Disclaimer: No, not mine.
Rating: Um…I'm going to say a Mature due to the subject matter.
Summary: Grissom finds himself feeling feelings he didn't know he felt. GSR.
A/N: Okay, so, Grissom and Sara are together and all is right with the world. That said, about three or four relatively well-developed plot bunnies in my head have since perished due to the deafening boom of canon geeksex. This is the one I'll mourn the most. I had to write it. Hopefully once I get this out of my system, I'll be able to finish my WIP. This fic takes place pre-Way to Go
A/N #2: Mucho props to mystery who read several drafts of this and corrected a lot of crap.
My Favorite Dead Bunny
Her mouth was dry. Parched. She shifted her head on the down pillow and opened her eyes. The red digits of the alarm clock on the nightstand were practically blinding in the otherwise pitch black room, bathing a small area in a creepy blood-tinged glow.
11:52 P.M.
The girl slid out from under the covers. Her feet sank into the plush carpet. She cracked her toes satisfyingly and pushed herself off of the bed. The thin cotton of her nightgown fluttered around her legs as she walked down one flight to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The place was empty, just as she liked it. Under the tap, the clear crystal filled quickly with water and the girl drank it down with equal speed. Instead of placing the now dirty glass in the sink, she carefully washed and dried it, putting it back in the cabinet, as if she'd never been down to get a drink in the first place.
On her way up the stairs, she heard the front door open and then slam shut. Noiselessly, she continued her climb, holding her breath with each step.
It was too late, though. He had already seen her.
Before she even heard the footsteps bound up behind her, she knew he was on her tail. He slid passed her on the wide staircase and then turned to block her way. It was dark. All she could see was the glint of his belt buckle and the slight reflection of the alligator emblem on his shirt.
"Why up so late?" he asked, reaching out a hand to tuck a lock of her long, brown mane behind her ear. She swallowed hard and didn't answer as his hand trailed down her face to her shoulder and then down further to her breast where he took a handful and squeezed. Hard.
"Not much. But enough to work with," he chuckled.
He smelled of beer. She knew the odor well.
Which was why she ran. She was fast for a girl, built for speed. Down the winding staircase she fled, out through the front door and into the driveway. Her bare feet pounded on the pavement, but it was no use. Though drunk, he was bigger, taller and faster.
And he caught up.
He pushed her into the lawn and fell clumsily on top of her. His hips dug into hers, stilling the lower half of her body as she struggled. She managed one good, hard punch to his gut before he got a handle on her arms as well.
She started to scream. Someone, anyone, she cried. Help me. Please.
With a strong jerk of the neck, he head-butted her, cracking his skull against hers and knocking her out.
"What do we have here?" Grissom asked, turning to his old friend.
Brass rolled his eyes. "Why is it always my job to give you the rundown?"
"Because it is. What've we got?"
"A Jane Doe was found raped, beaten, and left for dead right here on Koval," the older man said with a grimace. "She didn't look like a working girl, but they all don't start out looking like working girls. Maybe she's new," he added softly, and the CSI could tell Brass wasn't thinking only of their victim.
"No I.D.?"
"She was naked. The paramedics took her before anyone got a chance to even snap a picture. She's at the hospital now."
"There goes our evidence." Grissom's eyes scanned the scene. The side street alley was far less busy than the Boulevard, an easy place to dump a body and get out of dodge. The crime scene was flanked by the back doors of a third-rate strip club and greasy rib joint, both of which were unlikely to employ video surveillance as a means of security. They had nothing worth securing.
"No witnesses, I presume," Grissom mumbled, still taking it all in.
"We're questioning people in the vicinity of the block, but you know how it is: nobody ever sees anything."
"Who called it in?"
Brass raised his hand, extending his index finger in Detective Vartan's direction. "Some rich tourist kid. Too young for the casinos so he was probably looking for a little Vegas fun where they don't card you." The two men watched as Vartan took down notes while he interviewed the teenager. Grissom figured him to be around eighteen. He had several inches on the police officer, although Grissom guessed they weighed the same. The boy's dark brown hair was a short mess of curls and his eyes were wild with confusion and fear.
"Does the rich kid have a name?"
"Seth Feinstein."
Grissom walked towards Vartan and the boy. "Hello, I'm Gil Grissom. I'm with the Crime Lab." He regarded the detective who took a step back and let the CSI do his work. "I hear that you're the one who called 911, correct?"
