he hung the moon is just too hard to fathom.'
"She said that she knows, but that it could be too late by the time I figure it out. I'm not sure what she means by 'too late'. Too late because she can get another man in about, oh, 2 seconds? Too late because she'll leave? Too late because we all could die at any moment? What happens if I'm too late?"
"What difference does it make? You would be too late either way," Brass spoke darkly, pouring another round. They half-emptied their glasses in silence.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Grissom warned.
"Not in my office!" Brass thundered. Getting up unsteadily, but gathering himself as he had practiced for many years, Brass rounded the desk and helped Grissom to his feet, pulling his right arm across his shoulders to support him. "You geeks can't hold your liquor!" he admonished and opened the door, half-pulling and half-carrying Grissom through the opening.
Looking both ways down the hall, Brass saw that the coast was clear and began to drag the stumbling Grissom to the men's room, which thankfully was only a few doors down. He barely got him to a stall before the fireworks began. Within a few moments, Grissom was lying on the floor, pressing his face on the cool tile surface, willing the room to stop spinning.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, Gil," Brass said, offering him a handful of damp paper towels. "I guess it's a good thing you threw up. If just a few tumblers of JD is doing this, you soon could have ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. That wouldn't play well with the new boss, would it?"
"That was a 12-oz glass you kept filling for me, Brass," Grissom noted. "And right at this minute, I don't give a fuck what the new boss thinks. I just want to crawl off and die."
"You can sleep it off on the couch in my office."
"I wanna go home," Grissom slurred.
"Well, I certainly can't drive, and you can't even walk, so I think that's out of the question," Brass told him firmly.
Brass tried to heft Grissom up off the floor, but was almost pulled down in the process. "Come on, Griss. You've got to try to help." He tried again, and got him to his feet, supporting him again by holding Grissom's arm across his shoulder and holding onto his belt with his other hand. "Come on, partner," he cajoled.
He pushed through the door, pulling Grissom with him, being careful not to let his lolling head crash into the frame. He was less than 10 feet from his office door when he heard, "What the hell is going on?!" He cringed when he heard her voice, and looked over at Grissom to see if he heard the same thing, hoping it had been a hallucination. Grissom, however, appeared to be well on the way to passing out.
"Nothing, Sara. We just ... Grissom's a little ... Uh, would you please open the door for me?" he asked as sweetly as he could slur.
"You guys are so plastered!" she shouted.
"Shhhhh! You don't have to announce it, Sara. Just help me get him to the couch, OK? You can kill us both later, when we're sober."
Sara opened the door and took Grissom's other arm over her shoulder. They dragged him over to the couch, his toes scraping the floor, unable to move at all.
Looking around, she saw the almost-empty bottle of Jack sitting on the desk and shook her head. She went back to the door quickly and locked it.
"This is so stupid, Brass. What were you thinking? If you two wanted to get falling down drunk, you should have taken it somewhere else," she chided, grabbing the box of tissues and wiping Grissom's face.
"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," he offered, shrugging.
"It wasn't. This place is full of people 24/7. How are we going to get him out of here?" she wondered aloud.
"Sara, I'm sorry. We didn't mean to. We just got to talking, and Grissom was kind of bummed, and one thing led to another. Next thing you know, he's puking in the men's room."
"What is he so upset about that he's got to get dead drunk?" she asked, fire shooting in her eyes, daring Brass to lie.
"I'm too drunk to talk about this, Sara. I might mess it all up. You should ask Grissom." Brass tried in vain to deflect her interrogation.
"I am not leaving here until you tell me what is wrong with Grissom!" she hissed at him, moving to within inches of his face. "And neither are you!"
"Uh, he just feels bad about ... uh ... about how ... hmmm ... about how he's messed everything up."
"Messed what up?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"You know ... everything."
"No, I don't know."
"That's the problem. You both know and neither one of you thinks you know ... or maybe you think the other one doesn't know ... or something like that," Brass mumbled, moving back to his chair to take another swig of his JD.
Sara knelt down in front of Grissom. While she was angry that he had behaved so irrationally, she was amazed at how peaceful and relaxed he looked, passed out on Brass's couch. She reached out and touched his face, then straightened out his hair with her fingers. "Grissom. Why did you do this to yourself?" she asked him in whispers.
Grissom's eyes rolled open and then slammed closed for a moment. He forced them open again and then smiled. "Sara," he said with a slur, but still in a reverential tone that almost took her breath away.
"I'm here, Grissom. Grissom? It's Sara. I'm here. Are you going to be OK?"
"Um hm ... OK ... Sara." He faded in and out of consciousness.
"Brass, is he going to be OK? How much did he drink?" Sara questioned.
"I don't know. About this much?" Brass measured a few inches of the bottle and shrugged. "But he threw some of it up," he offered as a consolation.
Looking at her watch, Sara could see that he'd been off work for about 3 hours. At his size, he might be able to metabolize about 2 ounces per hour. She estimated that he'd consumed approximately 20-25 ounces in 3 hours. No telling how much was still in his system.
"Brass, that's too much for him. I'm worried."
"Just watch him to make sure he doesn't throw up again and strangle. He'll sleep it off."
"I am not going to sit in your office for the next 10 hours watching him sleep and puke," Sara barked back.
"OK," Brass offered, not know what else to say.
"I'm going to pull my car around to the side entrance. I'll come back in and we'll get him out before anyone sees him like this." She turned to Brass, "You keep an eye on him for a few minutes. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes, ma'am," he saluted.
"Errrrrgh! I do not fucking believe this!" she exclaimed under her breath as she opened the door and stomped out of the room.
Within a few minutes she was back, helping Brass get Grissom to his feet. He briefly came around and smiled at both, then giggled before passing out again.
Sara opened the door and looked down the hall to the side exit. It was only about 15 feet away, and only the men's room and the janitor's closet were between them and the door. Figuring it was as good a time as any, she told Brass, "Now," and they started through the door, but had to pull back when a lab tech exited the men's room and walked away from them down the hall.
"Whew! That was close!" Brass expelled.
"Come on, before anyone else comes around," Sara ordered, and they made their way down the hall and burst through the exit into the morning light. Brass was temporarily blinded and couldn't seem to make his feet move in an orderly fashion.
"Brass, damn it! Come on! I can't carry him by myself," Sara shouted at him.
"Geez, Sara, I'm doin' the best I can here! Give me a fuckin' break, 'K?"
"I'm seriously considering breaking your fucking neck," she threatened.
They finally got Grissom situated in the back seat of the car, lying on his side, just in case he had to throw up during the trip. "Get in," she ordered Brass.
"Naw, I'm OK," he said. "I'll just go sleep in my office."
"I'll give you a ride home. Come on."
"No. I'm fine. I'll sleep here. I've done it lots of times. You just take care of Grissom. You will, right?"
"Of course."
"He needs you."
"Yeah, whatever. Just go get some sleep."
Driving home, Sara realized that she didn't have any way to get Grissom from the car to his bed. He lived in a second-story townhouse. She briefly considered calling Nick or Warrick, but ruled them out. She knew they would help and that they would keep it quiet under the circumstances, but she also knew that Grissom would be mortified if he found out that they had seen their mentor in this condition. She wondered what he would think of her seeing him like this, but finally concluded that he had frequently demonstrated that he didn't really care much about what she thought.
Catherine would come, but she wasn't any stronger than Sara, and she doubted that they could get him upstairs without some help from someone who had a Y chromosome.
