"You're not the boss of me, Doc."
Somewhere in San Francisco, a telephone was ringing.
And ringing.
And ringing.
When the ringing finally clicked over to voice mail, he spoke. "Gwen," he said. "Pick up. It's Doctor Grissom." He sighed, loudly, frustrated, when it didn't happen. "Gwen, I need to speak with you. I need you to come to Vegas. It's, um," his voice trailed off. "It's about Sara."
Hours later, when she picked up her messages, Gwen rolled her eyes at Doctor Grissom's directive. This wasn't the first time he'd asked her to drop everything and fly to Nevada, but it seemed to be his preferred method of dealing with her good friend, Sara Sidle. Rather than confront her himself, he called Gwen every time Sara suffered a disappointment or threatened to leave. Since Sara had transferred from San Francisco, Gwen had visited twice, both at his behest.
She called Doctor Grissom at the number he provided in his voice mail.
"Grissom," he answered.
"Doc," she said. "It's Gwen Hollister."
He breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Gwen, I'd like it if you came down to visit. Sara needs to spend some time with someone outside of the office."
"Doc," Gwen was exasperated. "I don't mean to be rude, or anything…" She trailed off. Summoning her courage, she spoke again. "If you're concerned about her, why don't you do something about it? Try talking to her yourself. I spoke with her last weekend and she seemed fine."
"Gwen," Doctor Grissom's voice held an ominous tone.
Gwen made a dismissive sound. She wouldn't let him railroad her into this. She loved Sara, but hated being bossed around by anyone. "I hate to break it to you," she said with a smile in her voice, "But you're not the boss of me, Doc."
"Please," he pleaded. "She doesn't need me." He took a deep breath. "She needs anyone but me."
The desperation in his voice made something click for her. She hung up the phone, snapped open her day planner and started to make the necessary arrangements.
"Never mind."
The next morning, like clockwork, Grissom looked up when Sara rapped on the doorframe of his office. "Griss," she grinned at him. "Guess what?"
He smiled slightly at her, the corners of his mouth softening. "What?"
"Do you remember Gwen Hollister? She's a friend of mine. Got her PhD in Social Anthropology from Harvard. We were sharing an apartment the summer you came and delivered the entomology symposium."
Gil tried hard to look puzzled. "Hmm." He fiddled with a container of paperclips on his desk. "She's tall, right? Dark hair?" He liked women who were tall, he thought. With dark hair. Like the one standing in his doorway.
Sara furrowed her brow. "No," she told him. "She's short. With red hair."
"Huh," Grissom shrugged. "I guess I don't."
Sara rolled her eyes and handed him a stack of papers. "I'm going to need a few days off."
"Why," he asked, playing along.
"Never mind," she replied, disappointment visible in her eyes before she quickly turned and left his office.
Grissom sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He never failed, lately, to feel as though a giant chasm had opened up between them; like he had disappointed her.
It had been bittersweet when he found out about Hank; he was sad and brokenhearted and jealous. But since it was Sara's happiness he was concerned with and not his own, he was relieved for her, and began to back away. He had created the very chasm he was lamenting now.
Through the hallways he had heard about Hank's betrayal, and even though Sara put on a proud face he suspected she was truly hurt. He understood the sort of loneliness she felt but would not mention, at least not to him. He knew she felt like she was to blame, or the job. He knew, because his own failed relationships made him feel that way.
Gwen had been right. Since he was concerned about Sara, he should be the one to express it. But he was used to hiding his feelings, especially with Sara, and Gwen had become his less-than-willing ace in the hole.
He only hoped her arrival would bring Sara back to him somehow.
"I've been lured to the pit of hell."
The day dawned bright and hot the morning Gwen Hollister flew into Las Vegas. She collected her baggage and walked out to the sidewalk, where Doctor Grissom was waiting for her in his vehicle. He popped the trunk and climbed out when he saw her.
"You couldn't call a taxi," he teased, by way of greeting.
She frowned at him. "Do I need to remind you that I'm doing you a favor? The least you can do is pick me up. Cab fare is ridiculously high."
He took her small overnight bag from her, setting it gently in the trunk of his car. "What are you going to say to Sara," he asked, cringing at the sound of her name on his lips. He feared her dark mood, which had only worsened since she had asked for the time off.
"That I took a taxi," she said.
It seemed like a reasonable excuse to Grissom. He could drop her off at the apartment complex where Sara lived and drive out of sight before Gwen even rang the bell. He slammed the trunk shut and got into the car. They were on their way.
"So," Grissom broke the silence. "What's new?"
Gwen glared at him out of the corner of her eye. "I've been lured to the pit of hell by an evil genius who wants me to do his bidding. I feel like the devil's minion."
Grissom chuckled. "The pit of hell?"
"I hate it here," she said. "It's too…hot."
He shrugged. "So, what else is new?"