"Uh…yeah. Yeah," the teen nodded. "I was trying to get back to my hotel when I saw feet. Human feet. I thought it was a homeless person at first, but then I saw there was blood on her."
"What hotel are you staying at?"
"The Four Seasons."
"You're a long way from the Four Seasons," Vartan noted under his breath.
Grissom glared at the detective and then turned back to Seth. "That's on the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard. What were you doing here?"
"I don't know, looking around. There's nothing for me to do here. I'm too young to gamble and drink. I'm too old to watch a magic show. I just wanted to see the place. I got lost. Look, the girl...is she going to be okay?"
"I don't know," Grissom answered honestly. "Did you come to Las Vegas alone?"
"N-no. I'm with my parents and…oh shit. What time is it?" He didn't wait for an answer as he checked his own watch – a Rolex, Grissom noticed. "They're going to be back from the show any second. I-I need to call them. They're going to be worried sick."
Vartan held up a hand. "No phone calls yet, buddy. We're not done with you."
"Right. Fine," Seth said, looking as if he was preoccupied with the task of collecting himself. "Could someone at least call them? Or the hotel? Just to let them know I'm okay. They probably think I'm lying in a gutter somewhere…"
Grissom's eyes widened.
"Sorry," the boy said nervously.
"We'll take care of your parents," Grissom assured him, eager to get back to the task at hand. "The girl…you said you saw her feet first. And then the blood. What did you do next?"
"I screamed for help but no one did anything. Then I…I bent down and checked for a pulse. She had one, but it was weak. She wasn't breathing. I started to perform mouth-to-mouth for about a minute and then when I realized no one was going to call for help, I dialed 911 on my cell phone. The EMTs came and took over."
Detective Vartan asked the question Grissom was thinking. "You gave mouth-to-mouth on a bloody naked person lying in a dirty alley?"
"I…I didn't think. I mean…she needed help, right? She wasn't breathing," Seth repeated. "She needed help."
Grissom eyed the boy. He reached into this pocket and pulled out a latex glove. Using it like a tissue, he pinched the side of Feinstein's polo shirt and lifted it, pulling it taut against the boy's stomach to better see it in the dim streetlamp light. "You have blood on you."
"Yeah. On my hands, too," Feinstein admitted, holding his palms out to the CSI. "I had to use them to steady her head."
"Right. Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with Detective Vartan."
The boy nodded and Grissom pulled the officer to the side. "Either this boy is a living saint or he's hiding something."
"Teenage boys are more Jack the Ripper than Mother Teresa," Vartan said.
"I worked a case like this before," Grissom recalled, looking off into the distance at the spot where Jane Doe's body once was. "The killer was found at the crime scene performing CPR on one of his victims. We didn't consider him a viable suspect until far into the investigation."
"Don't make the same mistake twice."
Grissom pursed his lips. "I don't plan to."
He walked over to the taped off area to examine it more closely. Brass came up behind him. "Learn anything interesting?"
"Well, this alley looks to be the dump site. I don't think our Jane Doe was assaulted here. There're no pools of blood anywhere on the pavement; all the blood here, and there're not much of it, is secondary. I haven't seen the body, but from the looks of the boy's shirt, she suffered some serious injuries. If the crime took place here, we'd be able to see evidence of it.
"So…you're saying we're looking for another crime scene?"
"Most definitely. Yes."
"Where has the boy been this evening."
Grissom shrugged, squatting down to get a better look at the pavement underfoot. "I think he said he was wandering, taking in the sites and whatnot."
"Which is another way of saying, 'I have no alibi.'"
"Do me a favor, Jim? Call the Four Seasons and leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Feinstein. Tell them we have their son in for questioning." Grissom checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. "Is Seth Feinstein a minor?"
Brass shook his head. "Nope. Kid'll be nineteen in September."
"Good. Go get a large evidence bag from my trunk and – wear gloves, Jim. I mean it – have him put all of his clothes into it. Give him some coveralls to wear in the meantime. All of my evidence is on him."
On the way to the station, Grissom phoned the hospital to check on the victim. She was in surgery to repair some internal bleeding, but a nurse assured the scientist that the rape kit was ready and waiting for pickup.
"I hope you catch the son of a bitch that did this to her."
"I hope so, too."
The lab was crowded. Usually, there was a 4 A.M. lull that gave Grissom an opportunity to catch up on some paperwork, but as he walked to the layout room to examine the paltry pile of evidence collected from the crime scene, every nook and cranny of the building seemed packed with employees. Catherine was already at work, scraping samples of blood from Seth Feinstein's shirt.