Pulling out her cell phone, she decided that it was worth the embarrassment and risk, and she dialed. "Hey. It's Sara. Fine, thanks. Yeah, it's been awhile. Hey, I need to ask you for a really big favor. I know. I need for you to keep it a secret, OK? No, it's really important. Please? I've never asked you for anything before, Hank. Please just do this one thing for me. I'll tell you when you get here." She gave him the address and hung up.
She had only had a wait a few minutes at Grissom's house when Hank pulled up in his truck. "What's up, Sara? What do you need?" he asked as he bailed from the cab, concerned. Since they broke up he had not seen or heard from her, so he knew this had to be important.
"Hank, I need for you to help me get Grissom up there," she pointed to his door. "And I want you to check him out, make sure he's going to be all right."
"I would ask what's wrong, but I can smell it from here," Hank said, opening up the back door. He couldn't help but laugh at the thought of the serious, professional Gil Grissom, passed out drunk in the back of Sara's car. "How'd you get him so drunk?"
"I found him like this. Here, I'll help you," Sara offered.
"No. Just get the keys out of his pocket and go unlock the door. Get his bed turned down and I'll be up with him in a minute. Go on," he directed her.
"You can't get him up there alone, Hank!" Sara said.
"Sara, I wasn't always a paramedic. I am also a firefighter, you know. We carry unconscious people all the time. Just go."
Hank pulled Grissom out of the back seat, bent down, and slung him over his shoulder before standing up. "Damn! You are heavy!" Hank told the sleeping form as he stood up. "You need to hit the gym, man. Work off some of that beer belly." Hank chided him all the way to the stairs, then berated him more with each step up to the 2nd floor landing. He set him down, propping Grissom up against the wall for a moment, while he caught his breath.
Sara peeked out the door to see how he was doing and to guide him back to the bedroom she had located. The sheets were turned down and ready to receive him. Hank flung him across the bed rather unceremoniously, to Sara's great consternation. While Hank stood snickering, she pushed and pulled Grissom into place. She turned and gave Hank a fierce glare, then burst out giggling with him. Composing herself, she asked, "Hank, will you get him undressed for bed? I'll go in the other room."
"Hell, no! I've never undressed a man in bed, and I don't intend to start now," he cackled.
"Well, surely you don't intend for me to do it?" she asked, shocked.
"I don't see why not. It's not like you never thought about it!"
He ducked a wild swing and ran into the living room, falling on the couch, laughing until the tears and hiccoughs came.
Sara determined to go about the task in as professional a manner as she possibly could. She removed his shoes and socks first, then his shirt. She was grateful that he had worn a buttoned shirt today instead of a polo- style - she could just roll him from side to side to get his arms out of the sleeves. Sara found herself both relieved and strangely disappointed that he was wearing an undershirt. She stepped back and took a deep breath, calming herself and steeling herself for the final task - removing Grissom's pants.
"What's the matter, Sara? Afraid to let the tiger out of his cage?" Hank teased, suddenly appearing at the door.
"Just come take his pants off for me, Hank," she begged. "For all I know, he may not wear any brief or shorts."
"You wish!"
"If you aren't going to help, then at least get out! You are just making it harder!" she yelled.
"I won't even swing at that slow pitch, Sara. It's too easy," he quipped, turning to go back to the living room.
'This is freaking ridiculous. He's just a guy like any other guy. It's not like I've never seen a guy in his shorts before,' Sara resolved. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the slacks and slid down the zipper. The sound seemed to cut right through her. Shaking off the sensation, she tried to work the pants down without pulling off his boxers with them, which was easier said than done. 'I guess that answers the briefs or boxers question,' she mused. She had no idea it was so hard to undress an unconscious person. She'd undressed dead people, but that was different somehow.
Picking his clothes up and tossing them into the hamper, she rolled him on his side and put a pillow behind him so he wouldn't roll back over. She doused the light, closed the door and went into the living room.
"Hank, I want you to know how much I appreciate this. Really. But please don't tell anyone," she pleaded as she sat down nervously on the edge of the chair.
"I promise, Sara. I doubt anyone would believe me anyway," he said, and started giggling again.
"You're a good friend, Hank."
"You, too, Sara. We should have just kept it at that, I guess."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Sara, I meant it when I said I was sorry back then. I wasn't trying to hurt you or lead you on. Honest. I think I was just scared of how I felt about Elaine. Kind of emotionally distancing myself from her a little."
"I know what you mean, Hank."
"Yeah, I guess you do. That whole episode made me realize that I needed to let her know how I really felt."
"Good for you, Hank. I mean that."
"Um, Sara?"
"Yeah?"
"Have you told him how you feel?"
"Told who how I feel about what?"
"Told him," Hank jerked his head towards the bedroom, "how you feel about him," repeating the gesture.
"It's not the same, Hank."
"Why not?"
"Because you and Elaine love each other, you just needed to make a commitment."
"And?"
"Never gonna happen, Hank. I tried. I finally decided to quit waiting on him to make the first move, and I asked him out to dinner."
"And?"
"Shot down in flames."
"Ouch!"
"Yeah, you can say that again."
"Well, Sara, he'll come around or he's an idiot." Hank got up and went over to Sara, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Gotta run. Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks, Hank, for everything," she called out to him, locking the door behind him.
Sara rifled the fridge and came up with two bottles of water. She opened one for herself, then took the other into Grissom's room. Dehydration was a major player in the severity of hangovers, so she left it on his bedside table on a coaster. Checking out the bathroom medicine cabinet, she located the aspirin. 'Oh, yeah, he'll be needing these, too," she said, taking them in and setting them by the bed. Looking around, she found the trashcan and placed it strategically by the edge of the bed - just in case.
It was getting to be around noon, and she would normally start getting ready for bed about now. She wasn't sure it was safe to leave him yet, even though he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She went back to the kitchen to see if she could scare up something to eat, but she couldn't even identify most of the things she found. She wasn't sure if they were specimens or foodstuff, but she was sure she didn't want to eat them. Scanning the pantry, her eyes lit on something safe - peanut butter, one of the vegetarian's best friends. She made herself a PB&J and sat down to ponder the situation.
Should she stay and make sure he's all right? Should she leave before he wakes up and finds her there? Of course, Brass would still tell him she took him home, so it's not like she could hide it from him. She was definitely going to lie about how she got him upstairs. She decided to tell him that he was conscious and she just helped, and then only if he specifically asked. It would not be too surprising that he wouldn't remember, right?
She was getting tired and decided to check out the spare bedroom. Flipping on the lights, she was only mildly surprised that it was less a bedroom than a habitat. There was no way in hell that she was sleeping in a room with that many live bugs in it. It didn't matter that they were in cages. She would still feel like they were crawling all over her. She quickly turned off the light and closed the door.
'It's not the first time I've crashed on a couch,' she told herself, dragging a pillow and blanket out of the hall closet she located. Moving back into the living room, she noted that it was more of a love seat than a couch, and not very inviting for her 5'8" frame. She flopped down on it and tried to find a way to bend and mold herself to fit, but had no luck. Making it all the worse, it was leather and she found herself becoming hot and sticky where it touched her skin.
She decided to get up and check on Grissom again. If he was all right, maybe she would just write him a note to call her if he needed anything, then go home. She opened the bedroom door and stepped in. Between the blinds and the heavy curtains, Grissom had managed to make the bedroom still relatively dark in the bright Las Vegas daytime, and she couldn't really see him very well. She quietly crept up to the side of the bed and knelt down to look more closely at him. He was still sleeping, but he didn't look at all well, and she was worried that he might still get sick. It dawned on her that she might not hear it if she were in another room. She looked around in the dark for a chair, but there wasn't one big enough to sleep in.