"If Sara wasn't so important to me, I'd totally hate you."
Doctor Grissom felt like he was testing her with his next question. "You're starting to see my side of things?" He hoped she could read his real message. Please, he silently said. Please understand that I love her.
Gwen ran her fingers through her short red bob. "I," she halted for a moment. "I always have," she said. "I just get annoyed when I have to be in the middle."
Grissom raised an eyebrow at her. He knew Gwen Hollister to be an astute woman, brilliant in her field, to be sure. But he didn't know if she could read people as well as she could objects, manuscripts, and the like. "In the middle?"
"When something happens between the two of you, I get a phone call from you and I need to drag myself down here. Or she calls me and I have to interpret things. I mean, isn't that what they pay you people for? To interpret the evidence?" Gwen clapped a guilty hand over her mouth.
Her last statement intrigued him. He was intrigued by the fact that Sara called her to discuss him. His mind reeled at what this all meant. He longed to ask Gwen, but she looked like she'd said a little too much already. While he wasn't above luring her down here to do his bidding, he didn't want her to betray a confidence.
It was his line, however arbitrary.
"I will not be privy to your pity party."
Gwen had a plan. It was born a few days ago, a fragile idea, on the phone with Doctor Grissom. Now, days later, it was a full-blown evil plan. In previous visits to Las Vegas, she had merely cheered Sara up, taken her shopping, gotten her drunk. But that was treating the symptoms and not the disease. What was needed, she decided, was an intervention. She needed to have one to one conversations with Sara and Grissom. But in order to get time away from Sara, she needed a diversion. She had no idea how to create one.
Thankfully, she didn't need to create one. Sara was called in to be deposed on a case she had recently worked on, an hour after Gwen had buzzed her apartment. The moment Sara left, Gwen called Doctor Grissom on her cell phone.
"Grissom,"
"It's Gwen," she told him. "I've got something you need to hear. I need to see you."
The eagerness was evident in his tone as he responded. "Shall I come by? Is she there?"
"She's gone. Come pick me up," she said. Gwen was gleeful as she disconnected the call. She knew that Doctor Grissom took her relationship with Sara for granted, and had used Gwen at least three times as a buffer between them. Granted, if they lived in Colorado or on the East Coast or, frankly, anywhere but Las Vegas, Gwen wouldn't mind the frequent trips to intercede. Her loathing of Las Vegas was becoming too much to bear.
Gwen was using Doctor Grissom's trust in her against him. He was going to walk right into her snare.
She spoke to a potted peace lily, the only other living thing in the sterile apartment. "This should be good."
Grissom buzzed the apartment twenty minutes later. She allowed him upstairs.
"What is it?" He was nearly bouncing. "Where are we going?"
Gwen yanked on the sleeve of his jacket. "Get in here. We're not going anywhere."
He looked disappointed. "No?"
"Doc," Gwen sat down on the arm of the couch. Grissom sat down in the armchair across from her. He looked trapped, and sad, and picked at an imaginary spot on his pant leg. "We need to have a talk. I told you before, I can't just drop everything and come down here every time you end up on the outs with her."
His head snapped up. "I told you," he said. "I can't talk to her," he sighed.
"Why not?"
"It's um, complicated." He resumed picking at his pant leg. "I don't know where to begin, or what to say, and she usually gets angry."
Gwen dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand in frustration. She tried to keep her voice under control. "Something needs to change. Are you in love with her?"
He blinked.
"I thought so," she said.
"I can't remember a time when I wasn't," he said wistfully.
"She returns the sentiment," she told him.
Grissom shook his head. "No," he said. "You couldn't be more wrong. I am her mentor. I am like a father figure. I am not a man in her eyes. Not that way," he hung his head.
"Oh, stop it," Gwen said angrily. "I will not be privy to your pity party."
"What a brilliant use of alliteration," Grissom told her, trying to change the subject.
Gwen wasn't buying it. "Listen to me. I've known you both for more than five years. And those years when Sara was in San Francisco were the best years of my life. Honestly. I didn't have to go near an airplane. I never got frantic phone calls. I never had to analyze vaguely romantic remarks or thinly veiled innuendo for any possible sincerity. It's like the two of you never made it past the onset of puberty."
Grissom stared at her.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He blinked again.
"Jesus H. Christ," she exclaimed. "She's smitten, you're ensorcelled, and I, for once, am completely flummoxed!"
Grissom continued to stare.
Gwen turned on her heel and walked over to the plant, muttering under her breath about how love makes people stupid.
"Are you sure," he asked in a quiet voice.
Gwen wasn't certain she'd heard anything over the hum of the refrigerator. "What?"
"You're sure," seeing the look on her face he paused. "You're not just making an assumption?"
"Hank, the duplicitous EMT, was a ruse. A warm body," she told him.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Not like that, jeez," she continued. "He was someone with whom to pass the time. A mere distraction. She told me. God, Doc, she loves you."
