Perforations, a csi fanfic

Title: Perforations

Author: ScarlettMithruiel

Rating: PG-13

Classification: A

Disclaimer: I swear on the hatred I have for Sofia that I do not own CSI. 'Coz really, if I did, do you think Sofia would have existed? Come on now.

Summary: And he watched her silhouette fade from the shadow of his doorway, vaguely registering his thumping heart, riddled with perforations, like a sabotaged valentine.

Author's Note: This is kind of a prequel to Cordiality. But not really. If you haven't read Cordiality, you could do one of two things.

a) Read it and review, which would make the author very, very happy. Or b) You could treat this as a one-shot.

Either way, read, enjoy, review. But be constructive. Spoilers for Unbearable. Sorry if they're OOC.

Dedication: To Morgan and to Leslie. Doth an explanation need be?

Gil Grissom was a firm believer in science. Science, unlike human beings, never let him down. Despite loss of evidence or evidence that didn't make sense, he always knew, in the back of his mind, it was never the fault of science. The basis of forensics relied on a sole principle that was infallible. Locard's Principle stated simply, "Every contact leaves a trace." He knew the accuracy of that statement. His fingerprints, from incessant studying, could be found all over his old forensics textbook. Greg's fingerprints most likely ran rampant in the lab. Nick's fingerprints were probably still on the inside of the latex gloves he had donned at his last crime scene.

He was certainly brilliant, however, any of his colleagues could argue that his weakness, perhaps his only weakness, was his monosyllabic nature and his aloofness. Gil Grissom was not adept in the area of social skills. He spoke only when speech was needed. He mostly listened. A bit ironic, he realized, considering his hearing had been jeopardized for a short time. He had never been adroit at relationships. A sardonic laugh rang out in his head. That was an understatement.

Greg had asked to see him before shift began. When he had arrived, Greg had spoken to him, attempting to disguise the anger that was laced in his words, about his stupidity, using words that one would not normally repeat to one's supervisor. If he remembered correctly, he should retrieve his head from his ass. He realized that declining Sara's dinner offer and asking Sofia out to dinner made him appear uncouth. Especially when Sofia was loathed by many of his subordinates. They would never voice their thoughts outright, but he knew respect for her was obligatory, rather than sincere, much like the way they regarded Ecklie. Despite all rumors to the contrary (which he was quite aware of), he knew he loved Sara. He had known for a long time. And he knew that it was somewhat chauvinistic of him to say so, but he didn't want to verbalize his emotions and risk the destruction to her career. He supposed it was for the best.

He heard the soft clicking of shoes. The hinges of his office door squeaked as someone pushed his door open, allowing themselves entrance. He supposed it was the rush of air behind them, but he could smell them before he saw them, and he immediately knew who it was. The soft clicking of heels against the waxed linoleum occurred again, and he shut his eyes, almost embracing the sound, before having to open his eyes and face whatever event was imminent. "Grissom?" The time had come. He opened his eyes, blinking a few times to regain optical clarity.

"Sara," he replied. It was an observation and his tone supported that fact. Her head tilted slightly in the smallest fraction of a nod. He mentally noted that her hands were behind her back. He assumed they were clasped. His assumption was wrong, as she handed him an unmarked, blanched white envelope. His sweat glands began to work efficiently, allowing some of the liquid to ooze out of his pores onto his fingertips. They were slick when he reached for it. He opened the flap and retrieved the folded letter hidden within.

He noted the professional letterhead type. And then he stared at the three words, in large bold type across the top. He blinked. If it were a dream, surely it would have disappeared by now. And why would he dream about her leaving? Because you're a masochist, his mind answered. Just look at your relationship with her. You're in love with her, but you won't do anything. She chewed on her lip nervously. His eyes darted up to watch her lips.

"You're…leaving," he noted aloud. Another observation. Yet he was willing himself not to feel the pain this was settling in his heart. She nodded slightly again. He mused that it could barely be recognized as a nod. Perhaps as a tip of the head. At any rate, it had an affirmative connotation. "Why?"

"The…um…The FBI gave me an offer and I'm going to take it." So the best lab in the country wanted his Sara. He immediately chased the thought from his mind. She wasn't his Sara. And you couldn't own a human being.

"Is that why you're leaving me?" Oops. Freudian slip, he supposed. Alas. But the question had been posed and he could tell from her pursed lips that anger was subtly simmering underneath her cool exterior.

"No," she said, drawing out the syllable. "I'm leaving you because I'm fed up with your shit, Grissom."

"Ah." She stared at him, fire burning lucidly behind the allure of her espresso eyes. Suddenly, a strangled cry of anger flew from the hollow of her throat. With cold precision, she turned on her heel and began to walk out the door. The soft clicking registered in his mind. His steps were purposeful and dramatic. Here he was, a Romeo, chasing a Rosalind, who was a Juliet. The emotions churned inside him, almost as if Mars and Eros were waging war on each other. He couldn't remember whether Eros was Greek or Roman. He didn't care. The thought entered his mind swiftly. He couldn't stop her with words. He had to show her. She was leaving and he couldn't stop her. The desperation spread through his limbs like a deadly virus, consuming him in its anger and venom. He arrived at her, and his right arm thrust out and took hold of her wrist. She turned and looked at him, fury raging in her eyes. He spun her to him, damning the consequences. He needed her. Simple as that. His lips flew to hers, landing soundly and silently. His need was violent and impatient and he pried her lips open with his tongue, exploring her mouth and teeth. He realized dizzily, a few seconds later, that she was kissing him back. His flesh was searing with the knowledge that Sara was sharing a kiss with him. His heart was beating erratically. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away gently. He looked at her and saw her eyes were full of sadness.

"Grissom," she said, softly. "It's too late. I loved you. Past tense. You can't just ignore me, knowing how I had affections for you, and then just kiss me when I'm leaving and expect me to stay! It just doesn't work like that." She brought her hand up and brushed her thumb across his cheek. "Good-bye, Grissom."

His heart thumped dully in his chest. He felt like he was getting shot, point blank, in the chest. As if someone had placed the muzzle of the gun right against his chest and fired. He heard the soft clicking of her shoes again as she turned and began to walk. Tiny bullets being fired straight into his heart, one immediately after another. The letter dropped from his hand, and it wasn't until he heard the rustling as it fell that he realized he had still been holding it. Her shadow, her height lengthened by the direction of the light, began to slowly disappear from the room. It exited through the doorway. Once her silhouette left his floor, it was final. She wouldn't return. Sara Sidle would only ever be a memory, ever present in his mind. A little more disappeared with each soft click. And he watched her silhouette fade from the shadow of his doorway, vaguely registering his thumping heart, riddled with perforations, like a sabotaged valentine.