"You know what, Grissom?" she said out loud. "I'm tired. And I'm going to bed." She took off her boots and socks, then slipped off her jeans and her sweater, leaving on her panties and camisole and walked around to the other side of the bed. Plopping down the pillow, she laid on top of the bedspread and covered herself with the blanket. Within 10 minutes, she was dead to the world.
She woke several hours later, disoriented and confused. 'Where the hell am I?' she asked herself, then roused herself enough to remember. 'Oh, yeah,' she recalled through a haze, and turned over lazily to see how he was doing. She was jolted awake when she found herself looking directly into his open eyes. He was just staring at her, unblinking. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing. She just stared back.
After what seemed hours, he finally broke the standoff: "Sara, why are you in my bed?"
"I was tired," she said, as though that was explanation enough.
"Oh. I see." After a few more moments, "Why are you in my house?"
"I brought you home."
"Oh." If his head didn't hurt so much, he might have actually been embarrassed, but that took too much thought for the moment.
"How are you feeling?"
"I think I'm going to die ... at least, I hope I do, and soon," he whined.
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse."
"Maybe you should take some aspirin and go back to sleep," she suggested softly.
"Maybe you should just shoot me and put me out of my misery," he countered.
"Don't tempt me," she warned.
"In that case, I'll take you up on your offer of aspirin," he conceded.
Sara got up and walked around the bed unselfconsciously, to retrieve the aspirin and water she had brought in. Grissom tracked her with his eyes, with his mouth literally hanging open at the sight. "Sara, do you realize that you are not fully dressed?"
"Yeah, I don't usually sleep in all my clothes ... except when I sleep in the breakroom at the lab, and I only do it then because I think there's some probably rule about being half-naked on the premises," she answered non-chalantly, opening the child-proof (and therefore drunk-proof) cap on the aspirin. Taking out two and uncapping the water, she leaned over and handed them to him. He sat up slowly in bed, feeling the room start to spin. When he finally made it to a sitting position, he gratefully took the pills from her and drank about half the water in one continuous gulp.
Her state of undress brought his attention to the fact that he was equally comfortable. "Sara? Who undressed me?" he asked warily.
"The same person who undressed me. Now, lie down and get some more sleep. It'll make you feel better."
He slid down and covered his eyes with an arm. How many times in the past several years had he fantasized about having Sara in his bed? Let's see, 365.25 days per year times 3 years. Then there was that time before she came here, when he first met her. And several times between then and when she came here. Minus the times he was mad at her. He approximated just over 1,100 times. Never had the fantasy gone like this. Is there a Guinness record for humiliation?
She began to walk around the room, picking up her clothes.
"Are you leaving?" Grissom asked weakly, from under his arm.
"Do you want me to leave?" she said, putting the decision squarely on him.
"You don't have to stay."
"Do you want me to leave?" she repeated.
"You can go now. I'll be OK. Thanks for getting me home."
"Do you want me to leave?" she repeated a little more forcefully. She stood, jeans in hand, waiting for his answer.
"Yes."
"OK, Grissom," she sighed, and she slid into her jeans, snapping them and zipping in almost one motion. She snatched up her socks and her boots, and looked around for her sweater. She had to get out before she said anything, before she let three years of accumulated frustration explode in Grissom's bedroom.
"No," he said in a voice so small that she could barely make it out.
"What, Grissom? I didn't hear you."
"No," a little stronger, but cracking.
"No, what?" she asked, a little more testily than she meant to sound.
"No, don't leave," he said, turning onto his side, facing away from her.
Setting her clothes and shoes down, she walked to the other side of the bed, where she could face him. She wanted to read the truth in his eyes, but they were still covered by an arm. He couldn't look at her, couldn't have her looking at him, couldn't have her seeing how vulnerable he was right now.
She decided to bet it all and roll the dice just one last time. "OK, I won't leave. I'll stay as long as you need me to," she promised, crawling up in his bed, propping her pillow behind her back as she sat against the headboard, next to his head.
"What if I need you all day?" he asked, leaning his head forward slightly until his forehead touched the outside of her thigh.
She put her hand on his head and smoothed down the errant curls. "Then I'll stay all day," she answered soothingly.
Pushing himself up and slowly laying his head in her lap, he asked so quietly that she had to lean down to hear, "What if I need you forever?"
"Then I'll stay forever."
Author: Burked Rating: PG-13, for a little OTT language
Spoilers: Yeah, sort of, but from a decidedly different
viewpoint. The first half is pre-PWF. The second half is
after.
Disclaimers: Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Zuicker, who knows who
else owns a piece of them? I know I don't own any of the
characters. I am merely one of 27 million confused viewers.
Thanks: I appreciate the advice I got from Duckfeat and
Tenof-10. It's hard to have people get drunk, allowing them to
get a little out of character, without losing them altogether.
They helped keep me corralled as much as possible.
Outside the Box, Looking In
"Did you love him?" Catherine asked, after the waitress dropped off two more dripping bottles of cold beer.
"No, not really, not yet anyway, but I loved how he treated me. Or how I thought he was treating me," Sara corrected herself. "Cath, I don't know what's happened to me. Before I came here I used to feel pretty confident about my relationships. I'd try to keep it light, and just enjoy the good times, ya know? When they ended, I'd cry, but I'd try to be philosophical and move on. Now? I'm letting them really get to me," Sara confessed, and then picked up her third beer in the last half hour.
"It's probably that biological clock ticking," Catherine suggested.
"Whatever it is, it is seriously hosing up my life," Sara said.
"Nothing unusual about that, Sara. Everyone wants to feel special to someone," Catherine offered somewhat glumly, trying not to think of herself.
"You know, when I was a kid I didn't understand that Crosby, Stills and Nash song, Love the One You're With. Now it's meaning is all too clear to me." She hummed a few bars, then sang the chorus: "And if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." She cracked a sad smile and picked back up her beer. "God knows I tried, but I just couldn't pull that off either."
"Well, you weren't the only one who tried and failed at that," Catherine sighed, shaking her head back and forth.
"At least I wasn't dating someone who required a permit for a sexually oriented business," Sara hissed.
"Oh, so you heard about that?" Catherine questioned sympathetically.
"How could I miss it? It was all over the lab, the PD, hell, even the guys Hank works with were laughing about it."
"He feels bad about it."
"I guess so! He made a fool out of himself, panting after that S&M freak like a dog in heat."
"Maybe she made him feel special," Catherine offered experimentally.
"I don't even want to think of how or what she might have made him feel." Sara snarked, scrunching her face to match her disgust. Taking a long pull on her beer, she leaned over towards Catherine, "Everyone's wondering who was dominant and who was submissive."
"I doubt it was that sort of encounter," Catherine remarked pointedly.
Changing the subject slightly, Sara continued, "Nick said she was pretty attractive. What did you think, Cath? What did she look like?" Sara asked, trying to adopt a tone of indifference.
"She was attractive, yes. She was about your height, brunette, very strong- willed and independent. Remind you of anyone?" Catherine asked.
"Do not even tell me that you are comparing that freak to me!" Sara shouted.
"I didn't say you were clones. She was very calm, where you're ... energetic. She has light eyes, where yours are dark. You are very different in a lot of ways. But very alike in others."
"Sounds like you liked her," Sara stated hesitantly.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I did," Catherine answered honestly.
"It's hard to understand that, Catherine. How you could like someone like that. How he could sleep with someone like that. She's so ... different."
