TITLE: Home Is Where The Dog Is
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Grissom/Sara
RATING: A happy G
SPOILERS: 10x01 and previous...anything goes.
Chapter Summary: Life is like crêpes au chocolat: while too much sweetness is bad for you, it's what makes life worth living. I've been writing way too much dark, heavy stuff under a different handle lately, and this is a seriously fluffy-bunny, entirely improbable take on how Sara returned to Vegas. Again.
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Home Is Where The Dog Is
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"Yeah, I can. Me."
No reply on the other end of the phone, but Sara could hear him breathing, so she knew the transatlantic cell connection hadn't dropped.
"Ecklie? I'm serious. If Catherine needs help, I can be there in a couple of days."
"Ah, don't think me ungrateful, but wasn't there something about you cashing in eight years worth of leave time and going home to put your life back together?"
"And I did. I'll give you the number of my doctor in California, if you want. Hell, I'd want to double-check with my shrink if I was you. I'm even still sidearm-certified. The thing is," she sighed, "I'm supposed to be on holiday here, taking in Paris while Gil's teaching, and we're just waiting for the Davis body-farm grant. But I'm no good at being on holiday. I'm going nuts. Gil can do without me for a while. His head's in his lecture notes and beehives anyway, until we move back to California for good."
"Well, we can certainly use you. And – just between you and me, you sound – well, a hell of a lot better than you did even at Warrick's…"
"I am. Thanks."
"But just for your own protection, you really don't mind if I talk to your doctor, and get a clearance note for your file?"
"Be my guest. I'll text you her coordinates and give her a heads-up."
That was the easy past.
"Gilbert? You on lunchbreak?"
"Oh, no. What'd I do?"
"Nothing."
"What'd you do?"
"Hey, is that any way to talk to your wife?"
"I know my wife awfully well."
"Biblically, in fact."
"Intimately."
She flushed. Yes, indeed.
"So…are you free to speak, for a minute? It's all good, but something's come up that can't wait."
"So I guessed, or we'd be talking over dinner in a few hours."
He waited patiently, aware that she would have come directly to campus if there were a real emergency.
"Well, ah – Ecklie called. Grave's down to four, and the whole team's falling apart under the pressure. Ecklie's been trying to headhunt a senior CSI, even for a short-term contract, and he called me for any California contacts. And, well, I thought for about ten seconds, and realized it might be a good thing."
"A good thing."
"Yeah."
"Honey, are you unhappy here? I know you've never been into the tourist thing, but…"
"No! No, no. Just that I can't get anything done here. There's nothing you need my help for, and I'm totally impatient about the move to UC-Davis, and I – I want to get back on the horse. I think I need to."
"Then you should."
"You're not going to, you know, be all silent and anxious about this?"
"I don't think I have any right to do that. At least you're doing me the honour of bringing me into the conversation before you take off, unlike me. But you're wrong about one thing."
"Mm?"
"I do need you," he rumbled quietly into her ear, over the phone line. "But as long as I know you're with me, I can bear it – for a while."
The tears stung her eyes then, the ridiculously happy newlywed tears that she always believed were the domain of lucky, blessed, other people than her.
"We're going to run up a crazy cellphone tab, though," he said, to steady her. "And why the rush? Are you leaving tonight?"
"Not quite. I'm aiming to be in Vegas by morning local time, and then sleep the day away before work, so I guess…"
"You'll be leaving sometime tomorrow afternoon."
"You'll be teaching."
"You'll be fine. Just call me from the airport before you take off?"
"I'll miss you."
"You'll have Hank. And Annabel."
"I'm not cuddling with Annabel. She's still jealous of me."
"She'll get over it."
"And we still have tonight."
"Yes." He said, his voice sliding low. "We will. Don't you forget it."
She shivered. She had no trouble believing they were about to add to their list of unforgettable nights. Our first time apart as a married couple…I'm going to memorize "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning" before he gets home and whisper it in his ear later…
"Go teach, Teach," she said softly. "I'll be waiting. We'll sort out all the details later."
* * *
A truly excellent day so far, she reflected, toweling off her face and the back of her neck prior to moving into her cooldown stretches. The early autumn sun soaked into her back and shoulders through the large living room window, and felt marvelous on dancer's muscles pummeled and cajoled into doing what she wanted them to do. Though the floor wasn't sprung, it was hardwood, and by moving a few pieces of furniture around, she'd created a good-sized home studio for basic floorwork and yoga. With her landlord's permission, she'd even installed a short barre along one wall.