"Lacoste is back in style," the blonde murmured. "Eddie used to have a ton of these shirts when we were dating."
"Everything old is new again," he shrugged. "Anything interesting?"
"Blood patterns are consistent with someone leaning over a body and attempting first aid. No primary spatter," she noted. "There's grime and dirt on the knees of his chinos. I'll send a sample off to Hodges but I don't need that wiseass to tell me the stains came from the dirty alley floor where the body was dumped. Did you get the rape kit?"
"Wendy is processing it now."
"You give her something to compare it to?"
"Seth Feinstein volunteered a sample. I swabbed him at the scene."
Catherine put down her magnifying glass and rested a hip on the layout table. "You think the kid did it?"
"I don't know."
She furrowed her brows. "You look…distressed."
Grissom shook his head. "When did we get to the point where being a good Samaritan puts you in danger of being locked up?"
"So you think he's innocent?"
"I told you, I don't know. Just…part of me wonders if this is why we don't see more acts of heroism -- not because people don't have it in them, but because they know they'll face consequences worse than if they just ignored the problem." He sighed. "It's usually safer to do nothing."
"Safer, but cowardly," Catherine said, tilting her head.
He bit his lower lip and stared at the crime scene photos on the table. "If the DNA doesn't pan out, we're pretty much stuck until we can get an I.D. on this girl. Hopefully she wakes up soon or her family issues a Missing Persons report."
Catherine shuddered. "I can't imagine having to report Lindsey missing. It would kill me. Part of me is so prepared for it after being on the job all these years. But the idea of losing her…"
"How are things with you and Lindsey these days?"
"Tough. I caught her smoking a couple of weeks ago. I got one of those home drug tests but she refused to take it. She said I was violating her trust."
All Grissom knew how to do was nod sympathetically. Catherine was a treasure trove of hard knock stories that he had lived vicariously through during their years of friendship. He did not envy the relationship she had with her daughter. Sometimes it surprised Grissom that the population kept increasing, even with all of the difficulties that came with parenting. It was something he never planned to take part of, and his little rap sessions with Catherine were as effective as a vasectomy.
He checked in on Sara and Greg in the garage and stayed for perhaps a little too long, watching her teach the young CSI the best technique for fuming a convertible. Grissom knew he hadn't given Sara enough credit when it came to the job; he never had. It saddened him to realize he had paid her more compliments to other people rather than to her face. The words, "Nice work, Sara," never exited his lips. No, he had been quick to praise Warrick and Nick, and he often gave Catherine her due, but not Sara. Never Sara.
For didn't she know? Didn't she have any idea? He loved her. Grissom had sunk so deep in love with Sara that he couldn't quite remember what it was like to not carry a deep ache for her in the pit of his stomach. He felt so transparent. Praising her wasn't necessary, he always felt. That he loved her seemed pitifully obvious. To compliment her work would be overkill. Or at least he thought so.
From the doorway, Grissom watched Sara give her protégé a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good job, Greggo."
It was Brass's phone call that brought him back to Earth. "The kid's father is raising hell. Get over here now."
David Feinstein proved to be a man few would ever dare trifle with. One of the Bay Area's top attorneys, as Grissom would later learn, the elder Feinstein dined with senators and congressmen, entertained heads of state, and managed to wield influence over the Clark County Sheriff. Though in his late sixties and in possession of a shock of white hair that Grissom was sure would glow in a blacklit room, David Feinstein looked no older than the CSI himself. His wife, Arlene, wasn't the trophy wife Grissom was expecting of a man so powerful. Equal to her husband in every way, from the looks of the pair, the CSI and the detective knew they were facing an uphill battle. The Sheriff, understandably angry at being awoken before dawn, threatened to slash the lab's funding if Seth Feinstein wasn't released from questioning. Two state senators and the mayor phoned to echo the Sheriff's sentiments.
The three Feinsteins sat in Brass's office across from the detective, with Grissom standing at his side. The CSI could feel his stomach churn. "Mark my words," David Feinstein said gravely, "that evidence will never see the light of day. I'm going to have every single free-lance forensics expert here within an hour to pick apart your damn crime lab. Every mistake you guys have made will be brought to light. If an employee didn't wash his hands, I'll know and --"
"Dad."
"-- you can bet that --"
"Dad!"
David Feinstein blinked and then looked at his son. "What?"