"I guess you'd have to meet her to understand. You are judging her on what you've heard and what you imagine, instead of what you know," Catherine admonished. "That's not very scientific of you, nor very fair of you."
"Well, she's managed to do in a few days what I haven't been able to do in years, so she must have something going for her," Sara conceded, peeling the label off her beer bottle.
"She had some advantages. But she had some big disadvantages as well. In the end, she didn't have him for long, just a few hours."
"What kind of advantages?" Sara asked, her curiosity piqued.
"She wasn't afraid to tell him what she wanted, in no uncertain terms. She didn't wait for him, she just made her move. She was from the outside, so he didn't have to worry about professional ramifications. She was also temporary, so he didn't have to worry about disappointing her. He didn't have to invest much into it, so it was very low-risk. It's not like he was in love with her."
"He just used her, then," Sara concluded, not really any happier with that thought, unwilling to think of Grissom in that negative light, no matter how annoyed she might be with him.
"Well, if you can't be with the one you love ..." Catherine quoted.
"Grissom doesn't love anybody, not even himself it seems," Sara snapped back.
"Is that what you really think, Sara?" Catherine asked candidly. "You couldn't be more wrong. He loves somebody."
"If not her, then who?"
"That's not for me to say." Catherine had to bite her tongue to keep from spilling the truth, and had to still her hands from wanting to grab Sara and shake her.
"There was a time not so long ago when I wished it had been me," Sara confided, shocked at herself for letting the words spill out. It's amazing how emotional pain and a few beers will loosen the tongue.
"I know," Catherine assured her.
"How did you know? I didn't tell a soul!" Sara argued.
"You didn't have to say it with words, Sara. You said it with your body language every time he came into the room. You became radiant, more alive. Everyone could see it."
"That's embarrassing. I didn't realize that I was acting like some giddy teenager with a crush," she returned glumly.
"You weren't, don't worry. At least not in front of us."
"One question, though. If absolutely everyone saw it, how come he didn't?"
"Maybe he did."
"So that's why he's not even speaking to me?"
"No, that's why every time we saw you two together he was practically draped all over you," Catherine snorted.
"He was not!"
"Puh-leeze! There was rarely room for air to pass between you two most of the time. And you guys would stare at each other when the other wasn't looking. And when you worked together you'd do stuff like finish each other's sentences."
"Catherine! This is really getting embarrassing."
"Look, I'm not trying to embarrass you, and I don't think you should feel that way. I'm just trying to get you to see that you weren't wrong about him. He does care, and he showed it in the only way he felt he could."
"Well, that was a long time ago," Sara murmured, picking up the cold, fresh beer dropped off by the waitress.
"Too long," Catherine agreed.
"Catherine, since you seemed to have the birds-eye view on all of this, tell me, why did he stop?" Sara asked.
"You told him to," she answered simply, as though it were obvious.
"What are you talking about? I never told him to stop. I never wanted him to stop. If anything, I wanted more!" Sara exclaimed in her own defense.
"You started dating another man."
"He told me to get a life!"
"I don't think that's the life he was referring to, Sara," Catherine scolded her. "But since that's the one you chose, he respected your decision and backed off. Way off."
"I don't even know why I did it, to be honest, Cath," Sara groaned. "Maybe I wanted to get back at him. Maybe I just wanted to make him jealous, thinking a little competition would get him to just do something."
"Not every man is competitive that way, Sara. The sensitive ones just want you to be happy."
"OK, maybe I've had too many beers here. Let me see if I can digest all this. You could all see that I was in ... uh, that I was interested in him. You're telling me the feeling was mutual. I thought he was pushing me away when he told me to get a life, but you say he didn't mean it that way. I started dating someone else. He slept with someone else. Because he is in love with me?"
"What do you think?"
"I think that I am very confused."
"Join the club. You're confused. He's confused. All the rest of us are confused just watching you two being confused."
"Well, Hank and I are not together now, so why is he still avoiding me like the plague? He talks to me even less now, if that's even possible."
"Hey, he's got his male pride, too, you know. In his mind, he was dumped and that hurts. He's going to stay as far away from the source of that pain as he can. You being unattached now just makes you all the more dangerous."
"So basically I'm screwed?"
"Not necessarily, but you're going to have to start back at square one, and this time you're going to have to take the initiative. Take a page out of Heather's book and tell him what you want. Ask him out on a date. Don't be too aggressive, but be the instigator. He's going to have to be shown that you really want to be with him, or he'll never open back up. And even then, it's going to be rough. He's going to find every excuse in the book for why it won't work. Just be ready for them so you can defuse them."
"But I don't understand why it can't work. I've never understood what was holding him back if he really cared."
"Well, of course for him there's the age difference."
"That's bullshit."
"To you. Not to him."
Catherine threw out another example. "What's the one thing in his life that's always given him a sense of accomplishment? Outside of any romantic interest, what's the one thing he loves?" she asked.
"His work? I understand that. I love my work, too! That should be a bonus, because I understand what he does and appreciate it, and wouldn't begrudge the time and attention he gives to his work."
"I know. I'm not talking about a work/relationship conflict. I'm talking about one or both of you losing your jobs over a romance that may or may not even last. It's a big risk for him. Too big, especially if he's not sure of the payoff."
"That's ridiculous. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his job!"
"Not on purpose, but shit happens. All it would take is for some lab tech to see you two cuddled up at some restaurant, and next thing you know, he's getting his ass handed to him by Cavallo and Mobley."
"We could be discreet."
"For awhile, but that sort of discretion can't last forever. No matter where you tried to meet, there's always someone who could see you. And you can't hide a relationship if you want it to grow."
"So I am screwed."
"Maybe. Maybe not," Catherine answered cryptically. "Where's the absolutely best place to hide something?"
Sara thought for a moment, concentrating on the drops of condensation joining each other and sliding down the brown bottle she held. "In plain sight," she answered, ironically noting that her vision was starting to blur from too much alcohol in too short a time span.
"Um hum. We adjust to what's right in front of us, to the point where it's practically invisible."
"Fine in theory. And what is the real-life application here?"
"Find out exactly what the policies are on 'fraternizing' between a supervisor and a staff CSI. There may not even be a written policy on it. If there isn't, fuck 'em, they can't do a thing about it. If there is, study it for every loophole. You may be able to get around it with just a few 'modifications'." Catherine suggested. "Just don't try so hard to hide it that it looks like you're guilty of something."
"I've got to think about all of this. I mean, I would be risking a lot, too, even if this policy thing works out. After being snubbed for months - even though I think understand why now - I'm just supposed to waltz up and ask him on a date, out of the clear blue. You know that he is just going to shoot me down, right?"
"Probably, at first. Wouldn't you? But don't give up. He's got a lot on his mind right now and he may not want to deal with it. But keep at him, and you'll wear down his defenses. He wants to do it, he just doesn't know how."
"It could all be just a waste of another three years," she posited, dejectedly.
"It could. But the real question you have to answer is: 'Is it worth it to me?' If you aren't sure you love him, the answer is 'no'. It will definitely be more trouble than it's worth. If you do love him, the answer is 'yes'. It's worth whatever it takes. I can't answer that for you. You are the only one who knows."
The two women fell into the most comfortable silence they had ever shared. For once, Sara felt that Catherine was not competing with her, but was honestly trying to help her.
"Hey, Cath, where can I get a copy of those departmental policies?"
Inside the Box, Looking Out
"Here, let me freshen your drink," Brass said, sloshing more Jack Daniels into Grissom's tumbler.
"Thanks," Grissom said. They were sitting in Brass's office, with the door locked, the blinds closed and the light off, save a small desk lamp.