She'd been living there for six months, nearly rent-free, and she still couldn't believe her luck. Usually, only a Vegas heiress could hope to spend first year of university in digs like this. Of course, Hank and Annabel were added attractions, even if they represented her rent cheque. Between the boxer, the tarantula, sixteen potted plants, and the constant cleaning of the place to landlord drop-in readiness, she worked hard for it, but it was a perfect arrangement.
It's all about who you know, even for the good guys in this town.
Wednesdays were her quiet day. One Kinesiology lab in the morning, a long lunch and practice session with her awfully eye-pleasing pas de deux partner, and then a History of Baroque Dance lecture in the early afternoon. By three o'clock, she was back at the condo, which by virtue of location, size and sheer niceness had become the social center for her group of friends. Most lived in dorms or still at home, and nobody had anything approaching a beautifully-furnished, grown-up looking condo all to themselves.
She'd grab a shower in a few minutes, and then start chopping vegetables for dinner. Julie, her best friend and fellow bunhead, who divided her time between the condo's guest room and her boyfriend's dorm room, would be home soon, with both their boyfriends in tow, for an at-home dinner and movie night.
Meat-lovers pizza for the boys. Chicken and vegetable stir fry for the girls, over a minimum of brown rice. Every half-ounce counted, even for a freshman, because of that all-important dance exam and interview at the end of the year that dictated whether you would be one of the fifty percent of ballet dancers not invited back into the program for the next year. Only one in five freshmen would eventually graduate out of the Professional Dance ballet option at UNLV. They were high on the scale of anality when it came to turning out classically Russian-trained ballerinas, always aware that a UNLV-trained ballerina would have enough trouble overcoming the national icon of the Vegas showgirl.
Which was hypocritical and elitist, according to Mom, who reminded her that two generations of successful Vegas dancers and a casino mogul, who had chosen their careers with open eyes, were funding her university degree.
"Whatever else he did, your grandpa ran a tasteful racket in flesh," Mom would say. "We knew what we were doing, and nobody forced us. And he employed a lot of the parents of your classmates, too. Without dancers like Grandma and me, who'd have come out here? We'd have a few massive silver mining companies and not enough water to go around."
"We have a few massive silver mining companies and not enough water to go around," Lindsey would remind her. "And you're really well employed because there's asshole criminals all over the place."
"Don't swear in front of your mother. I can outswear you in six languages. Including Gaelic."
"Grandma said her family didn't speak Gaelic."
"The priests taught me, right here in Nevada. Confession is good for the soul, Lindsey."
With a mother like that, was it any surprise Lindsey had opted for the strict respectability of the classical ballet world?
"Oh, let the child have her rebellion," Grandma would say to Mom, and the two would smile at her with her with such unmasked pride that she had to turn away or blow up at them for something.
Lindsey was determined she would be part of that twenty percent, despite the personal and program hurdles. Unlike many of her classmates, she hadn't begun dancing as a toddler. She'd taken the basic Kinderdance and jazz-ballet that many little girls do, but the bug hadn't bit until she was eleven. Until then, she thought she'd be an actress, but a school-concert performance as a wind-up ballerina doll had struck a nerve. Everyone commented on the surprising depth she'd brought to the short scene, and the precision of her relatively untrained feet and limbs.
Mom hugged her and said she wasn't at all surprised, and Grandma said she'd pay for dance lessons if Lindsey wanted them. And suddenly she had. Within a year she'd outdanced Community Center ballet classes and was enrolled in a local ballet academy. It had been hard, hard work, and humiliating at times, watching girls her own age soar past her into Pointe, winning medals and competitions that were apparently very important to their future careers. But, blessed with a naturally light frame and the same stubborn streak that often set the Willows women at odds with each other, she had caught up. She'd never be an international star, but she was pragmatic enough to know that personal happiness was her main goal, and it was to be found in dance, wherever dance took her.
Anyway, it took her mind off Dad when she'd needed it most, that first year. Then the shock of being drop-kicked into a private school that was about as much fun as a reform academy, to her younger self. Now, at eighteen, she could grudgingly admit to herself that she had been an irrational, headstrong hellion of a child, even if her parents were irrational, headstrong hellions right back at times. The slow formative pruning and training of dance discipline and a no-excuses school had saved her from the stupider decisions she might have made.
Well, most of them.