"You guys are forgetting something."
"What are you talking about, son?"
Seth raised his eyebrows. "I didn't do it."
Arlene reached over to pat her son on the hand. "Of course, baby. We know."
"I don't see the big deal. So they have my DNA. It's going to show that I didn't hurt that girl."
"But Seth," David began, "this isn't justice. This is…you helped that girl. My son helped that girl!" the man exclaimed, turning towards Brass once more. "She'd have died right there in the street if he hadn't saved her. And you're treating him like a common criminal."
"Dad, the more you yell at them, the more we waste their time," Seth sighed. "They could be looking for who hurt her. Look, I know you're only doing this because you love me and you want to protect me, but really…in -- how many hours until you said my DNA will be processed?"
Grissom blinked. "Um…we're rushing the results. It'll take about a day."
"Thanks." Seth turned back to his parents. "In twenty-four hours, they'll be as sure as I am that I didn't do anything. Okay?"
"But Seth, dear…"
"Mom, it's going to be okay. For me, anyway. That poor girl -- they don't even know her name. Mr. Brass said she was in surgery. She's in surgery and her family isn't even there because they have no idea where she is. We should feel sorry for her. Not me," Seth said earnestly.
Grissom watched in amazement as the eighteen-year-old diffused the situation no trained professional thus far had been able to resolve. The Feinsteins exited the office peacefully, leaving Grissom and Brass shaking their heads. "Well, at least we can get back to work," the detective sighed, propping his feet up on his desk. The knock on the door had Brass scrambling to lower his legs.
Seth Feinstein stepped through the doorframe. "My, uh, dad dropped his cell phone somewhere. Oh, there it is," the teen said, spotting the sleek phone on the corner of Brass's desk. "Look, I, uh…I'm sorry for all of that. My mom and dad -- they can get a little…overprotective. I'm their only kid. Sorry about all of that. Uh…goodnight. Or…good morning. Goodbye."
They watched him leave. "Strange kid," Brass commented, reaching into his pocket to examine a cigar.
"I like him."
Seth Feinstein was proved correct. Less than a day after Grissom had swabbed his cheek, the teen was cleared of any wrongdoing. The Sheriff had leaked the story of the Good Samaritan to the media and, within hours, Seth's face was plastered all over the television. The awkward but handsome teen shied away from the attention, although Grissom could tell his parents were gratified that their son's deeds were being lauded.
It irked him to ask for a favor, but Grissom found himself dialing David Feinstein's cell number nevertheless. The lawyer's gentle voice turned gruff the moment he realized who he was talking to, but the CSI managed to persuade the man to hand the phone over to his son.
"Hello, Seth?"
"Yes, Mr. Grissom? Or Dr. Grissom? Is it doctor?"
"Uh…doesn't matter," the older man answered, brows furrowed. "We, um…have identified the girl you saved. Her name hasn't been released to the media because she's underage, but her grandmother would like to thank you. She specifically asked to see you in person so she could express her gratitude."
"Really, sir, that's not necessary. The girl, though…has she woken up? Is she doing okay?"
"The doctors say she's critical. She hasn't opened her eyes yet, but she's doing as well as can be expected considering the trauma she suffered. Her grandmother is certain that you visiting will wake her up. I know it's a tall order, but I had to ask," Grissom sighed.
"I…well…um…okay. I guess I can go. I just don't want anyone to make a fuss over me," Seth said in a hushed tone. "The news reporters are really being ridiculous."
Grissom stroked his chin. "Don't worry. No one will know you're there."
"Alright."
They arranged for Grissom to pick up Seth and his mother at the employee entrance at their hotel so as to avoid any stray news cameras lurking at the Four Seasons entrance. The three managed to reach the hospital without fanfare. Outside of the ICU, Hilda Suarez was waiting with open arms. The short, stocky woman wept as she crushed both Seth and his mother in a massive hug. "You saved my Jasmine!" she cried, her accent heavy. A few members of the hospital staff looked on with raised eyebrows. Grissom silently ushered everyone to Jasmine Suarez's bedside. The girl's grandmother kept crying and doing her cross while she clutched Seth's hand.
The boy's face went white as a sheet as he got a look at Jasmine's beaten body in the harsh fluorescent light. Grissom hadn't seen her body right after the attack, but he knew that between the darkness of the alley on Koval and the confusion at the scene, the extent of her injuries hadn't registered with Seth until he saw her for a second time. Her face was swollen with bruises and her right arm lay in a cast while her left was nicked with cuts and scrapes. "Is she…will she be okay?"