"How'd you get yourself into this mess, Gil?" Brass asked over his glass.
"I just put one foot in front of the other and blindly walked right into it, Jim. At every fork in the road where a decision had to be made, I either didn't make one or made the wrong one, not realizing it was that important. They just all added up, I guess," he sighed, taking a larger than necessary gulp of the smoky brown sedative.
"I mean, you don't go to bed at night a shy science nerd and wake up in the morning saying, 'Oh! Think I'll bang a dominatrix tonight'."
Grissom showed his displeasure at Brass's irreverent speech with a pinched face.
"Well, no, that's not how it happened."
"I know she's good-looking and all, but Las Vegas is full of good-looking women, and most of them don't keep coming up in homicide investigations."
"I know. It was just ... She was ... I just felt ... Oh, hell, I don't know."
Brass nodded sagely and examined his drink, finally deciding that less needed to be in the glass and more needed to be in his bloodstream.
"I guess I was just lonely. It had been a long time since the last time I ... well, you know."
"So, you were just using her?"
"I didn't think so at the time, but maybe so. I guess that makes me a jerk."
"She probably didn't mind. That's her job, after all."
"I didn't pay her, for God's sake, Brass!"
"She still got what she wanted, you can be sure of that."
"How do you figure that?"
"You were a challenge because her thing is so far removed from yours, ya know?"
"What?"
"It's like, hmmmm, like these pimps who turn some Iowa farm girl into a hooker. Part of the thrill is destroying something good, something very unlike yourself. Maybe she was trying to 'turn' you, and she did, at least for a while. Made her feel powerful, I bet."
"She doesn't need me for that. She's a very strong, independent woman."
"...who wanted to be dominated by a strong, independent man. She couldn't fit into your world, so she brought you down into hers," Brass added to Grissom's sentence.
"I liked her, but it didn't take long to decide I didn't like her world. But at first it was ... intriguing," Grissom offered distractedly.
"Intriguing?" Brass questioned, eyebrows raised. "It's disgusting."
"Come on, Brass. There are a lot of people out there who wouldn't understand how we can do what we do every day. But to us, murder and mayhem are intriguing. Others find it as disgusting as you find Heather's world."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Look, we've got a whole bottle of JD and neither of us has to work tomorrow - thank God. Why don't you just start at your first wrong decision, and tell me the story from there?"
"I don't think I can go back to the first wrong decision. It was too many years ago to remember."
"Well, at least back up a little. I have a feeling there's more to this story than you just being horny one night."
"Did anyone ever tell you that you have a poetic way with words, Brass?"
"Yeah, all the time."
"I'm definitely going to need another drink for this," Grissom said, pushing his glass towards Brass, who obliged like a seasoned barkeep. Grissom was already three sheets to the wind, and his usual reticence was starting to crumble. He'd known Jim Brass for somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 or 16 years, all told. He had never talked to anyone about his 'problem' with Sara, other than Catherine, and then only metaphorically, with Catherine doing almost all the talking. But Sara's offer of a dinner date shook him up, and he felt the need to talk to someone who really knew him, and could relate better than Catherine.
"I kind of had my eye on someone else that I was interested in. But she took up with someone else."
"Um hum. Anyone I know?" Brass asked too innocently.
Grissom just shot Brass a questioning look, then continued, "I tried to hang around her as much as I could for a little while, but it just got too uncomfortable, so I decided I had to avoid her."
"Let me interrupt here, if that's OK with you?" Brass inquired.
Grissom nodded and took the opportunity to re-fortify himself, ensuring his blood alcohol level didn't drop into legal tolerance.
"Did this other person know you were interested in her?"
"I thought so."
"But you didn't actually say anything?"
"Not recently."
"OK, go on."
"But a situation came up where I had to be around her ... alone ... a lot. It was almost too much for me to handle, Brass. It got me pretty worked up."
"Stands to reason."
"So I decided that I really had to avoid her altogether, to keep from losing control over the situation. I mean, she was involved with someone else, so it wouldn't be right. And there were other issues as well."
"You realize of course that nothing about this story makes any sense, with the way you're telling it?" Brass chuckled.
"Well, it's hard to go into more detail and still respect other people's privacy," Grissom entoned solemnly.
"Hang on. Maybe I can help you out," Brass said, taking out his cell phone. Holding it so that Grissom couldn't see that he wasn't really dialing, he suddenly spoke, "Hey, it's Brass. Look, I'm sitting here with Grissom over a bottle of JD, and he'll trying to explain to me how he fucked everything up. Uh huh. Yeah." Brass nodded.
Grissom looked at him incredulously and tried to snatch away the cell. "Who are you talking to?" he shouted. Brass just kept slapping away his hands and continued, "Yeah, I was wondering if it was OK for him to just say your name, because the story's getting real freaking confusing with him trying to hide it. Yeah? Thanks!" Brass slammed the phone shut. "Sara said it's OK."
"You didn't! You wouldn't!" Grissom bellowed.
"I would, but you're right, I didn't," Brass choked out between peals of laughter.
"Asshole!"
"Better men than you have called me worse!" Brass rejoined.
"I can believe that!" Grissom said, picking up his glass with a shaking hand and taking a long pull.
"Anyhow, you had the hots for Sara. This is not news to anybody, with the possible exception of Sara. Now, go on."
Rolling his eyes, but giving up, Grissom continued, "You remember the Hanson case? The one where the boy was stabbed, then run over by the taxi driver?"
"Yeah, and the mob killed the driver, right?"
"Right. Sara was supposed to be going to a continuing education seminar on forensic anthropology. I called everyone else on the roster, but no one could get free. I tried to get Catherine to come in, even though she was on vacation and it was Lindsey's birthday, that's how desperate I was."
"Bet that went over well."
"I believe her exact words were, 'Eat shit and die, Grissom'."
Brass chortled, "That's our Cath."
"So I called Sara in anyway. She was smiling but sarcastic when she reminded me that she needed to go to the seminar, but I convinced her to stay."
"How?"
"I told her I needed her."
"Double entendre?" Brass shot back.
"I'm impressed, Brass. Kind of a fancy phrase for you, isn't it?" Grissom chuckled into his drink.
Brass shrugged good-naturedly and motioned for Grissom to continue.
"Like I said, we worked very closely together ... and I mean very closely. If I got within 5 feet of her it was like I had to touch her, you know?"
"Did she seem to mind?"
"No. That's the bad part."
"Yeah, I can see where that would be bad," Brass countered, with a look of total confusion on his face. "You wanted her big time, you kept touching her, she didn't do or say anything to stop it. And that's a bad thing, right?"
"Right."
"You know, I'm starting to see how this got all clustered up. But, please, go on." Brass just shook his head.
"Well, it got so bad that I was afraid I was going to embarrass myself, if you catch my drift," Grissom shared in a hushed voice, leaning forward as though there was anyone else who could have heard. "I had a couple of close calls."
"Ah-ha, yeah, I think I know what you mean. Couldn't a cold shower have done the trick?"
"I haven't had a hot shower in three years, Brass," Grissom retorted to Brass's amusement.
"Then what?"
"I was successful in completely avoiding her, other than handing out assignments, for about five weeks, then I hear through the grapevine that Sara called Hank 'baby' at a crime scene. I just snapped."
"But you didn't want to see her at that point, so what difference was it to you?"
"I don't know. I guess I felt like I was trying to be in control of the situation, then I realized that there wasn't a situation to control anymore."