His face held a hopeful expression. "Ensorcelled, huh?"
"It's a perfectly cromulent word," she told him.
"Cromulent?"
"Never mind. Get out of here before she comes back," she said.
"Yes, Monosyllabic Girl."
After Doctor Grissom left Sara's apartment, Gwen tidied up and then fell asleep reading a magazine. Sara's key in the door woke her up.
"It smells like Grissom in here," she said, wistfully.
"Jesus, lady, you need to get out more," Gwen said in a sarcastic tone, attempting to distract her.
"I know," she said. She plopped unceremoniously in the same armchair Grissom had chosen to sit. "It totally smells like Grissom in here," she said, looking at Gwen curiously. She pressed her nose to the armrest. "Gwen," she said in an accusatory tone, "what was Gil Grissom doing in my apartment?"
Gwen feigned ignorance.
"Are you," Sara's face fell. She seemed awash in disappointment. "Are you and Griss?"
Gwen looked at her as though she had never considered Grissom in that way. "God, no."
"But he was here," Sara's response was not a question. It was an assertion.
Her friend's eyes gleamed. "Well," she said. "He stopped by." Her mind grasped at things. "He came by, uh, to talk with you about the deposition. We had a nice chat."
Sara smiled. "What about?"
"You," Gwen sat back and smiled at her friend.
Sara's eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed several times, silently.
"You look like a goldfish."
"What," she started, then stopped. "He was here? Me?"
"Yes, Monosyllabic Girl."
"Me."
Gwen was ready to mutter again. "For the love of God, Sara," she started.
"What did he say?"
"He loves you," she said.
"No way," Sara said.
"Yes way. He can't remember a time when he wasn't in love with you," Gwen's fingers cut through the air with invisible finger quotation marks.
Sara squealed, uncharacteristically, like a schoolgirl. "No shit?"
"Absolutely no shit. Let's go shopping."
"When do we start?"
Hours later, the high had worn off for Sara. As a matter of fact, she was angry. "I can't believe you told him how I felt!"
"Why are you so angry? In my opinion it should have been obvious to him from the outset, but now that he knows, the two of you can move on. You can," Gwen looked down at her hands in her lap. "You can have something real."
Sara looked guilty for raising her voice at her friend. "I just would have preferred to have told him myself."
"I'm sure he would have preferred to have told you as well. But time waits for no one, Sara. Think of all the time you've wasted already. What if you had waited forever? What if you never knew? What if you had never told him?"
Sara sighed, and tapped her fingernails on the coffee shop table. "You're right," she said.
Gwen was relieved. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know," Sara told her. She shrugged and toyed with the napkin dispenser. To change the subject, she smiled and kicked her friend under the table. "Why did I let you talk me into a pedicure?"
Gwen raised an eyebrow at her. "When you're in love, you need to be ready to get naked at any given moment."
"Dear God," Sara rolled her eyes. "You're like a walking Cosmo."
Gwen shrugged. "I'm an Anthropologist," she said.
The bell over the coffee shop door chimed, signaling a new customer had entered the store. Sara turned to see Grissom studying the menu board. "Oh, shit," she breathed. Her stomach flopped.
"See?" Gwen smiled at her friend. "Good thing you got that pedicure. I'm going to, um, use the restroom."
Sara watched her retreating back, then chose to walk over to Grissom.
"Hey," she said.
He turned at the sound of her voice. "Sara," he said. His eyes burned. "How are you enjoying your days off?"
"I heard you met Gwen," Sara smiled at him.
Gil's eyes widened. He had no idea what Gwen had told her. He nodded stiffly.
"I know, Gil," her voice was a whisper.
His eyes devoured her skin. He searched her face, but all he saw was a blush moving up from her collar, fanning out from the tips of her ears. "Oh?" His voice was raspy.
She beamed at him, a smile that could light up the strip. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I could ask you the same," he said quietly. His look challenged her.
Sara shrugged. She looked at the burgundy toenails peaking out from her sandals. "Fear, I suppose. Of rejection."
He smiled at her. "Sara, I could never say no to you. Not like that."
She felt as though the air was heavy, as though it were choking her. The intensity of his gaze made it hard for her to breathe. His eyes drew her to him, and her feet moved without her knowledge, and she was in his personal space in the blink of an eye.
"Sara," he groaned.
She leaned into his embrace. She was enveloped in the scent she knew so well, of soap and fabric softener and skin, the scent she smelled earlier in her couch; the scent she would never want to scrub away. "I," she started.
"Hmmm?" His breath tickled the fine hairs at the base of her neck.
"I want this," she told him. "I want to try," she said.
He pulled back from her, holding her upper arms in his grasp. "When do we start?"
Sara looked down at her toenails and smiled.
Gwen, watching this exchange from a nearby table, sighed and began paging through the new Cosmopolitan.
FIN