"The doctor, he say we don't know, but I know my Jasmine. I know my girl," Hilda said emphatically. "She will wake up, she will."
"Are her mom and dad…uh, where are they?"
"Ay, her father, who knows where he is? And her mother, God rest her soul, she is looking down on my baby," the woman said, doing her cross once more before stroking the girl's thick, dark hair. "My Jasmine knows you are here. She knows."
Seth nodded and his mother smiled softly while she placed a hand on his back. They all stood quietly by Jasmine's side. Grissom knew he should've been getting sleep at that hour, but he couldn't pull himself away. There was an air of bittersweet peace in the room. Seth needed closure and Hilda Suarez needed someone to hold on to. Tragedy and hope were roommates in the ICU. Grissom didn't believe in the angel and the devil on each shoulder, but he did believe in the inevitability of tragedy. The nature of endings themselves was tragic and it was, Grissom knew, the reason he avoided beginnings. For every beginning had an end, and every end was tragic. It was hope's duty to lighten the load until we reached the end. What Seth was for Hilda Suarez at that moment, a young Gil had been for his mother after her husband had died a decade into their marriage: a temporary light in the darkness. The old woman clutched the boy's arm while he stared at Jasmine's battered body.
"Is there some place I can get a drink? I'm a little…"
"I'll show you," Grissom said, and he led Seth out into the hallway to the water cooler.
The boy drank several paper cupful's worth of filtered water in the sterile hall while the CSI looked on.
"Uh, thanks," he finally said, crushing the cup in his hands and tossing it in a nearby garbage. "I get thirsty when I'm nervous."
"Why are you nervous?"
"I…I don't know. I never saw someone like that," Seth answered.
Grissom pursed his lips. "Like what?"
"Hurt. I never saw someone hurt like that. A human being is fighting for her life because someone treated her like road kill. How could that -- how could that happen?" he asked rhetorically. "I don't understand it."
"There's no logic to it," Grissom said, shaking his head. "You can't rationalize this. There's nothing rational about it." He explained this to the boy in a soft tone, for he had once stood in his place thirty years earlier. As an intern at the L.A. County Morgue, an innocent Grissom had been exposed to the horrors of the world at full intensity after a sheltered adolescence. Many a night, he would lay in his apartment and wonder at humanity -- and at the lack of it.
"Is there something I can do for Jasmine?"
"I think you've done enough."
"How is that enough? It's not enough."
Grissom tilted his head. "Then stay with her until you know what enough is."
Seth seemed to heed his advice. Grissom had learned that the teen continued to visit Jasmine with his parents when he returned to the hospital three days later to take the girl's statement. She had awoken in the night in pain and was groggy with medicine, but alert enough to give Grissom a detailed description of the night of her attack. While he was there he noticed the massive bouquet of flowers and the teddy bear in Jasmine's new, private hospital room.
"That nice family, they brought her this stuff," Hilda Suarez explained. "Every day new flowers. Beautiful flowers for my beautiful girl," she smiled.
Jasmine seemed shell-shocked, but grateful to be alive. The hospital staff doted on her, and Grissom told Catherine such as they tracked the leads to the suspect in the attack. "Well, it's as happy an ending as she'll get in these circumstances," the blonde sighed.
"It hasn't ended yet, Catherine. She'll be living with this for years. The cameras will go away, the flowers will stop, and it will hit her then."
"What will hit her?"
"That it almost was the end for her."
They worked steadily through the case. Every so often, Grissom's mind would wander. He'd half-listen to Catherine drone on about the hardship of raising a teenager and suddenly Seth's face would appear in his head.
Teenagers aren't all bad, he wanted to tell his friend. Catherine's daughter was headed down a troubled road. Brass's kid was practically lost to the world. Their new prime suspect in Jasmine's rape was a sixteen-year-old -- a child -- and yet…and yet there was Seth. Seth, who taught the shy Jasmine chess and let her win every game. Seth, who let Hilda Suarez smother him with hugs.
Seth, who didn't just walk on by when he saw that someone needed help.
He was in the thick of it, bound to the Suarez women for the rest of his life. Grissom recalled seeing David Feinstein's hand playfully tousle the boy's head and, for the first time in his life, the loner scientist wondered what it would be like to have a child of his own. Men his age shouldn't have biological clocks, he knew, but still he felt it, that pang of what was never to be.