"OK, I've had a lot to drink, so let me make sure I'm on track here," Brass interrupted. "You didn't actually want to have sex with Sara yourself - you just didn't want anyone else to? Is that right? Just kind of keep her on ice?"
"I don't think that would be an entirely accurate statement, Brass. Maybe the 'keep her on ice' part, though, to be honest."
"OK, how 'bout, you did want to have sex with Sara, but you didn't for whatever reason, and you didn't want anyone else to? Is that more accurate?"
Rubbing his eyes and then moving his hands to his forehead, Grissom thought for a moment. "I guess that would be more accurate, yes. But don't reduce it to just sex."
"OK. Go on."
"Then you and I started working the dead gigolo case that led us to Lady Heather."
"I think I'm starting to get the picture."
"She just came on so strong, and it was just so different having someone just say exactly what they wanted from me. No games."
"So you were all worked up over Sara, but you slept with Heather?"
"I guess that about sums it up."
"Here, have another drink. Have you seen her anymore?"
"I went by later to apologize. Not only for treating her like a suspect, but for using her. But I couldn't go in. I was afraid if I did that I would just end up staying again, and I knew I didn't want that."
"Has she contacted you since then?"
"No."
"Then I think she knew the score and is OK with it."
"I hope so. She really didn't do anything to deserve how I treated her."
"Oh, lighten up, Grissom. She wanted a roll in the hay with you. You needed to get your mind off Sara and get your hormones straightened out again. You're both grown ups. You both got what you wanted. Move on."
"You sound like Catherine."
"But I don't look as good without my clothes on," he winked.
"I don't know if I can stand up," Grissom murmured suddenly, tentatively putting some weight on his legs.
"Then don't," Brass offered.
Grissom obediently gave up the attempt to move and continued, "So, I decided to stay away from both of them. But then, when the lab blew up, all I could think about after they took Greg away was whether Sara was OK. She was just sitting there, all alone on the curb, in a daze. I couldn't stop myself. I had to make sure she was OK."
Grissom began to think of the chaos swirling outside of the lab. People he worked with every day walking around crying, bleeding. People hugging friends they found. People searching for friends they haven't found, panic in their eyes. He took another long drink and sucked in a deep breath.
"I slipped and called her 'honey'."
"She probably didn't realize it."
"I don't know ... A couple of days later, she asked me out for dinner."
"What did you say?" Brass asked, suddenly interested at this new wrinkle.
"I said 'no'. It came out wrong, though, as usual. I meant, 'No, I don't think that's a good idea,' but it came out like 'No, why would I want to have dinner with you?' I was thinking about how dangerous it would be - there's no way it would have stopped with dinner. It would be like playing with fire."
"What did she say?"
"She ignored it. She smiled and asked me again - said 'Let's see what happens'. I knew what would happen."
"Gutsy gal," Brass asserted, lifting his drink to her. "What'd you tell her?"
"I told her the truth, for once. I told her I didn't know what to do about this."
"About what?"
"This. This 'thing' between us."
"You honestly don't know what to do?" Brass asked, raising his voice and his eyebrows. 'God!' Brass thought, 'How can someone with a genius-level IQ be so freaking stupid! This is not rocket science. Nevermind,' he reminded himself, 'He'd probably get it if it was rocket science. But what to do with a warm-blooded female who thinks he hung the moon is just too hard to fathom.'
"She said that she knows, but that it could be too late by the time I figure it out. I'm not sure what she means by 'too late'. Too late because she can get another man in about, oh, 2 seconds? Too late because she'll leave? Too late because we all could die at any moment? What happens if I'm too late?"
"What difference does it make? You would be too late either way," Brass spoke darkly, pouring another round. They half-emptied their glasses in silence.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Grissom warned.
"Not in my office!" Brass thundered. Getting up unsteadily, but gathering himself as he had practiced for many years, Brass rounded the desk and helped Grissom to his feet, pulling his right arm across his shoulders to support him. "You geeks can't hold your liquor!" he admonished and opened the door, half-pulling and half-carrying Grissom through the opening.
Looking both ways down the hall, Brass saw that the coast was clear and began to drag the stumbling Grissom to the men's room, which thankfully was only a few doors down. He barely got him to a stall before the fireworks began. Within a few moments, Grissom was lying on the floor, pressing his face on the cool tile surface, willing the room to stop spinning.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, Gil," Brass said, offering him a handful of damp paper towels. "I guess it's a good thing you threw up. If just a few tumblers of JD is doing this, you soon could have ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. That wouldn't play well with the new boss, would it?"
"That was a 12-oz glass you kept filling for me, Brass," Grissom noted. "And right at this minute, I don't give a fuck what the new boss thinks. I just want to crawl off and die."
"You can sleep it off on the couch in my office."
"I wanna go home," Grissom slurred.
"Well, I certainly can't drive, and you can't even walk, so I think that's out of the question," Brass told him firmly.
Brass tried to heft Grissom up off the floor, but was almost pulled down in the process. "Come on, Griss. You've got to try to help." He tried again, and got him to his feet, supporting him again by holding Grissom's arm across his shoulder and holding onto his belt with his other hand. "Come on, partner," he cajoled.
He pushed through the door, pulling Grissom with him, being careful not to let his lolling head crash into the frame. He was less than 10 feet from his office door when he heard, "What the hell is going on?!" He cringed when he heard her voice, and looked over at Grissom to see if he heard the same thing, hoping it had been a hallucination. Grissom, however, appeared to be well on the way to passing out.
"Nothing, Sara. We just ... Grissom's a little ... Uh, would you please open the door for me?" he asked as sweetly as he could slur.
"You guys are so plastered!" she shouted.
"Shhhhh! You don't have to announce it, Sara. Just help me get him to the couch, OK? You can kill us both later, when we're sober."
Sara opened the door and took Grissom's other arm over her shoulder. They dragged him over to the couch, his toes scraping the floor, unable to move at all.
Looking around, she saw the almost-empty bottle of Jack sitting on the desk and shook her head. She went back to the door quickly and locked it.
"This is so stupid, Brass. What were you thinking? If you two wanted to get falling down drunk, you should have taken it somewhere else," she chided, grabbing the box of tissues and wiping Grissom's face.
"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," he offered, shrugging.
"It wasn't. This place is full of people 24/7. How are we going to get him out of here?" she wondered aloud.
"Sara, I'm sorry. We didn't mean to. We just got to talking, and Grissom was kind of bummed, and one thing led to another. Next thing you know, he's puking in the men's room."
"What is he so upset about that he's got to get dead drunk?" she asked, fire shooting in her eyes, daring Brass to lie.
"I'm too drunk to talk about this, Sara. I might mess it all up. You should ask Grissom." Brass tried in vain to deflect her interrogation.
"I am not leaving here until you tell me what is wrong with Grissom!" she hissed at him, moving to within inches of his face. "And neither are you!"
"Uh, he just feels bad about ... uh ... about how ... hmmm ... about how he's messed everything up."
"Messed what up?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"You know ... everything."
"No, I don't know."
"That's the problem. You both know and neither one of you thinks you know ... or maybe you think the other one doesn't know ... or something like that," Brass mumbled, moving back to his chair to take another swig of his JD.
Sara knelt down in front of Grissom. While she was angry that he had behaved so irrationally, she was amazed at how peaceful and relaxed he looked, passed out on Brass's couch. She reached out and touched his face, then straightened out his hair with her fingers. "Grissom. Why did you do this to yourself?" she asked him in whispers.
Grissom's eyes rolled open and then slammed closed for a moment. He forced them open again and then smiled. "Sara," he said with a slur, but still in a reverential tone that almost took her breath away.