Twenty minutes more cool-down work, then shower. Then maybe that cute lilac baby-tee and comfy jeans, perfect for snuggling on the couch. If Eric gets sloppy-drunk, though, he's staying on the couch…
The phone rang, as if so often seemed to do, just as she settled into a particularly good stretch on her back. Nothing doing: she braced one hand around the back of the knee that was resting on her nose, and rolled over into a clean front split, as her other hand grabbed for her cell.
"'lo?"
"Lindsey? It's Sara. Va bien, toi?"
"Sara! Hey, I'm - hang on - I'm good." She brought her trailing leg around and sat cross legged. "How's Paris? What time is it there?"
"Magnifique. It's nearly midnight here, but I needed to catch you right away. How's my dog?"
"He misses you. Why, what's going on? Are you okay?"
"Lemme talk to him a sec."
As if on cue, Hank woke up from his nap, on his mat near the wall, and pricked his ears. Lindsey held out the phone so he could hear Sara call to him: "Hank! Are you being a good boy?"
Hank whined and scrambled to his feet, dashing over to Linsdey and trying to lick her face.
"Aw, no! No! Hank, down! Sara, I'm all sweaty, he'll never stop now."
Sara laughed, but came to the point quickly. "Listen," she said, "I know school's just started, and this is totally short notice, but I'm going to be coming home for a bit. The lab needs some help, and Gil's super-busy with his teaching right now."
"Oh." Lindsey paused. "Are you…d'you want me to go, then, or…?"
"No, no. Don't worry. Just one of those times we talked about, when I need to come back on short notice for a while. It's really short notice, I'm afraid. Tomorrow morning. I hope that's not a big panic for you."
"No, God, no. It's totally fine. Julie can go stay with her boyfriend. I knew you guys might need to come home anytime. You want me and Hank to come get you?"
"Oh, I won't be any sort of company, and you've got school. If you could relocate to the guest room, though, I'd really appreciate it – the master bedroom's the only one set up for sleeping during the day. Just leave me a note if you've taken Hank to the day care, and I'll pick him up later on."
"Sure, okay. He totally knows I'm talking to you." Lindsey tried to push the wagging, whimpering boxer away from the phone.
"Poor baby. I can't wait to see him."
"Does Mom know yet? She didn't tell me anything."
"I think our boss is talking to her right now. I just got off the phone with him."
"Thank God for the time difference. Sounds like the flight might be the only sleep you get for a while."
"At least I'll be on graveyard time. I'll probably see you after school tomorrow, then. Gil says hello, and has Annabel molted yet?"
"Yes, last week, and he might have warned me. I thought there were suddenly two big hairy tarantulas in there and freaked out. Mom got Nicky to come pick out the bits. Tell him I can hear him laughing, and it's not funny."
"It's a little funny. And thanks, Lins – I'm really looking forward to being home for a while."
* * *
Jesus Christ, Ecklie, could you learn to speak human? Was he trying to help her, or criticize her for not running a tight enough shift? It was impossible to tell.
"I don't have time to train anybody – "
"Don't worry, this one's been around the block a few times."
"A new hire? Or are we playing musical lab techs again? For God's sake, I know good help is hard to find on the grave, but if you're going to backfill Riley, I need at least a CSI-2 with a few years of field work, one who'll stick around. Maybe then I'd could take on a developmental - "
"You've got Sara back."
Catherine felt her mouth fall open. Ecklie cracked a half-smile and continued.
"She's well-rested, her California psych thinks she's back on track, and more to the point, she offered. She and Gil have a couple of months till their grant for the UC-Davis body farm come through, and I gather she's tired of being a bug widow in Paris while Gil's lecturing. You want her or not?"
"Just get her here. We'll take care of her."
"Tomorrow night."
She reached out and patted Ecklie awkwardly on the shoulder as he bumbled off in the direction of the Metro PD, and she continued to her office.
Oh, crap. Lindsey. Well, she knew the deal. I just hope to God she's kept the place liveable.
She tried placing a call to Lindsey's cell, the third number on her auto-dial after Brass and Lily, but as usual, her daughter was already on the phone.
"Sweetie, it's Mom. I just learned Sara's coming back for a bit, like, tomorrow morning. Call her cell number in Paris right away – I'm sure she won't mind being woken up to talk to you. I know it was part of the deal that they might come back now and then, but…I'm just thinking, you know Sara's beyond OCD about mess. Call me if you need a hand."
A few moments later, she rounded the corner to her office and contemplated the toppling piles of file folders that occupied her desk, the top of the bookcase and one of the visitor's chairs.