Throughout it all, Grissom kept an eye on Sara as she guided Greg, slowly introducing him into the world of criminology outside of the lab. She never got angry or annoyed, never teased or talked down to the new CSI. He was so impressed.
And, for once, he let her know.
Grissom managed to corner her one morning as she poured a cup of coffee for herself in the break room.
"Sara…"
She turned and raised her eyebrows.
"I just wanted to say you really are good with Greg. He's making great strides under your tutelage."
"Um…thank you."
"You're, uh…welcome." She held the mug to her lips and moved to walked passed him and out the door. "Listen…I think we should maybe get some breakfast after work. You know, to catch up and stuff." Real smooth, Gil, he thought sourly to himself when she only blinked in response. "We haven't really had a chance to talk recently. I want to know how you're doing."
"Grissom, if this is about the whole PEAP thing, I'm find. Really," she assured him, referring to her temporary dependence on alcohol. "That stuff…is in the past."
"It's not about that. I just…I want to see you."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
Sara nodded, repeating, "Okay."
He stared at her as she shifted uncomfortably. "You probably need to get back to work, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Right."
Sara finally got to the door of the break room when Wendy popped in, startling her. The hot, black liquid in her cup spilled down the front of Sara's shirt.
"I'm so sorry," Wendy apologized nervously. She made a dash for the paper towels. "I was looking for you two. It's about your case, Grissom."
Sara blinked, confused, as she mopped up her shirt. "Why would you need to see me? I'm not on that case."
The DNA lab tech clasped her hands together tightly. "It, uh…it still concerns you."
Shrugging, she followed Grissom and Wendy to the DNA lab.
"What is this regarding, exactly?" Sara asked.
"Seth Feinstein's DNA."
"Seth Feinstein? That's the kid they've been showing on TV, right?"
Wendy nodded while Grissom felt his stomach sink. A problem with Seth Feinstein's DNA? He'd been suckered again. "He did it, didn't he?"
"What? No," Wendy answered, shaking her head. "We cleared him days ago. Don't you remember? Anyway," she continued, "as you know, I've been short-staffed so I've been working all hours to get everything done and…"
"And what?"
"I was given orders by the Sheriff to compare Seth Feinstein's DNA to the sample found on the victim and nothing else."
"Yes," Grissom said impatiently.
"I accidentally ran his sample through the system."
Grissom's eyes widened. "That's it? He's just in the system? So take him out."
Wendy shook her head. "That's not it. I got a hit."
"I…a what?" he asked. "You got a hit? You mean…Seth has committed a crime before."
"No. No, I only got a partial hit. I, uh…well, his alleles…they matched yours, Sara. Fifty percent of them, I mean," she added quickly. "Father, brother, or son."
"I…he's my brother," Sara blurted out. She balled the paper towel in her fist and carefully kept her eyes on the DNA tech. "My parents…didn't have the happiest marriage. My mother didn't want another child raised under that roof. Towards the end of her ninth month, she waited until one of my father's weekend beer binges," Sara explained with a newfound calm, as if she were going through the events of someone else's life, "and then went to the hospital. She had a C-section and told him the baby died."
Wendy's jaw dropped. "I, uh…wow."
"I'd appreciate you not telling this to anyone. It's not information anyone will benefit from. Both of my parents are dead, anyway."
"Of course, Sara. Of course. I-I'm so sorry," Wendy stuttered.
Sara nodded her head and left the lab.
It took fifteen minutes and three pages for Grissom to realize that she was not in the building. Without a second thought, he phoned her voicemail and warned her he'd be at her place in ten minutes and then took off work for her apartment. As he lifted his finger to ring her doorbell, Sara's front door swung open. "I got your message."
"Sara…"
"So I have a brother. No big deal."
"Seth is eighteen years old," he told her.
She swallowed. "I know."
"Honey…your father died twenty-three years ago."
Sara's eyes brimmed with tears though her mouth was pursed in a sarcastic smile. "Shame on me for thinking I could trick a scientist." One tear managed to escape and run down her left cheek.
"When did you…I mean…Sara…" He couldn't find his voice.
"I was sixteen. He was born on my sixteenth birthday. Sweet sixteen, eh?" she said with a watery, hard chuckle.
Grissom's body floated down to the couch. "How, Sara?"
She shook her head. "You don't want to know."
"Honey --"
"You don't. Believe me, you don't."