"I'm here, Grissom. Grissom? It's Sara. I'm here. Are you going to be OK?"
"Um hm ... OK ... Sara." He faded in and out of consciousness.
"Brass, is he going to be OK? How much did he drink?" Sara questioned.
"I don't know. About this much?" Brass measured a few inches of the bottle and shrugged. "But he threw some of it up," he offered as a consolation.
Looking at her watch, Sara could see that he'd been off work for about 3 hours. At his size, he might be able to metabolize about 2 ounces per hour. She estimated that he'd consumed approximately 20-25 ounces in 3 hours. No telling how much was still in his system.
"Brass, that's too much for him. I'm worried."
"Just watch him to make sure he doesn't throw up again and strangle. He'll sleep it off."
"I am not going to sit in your office for the next 10 hours watching him sleep and puke," Sara barked back.
"OK," Brass offered, not know what else to say.
"I'm going to pull my car around to the side entrance. I'll come back in and we'll get him out before anyone sees him like this." She turned to Brass, "You keep an eye on him for a few minutes. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes, ma'am," he saluted.
"Errrrrgh! I do not fucking believe this!" she exclaimed under her breath as she opened the door and stomped out of the room.
Within a few minutes she was back, helping Brass get Grissom to his feet. He briefly came around and smiled at both, then giggled before passing out again.
Sara opened the door and looked down the hall to the side exit. It was only about 15 feet away, and only the men's room and the janitor's closet were between them and the door. Figuring it was as good a time as any, she told Brass, "Now," and they started through the door, but had to pull back when a lab tech exited the men's room and walked away from them down the hall.
"Whew! That was close!" Brass expelled.
"Come on, before anyone else comes around," Sara ordered, and they made their way down the hall and burst through the exit into the morning light. Brass was temporarily blinded and couldn't seem to make his feet move in an orderly fashion.
"Brass, damn it! Come on! I can't carry him by myself," Sara shouted at him.
"Geez, Sara, I'm doin' the best I can here! Give me a fuckin' break, 'K?"
"I'm seriously considering breaking your fucking neck," she threatened.
They finally got Grissom situated in the back seat of the car, lying on his side, just in case he had to throw up during the trip. "Get in," she ordered Brass.
"Naw, I'm OK," he said. "I'll just go sleep in my office."
"I'll give you a ride home. Come on."
"No. I'm fine. I'll sleep here. I've done it lots of times. You just take care of Grissom. You will, right?"
"Of course."
"He needs you."
"Yeah, whatever. Just go get some sleep."
Driving home, Sara realized that she didn't have any way to get Grissom from the car to his bed. He lived in a second-story townhouse. She briefly considered calling Nick or Warrick, but ruled them out. She knew they would help and that they would keep it quiet under the circumstances, but she also knew that Grissom would be mortified if he found out that they had seen their mentor in this condition. She wondered what he would think of her seeing him like this, but finally concluded that he had frequently demonstrated that he didn't really care much about what she thought.
Catherine would come, but she wasn't any stronger than Sara, and she doubted that they could get him upstairs without some help from someone who had a Y chromosome.
Pulling out her cell phone, she decided that it was worth the embarrassment and risk, and she dialed. "Hey. It's Sara. Fine, thanks. Yeah, it's been awhile. Hey, I need to ask you for a really big favor. I know. I need for you to keep it a secret, OK? No, it's really important. Please? I've never asked you for anything before, Hank. Please just do this one thing for me. I'll tell you when you get here." She gave him the address and hung up.
She had only had a wait a few minutes at Grissom's house when Hank pulled up in his truck. "What's up, Sara? What do you need?" he asked as he bailed from the cab, concerned. Since they broke up he had not seen or heard from her, so he knew this had to be important.
"Hank, I need for you to help me get Grissom up there," she pointed to his door. "And I want you to check him out, make sure he's going to be all right."
"I would ask what's wrong, but I can smell it from here," Hank said, opening up the back door. He couldn't help but laugh at the thought of the serious, professional Gil Grissom, passed out drunk in the back of Sara's car. "How'd you get him so drunk?"
"I found him like this. Here, I'll help you," Sara offered.
"No. Just get the keys out of his pocket and go unlock the door. Get his bed turned down and I'll be up with him in a minute. Go on," he directed her.
"You can't get him up there alone, Hank!" Sara said.
"Sara, I wasn't always a paramedic. I am also a firefighter, you know. We carry unconscious people all the time. Just go."
Hank pulled Grissom out of the back seat, bent down, and slung him over his shoulder before standing up. "Damn! You are heavy!" Hank told the sleeping form as he stood up. "You need to hit the gym, man. Work off some of that beer belly." Hank chided him all the way to the stairs, then berated him more with each step up to the 2nd floor landing. He set him down, propping Grissom up against the wall for a moment, while he caught his breath.
Sara peeked out the door to see how he was doing and to guide him back to the bedroom she had located. The sheets were turned down and ready to receive him. Hank flung him across the bed rather unceremoniously, to Sara's great consternation. While Hank stood snickering, she pushed and pulled Grissom into place. She turned and gave Hank a fierce glare, then burst out giggling with him. Composing herself, she asked, "Hank, will you get him undressed for bed? I'll go in the other room."
"Hell, no! I've never undressed a man in bed, and I don't intend to start now," he cackled.
"Well, surely you don't intend for me to do it?" she asked, shocked.
"I don't see why not. It's not like you never thought about it!"
He ducked a wild swing and ran into the living room, falling on the couch, laughing until the tears and hiccoughs came.
Sara determined to go about the task in as professional a manner as she possibly could. She removed his shoes and socks first, then his shirt. She was grateful that he had worn a buttoned shirt today instead of a polo- style - she could just roll him from side to side to get his arms out of the sleeves. Sara found herself both relieved and strangely disappointed that he was wearing an undershirt. She stepped back and took a deep breath, calming herself and steeling herself for the final task - removing Grissom's pants.
"What's the matter, Sara? Afraid to let the tiger out of his cage?" Hank teased, suddenly appearing at the door.
"Just come take his pants off for me, Hank," she begged. "For all I know, he may not wear any brief or shorts."
"You wish!"
"If you aren't going to help, then at least get out! You are just making it harder!" she yelled.
"I won't even swing at that slow pitch, Sara. It's too easy," he quipped, turning to go back to the living room.
'This is freaking ridiculous. He's just a guy like any other guy. It's not like I've never seen a guy in his shorts before,' Sara resolved. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the slacks and slid down the zipper. The sound seemed to cut right through her. Shaking off the sensation, she tried to work the pants down without pulling off his boxers with them, which was easier said than done. 'I guess that answers the briefs or boxers question,' she mused. She had no idea it was so hard to undress an unconscious person. She'd undressed dead people, but that was different somehow.
Picking his clothes up and tossing them into the hamper, she rolled him on his side and put a pillow behind him so he wouldn't roll back over. She doused the light, closed the door and went into the living room.
"Hank, I want you to know how much I appreciate this. Really. But please don't tell anyone," she pleaded as she sat down nervously on the edge of the chair.
"I promise, Sara. I doubt anyone would believe me anyway," he said, and started giggling again.
"You're a good friend, Hank."
"You, too, Sara. We should have just kept it at that, I guess."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Sara, I meant it when I said I was sorry back then. I wasn't trying to hurt you or lead you on. Honest. I think I was just scared of how I felt about Elaine. Kind of emotionally distancing myself from her a little."
"I know what you mean, Hank."