Give Sara a couple of nights to get back up to speed, and she and Nick can pretty well carry the shift. I might actually get through some of this paperwork.
I hope she's okay. I said we'd take care of her, but was that just because we're friends, and she's got the skills I need? Is it fair to saddle the team with someone who needs help to get through? Or maybe she's all right now. It's been a year. She's always been tough as nails – that's why it was so terrible to watch her falling apart. Maybe I should get Lindsey to come back home and leave Sara her house and her dog?
Just how many people am I trying to look out for, here? Have I stopped trusting them?
She shook her head, sat down at her desk and pulled her laptop towards her.
Sent by:
To: .
Date: September 22, 2009 23h15 GMT
Subject: On my way
Chère Catherine,
Writing to you over late-night crepes and café au lait, at the Café Web a few steps away from our apartment. Strange to think that we'll probably be having pancakes and coffee at Franks in a couple of days, but that's life for you.
Ecklie will have told you (I hope) that he asked me to suggest a CSI to headhunt from another lab, and I volunteered myself. I know what you're thinking, and please don't worry. I'm doing really well. As much as I hate having any sort of label around my neck, I do have PTSD, and I know my limits and triggers. If I thought they'd affect my work, I wouldn't offer.
I'm sure we'll have a lot more to talk about when I get there, but I just wanted to touch base directly. I'm still certified in everything, even renewed my sidearm tag for the jungle jaunt, so I'll just be a temporary casual, starting tomorrow night. Feel free to text me anything I need to know meanwhile.
Off to call Lindsey, and then to pack as much as possible before crashing.
See you tomorrow, boss,
Sara
Catherine took a deep breath, feeling as though a hundred pounds had rolled from her shoulders.
See, you just have to let go. Think about all the times Gil let us find our own level, sort out our own problems.
…and how much crap and abuse he took that he never even knew about, from the team and from the executive level. I was his buffer zone. Now it's just me. I don't know if I have the cojones to accept all the name-calling and loss of face he took on our behalf. He said it was part of the job, but he was a gray-haired monkish professor with a doctorate, and I'm…an attitudinal aging chick with a kid in college, boobs, and a colourful past. I don't have nearly the latitude Gil had. One misstep, and I go down as easily as anyone.
She felt a surge of relief at having a female comrade-at-arms she considered an equal on the team again, even if she'd always been Sara's technical superior in rank. And moreover, someone who would provide fresh perspective for Ray, and whom Greg and Nick both sought to impress, even if they denied it. And maybe Sara could finally talk Wendy off the diving board and into the Field CSI application process…
She smiled.
Oh, yes. If this worked out, it was going to really work out.
She took a closer look at the e-mail.
Satya? Had Sara taken a California hippie-slash-new-persona-name as part of her therapy?
This would need some sleuthing.
* * *
The first person she saw, as she approached the glass doors of the staff entrance to the lab, was one Captain James Brass, and he was pissed.
"So who gave you away?" he demanded, as she came to stand in front of him like a recalcitrant child.
Aha. She'd been expecting this. "We gave ourselves away," she said gently.
"I'd have been on the first flight to anywhere, Sara. You know that."
"I do know that. We…we needed to do it for ourselves. It was us, a JP and one cousin from each side in my aunt's old house. We're both orphans, Jim, and – and we've never been into tradition for tradition's sake. And we both hate fuss."
"Fuss? What fuss? I'd have stood in the back and tiptoed out as soon as you wanted. If you shunned me as a giving-away person or whatever."
"Honking into your handkerchief and cracking really bad jokes."
"Well, sure. And one other thing."
"What?"
"Congratulations, darlin'. You both deserve every happiness. Lemme see the hardware."
He examined the simple white gold band on her finger, gallantly kissed the back of her hand and barely refrained from pinching her cheek when she blushed.
"You're looking good," he said, as he swung the door open for her. "Married life agrees with you."
"Seems to."
"Been home yet?"
"You know, we've both realized that California's really home. This might turn out to be just a long stopover between flights - there's not really any point in going back to France. But yeah, I did get to sleep in my own bed. And Lindsey's been a great housesitter. Hank's doing just fine. I had a hell of a time leaving him tonight."
Brass nodded, and they turned the last corner before Judy's desk and the highly observant anthill of the lab. Word would travel as fast as Blackberries could buzz, and everyone would find a reason to drop by Catherine's office.
"You ready to jump back in?"
"Bring it on."
* * *