He didn't need to hear it. He could see it plainly. Every sign he'd been quick to ignore, every moment when he should've thought twice about her past, resurfaced. Grissom could feel his throat tighten. "Sara --"
"Is he okay?" she sobbed, finally breaking down. "I mean…is he…is he doing okay? He's alright, right?"
Grissom gaped like a fish as he held back his own tears. "Honey, he's exceptional."
She lost it. He had seen women cry before, but he had never seen a woman literally melt before him in her own pain and tears. Her hot, wet tears burned through his shirt as he unfolded her body on top of his, picking her up onto his lap as he attempted to soothe the unsoothable. When Sara's sobs silenced, Grissom hoisted her up and carried her to her bed, laying her down gently before removing her shoes.
He stood by her side as he watched her stare lifelessly into space. For an hour they stayed like that until, at the very moment Grissom decided to wait outside and give her privacy, she opened her mouth. "It was the nicest foster home I ever stayed at. My last one, too."
He froze in his spot.
"They were rich. I was smart, and they liked that. They took credit for it, of course, but they rewarded me for it, which was a first," she sighed. "I was fifteen. They had a son…Charles. He was in college for the most part…in North Carolina. But he'd come back for the holidays."
Grissom gulped.
"They were out to dinner," Sara continued, "to celebrate someone's retirement. I can't remember who. Charles was supposed to be with his girlfriend, but they broke up, I guess. They were always breaking up," she said apathetically. "I got out of bed to get a drink of water and he found me. I tried to run, but…well, you can guess the rest. He left after he was done, I suppose. I woke up on the grass alone. I took a shower and pretended to sleep. Then the police came."
"The police?"
"Charles wrapped his convertible around a telephone pole on his way to make up with his girlfriend. He died instantly."
Good, Grissom thought, his jaw clenched.
"His parents couldn't stand to look at me after that. And when they found out I was pregnant, I was out of there." As if she sensed his next question, Sara shook her head. "I never told them it was his. They would've taken him and raised another Charles. I couldn't let that happen. So I listened to them call me a slut and a whore and a waste of skin…I was back in group home by my second trimester."
She turned her head to stare out the window. "Don't think I didn't want him. I-I…I don't know anything about children. I never have. But I still wanted him. I just wasn't good enough for him.
"Sometimes I imagine how my life would've turned out if he had stayed mine. I'd have an eighteen-year-old -- almost nineteen. All those years of memories, they would be mine: first steps, first words…I know I'm torturing myself by thinking like this, but what could've been is so tempting. He could've been mine. But I couldn't do that to him. I loved him too much. I know it sounds silly -- he's virtually a stranger to me -- but I loved him from the moment I saw him. They let me hold him," she sighed. "Right before I gave him away, they let me hold him. He was tiny -- five pounds. That's it. Five pounds. So light. But when the nurse took him away, I felt like I was missing something. It's cliché, I know, but I felt the absence. I did. I still do."
Grissom didn't know what to say. He reached out and put a hand on hers. The small of his back ached at the awkward position, but he didn't want to invade her space on the bed.
"What's he like?"
"He's a good kid, Sara. So good." Grissom's thumb rubbed the back of her hand.
"That's nice," she said, closing her eyes. He didn't dare move until he was sure she was sound asleep. Grissom quickly found her cell phone and turned it on, placing it next to her bed so he'd be able to reach her.
He left her a note on her nightstand and quickly made his way to the hospital. He wasn't sure why, but he had to see Seth again knowing what he knew, knowing that he was Sara's son. Grissom found the boy on his last day of vacation in Vegas right by Jasmine Suarez's side. He looked closer now, as the two visited the cafeteria for a quick bite to eat, examining him for traits that reminded Grissom of Sara. Their coloring was the same, and Seth was tall and thin. He didn't, however, possess the gap between his two front teeth that Grissom found so charming on his mother.
"Is something in my teeth?" Seth asked self-consciously, noting where the CSI was staring.
"What? No. No, nothing there."
"Good," he smiled. "I used to get stuff stuck in my braces all the time. It was so embarrassing."
"Braces?"
"Hmm? Yeah," Seth nodded. "I had a major space between my teeth."
Grissom swallowed. "So…you're going back to San Francisco?"
The young man frowned. "Yeah. Tonight. I'm going to keep in touch with Jasmine, though. I think she's going to be okay. All things considering."
"Yeah."
"So…you like Princeton? You go to Princeton, right?"
"Yeah. It's alright. School is what you make of it," Seth shrugged.