"Yeah, I guess you do. That whole episode made me realize that I needed to let her know how I really felt."
"Good for you, Hank. I mean that."
"Um, Sara?"
"Yeah?"
"Have you told him how you feel?"
"Told who how I feel about what?"
"Told him," Hank jerked his head towards the bedroom, "how you feel about him," repeating the gesture.
"It's not the same, Hank."
"Why not?"
"Because you and Elaine love each other, you just needed to make a commitment."
"And?"
"Never gonna happen, Hank. I tried. I finally decided to quit waiting on him to make the first move, and I asked him out to dinner."
"And?"
"Shot down in flames."
"Ouch!"
"Yeah, you can say that again."
"Well, Sara, he'll come around or he's an idiot." Hank got up and went over to Sara, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Gotta run. Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks, Hank, for everything," she called out to him, locking the door behind him.
Sara rifled the fridge and came up with two bottles of water. She opened one for herself, then took the other into Grissom's room. Dehydration was a major player in the severity of hangovers, so she left it on his bedside table on a coaster. Checking out the bathroom medicine cabinet, she located the aspirin. 'Oh, yeah, he'll be needing these, too," she said, taking them in and setting them by the bed. Looking around, she found the trashcan and placed it strategically by the edge of the bed - just in case.
It was getting to be around noon, and she would normally start getting ready for bed about now. She wasn't sure it was safe to leave him yet, even though he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She went back to the kitchen to see if she could scare up something to eat, but she couldn't even identify most of the things she found. She wasn't sure if they were specimens or foodstuff, but she was sure she didn't want to eat them. Scanning the pantry, her eyes lit on something safe - peanut butter, one of the vegetarian's best friends. She made herself a PB&J and sat down to ponder the situation.
Should she stay and make sure he's all right? Should she leave before he wakes up and finds her there? Of course, Brass would still tell him she took him home, so it's not like she could hide it from him. She was definitely going to lie about how she got him upstairs. She decided to tell him that he was conscious and she just helped, and then only if he specifically asked. It would not be too surprising that he wouldn't remember, right?
She was getting tired and decided to check out the spare bedroom. Flipping on the lights, she was only mildly surprised that it was less a bedroom than a habitat. There was no way in hell that she was sleeping in a room with that many live bugs in it. It didn't matter that they were in cages. She would still feel like they were crawling all over her. She quickly turned off the light and closed the door.
'It's not the first time I've crashed on a couch,' she told herself, dragging a pillow and blanket out of the hall closet she located. Moving back into the living room, she noted that it was more of a love seat than a couch, and not very inviting for her 5'8" frame. She flopped down on it and tried to find a way to bend and mold herself to fit, but had no luck. Making it all the worse, it was leather and she found herself becoming hot and sticky where it touched her skin.
She decided to get up and check on Grissom again. If he was all right, maybe she would just write him a note to call her if he needed anything, then go home. She opened the bedroom door and stepped in. Between the blinds and the heavy curtains, Grissom had managed to make the bedroom still relatively dark in the bright Las Vegas daytime, and she couldn't really see him very well. She quietly crept up to the side of the bed and knelt down to look more closely at him. He was still sleeping, but he didn't look at all well, and she was worried that he might still get sick. It dawned on her that she might not hear it if she were in another room. She looked around in the dark for a chair, but there wasn't one big enough to sleep in.
"You know what, Grissom?" she said out loud. "I'm tired. And I'm going to bed." She took off her boots and socks, then slipped off her jeans and her sweater, leaving on her panties and camisole and walked around to the other side of the bed. Plopping down the pillow, she laid on top of the bedspread and covered herself with the blanket. Within 10 minutes, she was dead to the world.
She woke several hours later, disoriented and confused. 'Where the hell am I?' she asked herself, then roused herself enough to remember. 'Oh, yeah,' she recalled through a haze, and turned over lazily to see how he was doing. She was jolted awake when she found herself looking directly into his open eyes. He was just staring at her, unblinking. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing. She just stared back.
After what seemed hours, he finally broke the standoff: "Sara, why are you in my bed?"
"I was tired," she said, as though that was explanation enough.
"Oh. I see." After a few more moments, "Why are you in my house?"
"I brought you home."
"Oh." If his head didn't hurt so much, he might have actually been embarrassed, but that took too much thought for the moment.
"How are you feeling?"
"I think I'm going to die ... at least, I hope I do, and soon," he whined.
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse."
"Maybe you should take some aspirin and go back to sleep," she suggested softly.
"Maybe you should just shoot me and put me out of my misery," he countered.
"Don't tempt me," she warned.
"In that case, I'll take you up on your offer of aspirin," he conceded.
Sara got up and walked around the bed unselfconsciously, to retrieve the aspirin and water she had brought in. Grissom tracked her with his eyes, with his mouth literally hanging open at the sight. "Sara, do you realize that you are not fully dressed?"
"Yeah, I don't usually sleep in all my clothes ... except when I sleep in the breakroom at the lab, and I only do it then because I think there's some probably rule about being half-naked on the premises," she answered non-chalantly, opening the child-proof (and therefore drunk-proof) cap on the aspirin. Taking out two and uncapping the water, she leaned over and handed them to him. He sat up slowly in bed, feeling the room start to spin. When he finally made it to a sitting position, he gratefully took the pills from her and drank about half the water in one continuous gulp.
Her state of undress brought his attention to the fact that he was equally comfortable. "Sara? Who undressed me?" he asked warily.
"The same person who undressed me. Now, lie down and get some more sleep. It'll make you feel better."
He slid down and covered his eyes with an arm. How many times in the past several years had he fantasized about having Sara in his bed? Let's see, 365.25 days per year times 3 years. Then there was that time before she came here, when he first met her. And several times between then and when she came here. Minus the times he was mad at her. He approximated just over 1,100 times. Never had the fantasy gone like this. Is there a Guinness record for humiliation?
She began to walk around the room, picking up her clothes.
"Are you leaving?" Grissom asked weakly, from under his arm.
"Do you want me to leave?" she said, putting the decision squarely on him.
"You don't have to stay."
"Do you want me to leave?" she repeated.
"You can go now. I'll be OK. Thanks for getting me home."
"Do you want me to leave?" she repeated a little more forcefully. She stood, jeans in hand, waiting for his answer.
"Yes."
"OK, Grissom," she sighed, and she slid into her jeans, snapping them and zipping in almost one motion. She snatched up her socks and her boots, and looked around for her sweater. She had to get out before she said anything, before she let three years of accumulated frustration explode in Grissom's bedroom.
"No," he said in a voice so small that she could barely make it out.
"What, Grissom? I didn't hear you."
"No," a little stronger, but cracking.
"No, what?" she asked, a little more testily than she meant to sound.
"No, don't leave," he said, turning onto his side, facing away from her.
Setting her clothes and shoes down, she walked to the other side of the bed, where she could face him. She wanted to read the truth in his eyes, but they were still covered by an arm. He couldn't look at her, couldn't have her looking at him, couldn't have her seeing how vulnerable he was right now.
She decided to bet it all and roll the dice just one last time. "OK, I won't leave. I'll stay as long as you need me to," she promised, crawling up in his bed, propping her pillow behind her back as she sat against the headboard, next to his head.
"What if I need you all day?" he asked, leaning his head forward slightly until his forehead touched the outside of her thigh.
She put her hand on his head and smoothed down the errant curls. "Then I'll stay all day," she answered soothingly.
Pushing himself up and slowly laying his head in her lap, he asked so quietly that she had to lean down to hear, "What if I need you forever?"
"Then I'll stay forever."