"What's your major?"
"English. I want to be an English teacher. Like my mom."
"Your mom. Right." Grissom took a bite of his turkey sandwich.
"It's hard for my parents with me being so far away. My dad keeps taking pro-bono cases in Jersey just so he has an excuse to visit," Seth chuckled. "And I swear Mom is at my dorm, tidying up the mess, at least once a month."
"That's nice. You seem close to them."
"Well, yeah. We're family."
Grissom nodded. "Right. Yes."
"They can be a little overprotective. I guess since I'm they're only child and it took so long for them to get me," the young man explained.
"To get you?"
"I was adopted."
Grissom raised his brows. "Oh? Really?"
"Yep."
"How long have you known -- if you don't mind my asking?" he queried, feeling guilty for prying, but he was desperate for more knowledge about Sara's son.
"Since I was eight. It's not something that I'm ashamed of or anything. I mean, I love my parents. I have the most phenomenal parents," Seth told him. "But there was this little twinge of, you know, why wasn't I good enough? I guess that's universal when it comes to adopted kids. My parents told me my birth mother was a teenager -- sixteen, I think. When I was eight, that seemed so old. It didn't hit me until my sixteenth birthday."
Grissom put down his sandwich. "What didn't hit you until your sixteenth birthday?"
"How young sixteen is. I was finally in her shoes. It took a lot of guts for her to do what she did. I'm nothing but thankful now."
A knot untied in Grissom's stomach. Though he already knew the answer, he asked the question anyway: "Have you met her yet?"
"No."
"W-will you ever?"
"I don't know," Seth said honestly.
They finished their lunch and returned to Jasmine's side so Seth could say goodbye. When Grissom left the hospital, he went straight to Sara's apartment. He found her in bed, staring at the ceiling. "Are you alright?"
She didn't answer.
He walked to her. "Sara…"
She turned to look at him and held out a hand, pulling him to her onto the mattress. He didn't hesitate, and stretched out next to her, holding her to him. Sara held on to the lapels of his jacket and blankly studied the pattern of his plaid shirt. "He used to kick me."
Grissom furrowed his brow, confused.
"When I was pregnant," Sara clarified. "He used to keep me up at night. I could never sleep. It was like he couldn't wait to get out, to get away from me."
Grissom ran a hand up and down the length of her back. "He doesn't feel like that now."
Her hands clutched the fabric of his jacket tight. "How do you know? What do you mean?" she asked quickly. "Did you tell him about me?"
"No, no," he assured her. "He told me he was adopted. We…got to talking about it and he said he understood what a sacrifice it must've been. Honey, he's such a good kid. There's no way he's angry. He's appreciative. He told me so."
Sara said nothing, but her grip on his lapels loosened ever-so-slightly.
"He's leaving tonight for California, honey. I have his number. Call him," Grissom urged.
"No."
"Do it, Sara. Don't be afraid."
"It's not up to me," she said quietly. "It has to be his choice."
"But Sara --"
"It's not my decision to make, Gil," she said firmly, effectively ending the conversation.
Grissom didn't bring the subject up until they were packing boxes for their move to Detroit seven months later.
"Since our address is going to change, maybe it would be a good idea to --"
"No, Gil."
He stayed quiet until the girls were born a year and a half later. "Don't you think he'd want to know he has sisters?" Grissom asked as he cuddled either Anna or Alice, he wasn't quite sure who yet.
Sara merely shook her head and kissed the newborn in her arms. "All babies smell the same," she sighed.
Four-year-old Alice fell out of the tree she climbed on Anna's dare and broke her arm. As her parents rushed the bawling child to the hospital, a cell phone started to ring. "It's yours," Grissom said to his wife as he sped along the highway.
"I'm kind of busy at the moment," she sighed, and let the phone ring in her pocket as she held Alice's arm in traction while Anna looked on worriedly.
X-Rays were taken and the bone was set and within hours, Alice was sporting a neon pink cast her sister was scribbling on. "I take back everything I said about saving the rainforest," Sara sighed into her husband's shoulder. "Every single tree needs to be cut down because if they aren't, our kids will have no unbroken bones."
Grissom chuckled and draped an arm around her shoulder. A phone started to trill and they both reached for their pockets. "It's me," he said tiredly. "Work."
Sara just smiled and inspected her own phone in her hand, noting that she had a message. She sighed and dialed her voicemail.
"Hi, um…Sara? My name is Seth…"