We weren't sleep cuddlers or hand holders. We did like to be affectionate, but when it mattered. Because it meant more that way. But sometimes, when it really counted, he held my hand.
The first time he held my hand, it was after I almost lost my job, my life, my everything when I was pulled over for the D.U.I. Since they'd just lowered the limit, I didn't get into too much trouble. But the officer on the scene did have to call Grissom, since he was my supervisor and everything.
I waited for him to come for maybe 20 minutes, but it seemed like my whole life. I'd known Gil Grissom for 6 years by that point. 2 years before that fateful phone call sent me to Las Vegas, I was in the lab at San Francisco. My supervisor there, a very well-respected crime scene investigator named Martin Thornton, sent me to a seminar that Gil was doing. Martin knew I had a thirst for learning anything new. The lecture was on entomology and how it helped with solving crimes. I wasn't a big fan of bugs, but I thought the subject matter was fascinating. And so was the teacher.
I thought about the day we met while I waited for him. I thought about how I was the only one who really seemed to be listening to the lecture, and how he picked up on that, too. After everyone else had cleared out, I approached him to ask some questions. We had a conversation, and then we had lunch, and after that, we had a friendship. We kept in touch. When he needed a hand in answering some questions about Holly Gribbs' murder, I was there. And I stayed there.
I didn't know what was going to happen when he came to see me, sitting in that chair, broken from everything happened in the past 4 years. It hadn't been easy. I came to Vegas with a crush, and over the years it had turned into something else entirely. Sometimes, when I felt like something was on the verge of happening, I'd say or do something about it. And sometimes he would say or do something about it. But we were never on the same page, and sometimes it was so frustrating that all I wanted to do was go back to California, tail between my legs. The icing on the cake happened a few months earlier, when I watched from afar as he told a murder suspect that even when someone young and beautiful gave him a second chance at life, he couldn't do it. And just like that, it was over before it started.
Was he going to fire me? I wouldn't put it past him. It wouldn't have surprised me at all. But when he walked in and sat next to me, it didn't feel like he was mad. And when he held my hand and said, "Come on, I'll take you home," all I felt was warmth. It was a turning point. It had to be, because he was reaching out to me. Just a simple touch, and I knew he was sorry for everything that happened to bring us to this point. And it was just because he held my hand.
Almost a year later, I found myself in trouble again. The case with the Russian brides struck a chord in me, and it was just the latest in a string of cases that were hitting too close to home. I missed my mother, I missed my father, and I longed to go back to a childhood where I had both of them back. Instead, I had memories of abuse and violence and death. It got to me, and I blew up at Catherine, and then at Ecklie. I'll admit, it wasn't one of my best moments. But it sure as hell did feel good at the time.
I was suspended and spent some quality time at my apartment. I was writing in my journal, something my PEAP counselor suggested I start doing, when someone knocked on the door. Curiously, I turned my music off and answered the door.
There he was, a look of concern clear on his face. He wanted to know what happened, and not just in the past couple of days. So I told him, I told him about my mom and dad, something I hadn't told anyone except the PEAP counselor in almost 20 years. And he held my hand while I cried.
The first time he held my hand, I vowed to make it a turning point, and I did. That's when I threw away the bottles of beer and wine and started to get it together. The second time he held my hand, I made a vow to be better; to not be so angry. For him. And soon after that, things changed. Things happened. We found ourselves giving into the slow tango we'd been performing around each other for 6 years. It wasn't easy, but when it was good, it was everything I always hoped it could have been.
The third time he held my hand, I couldn't make any vows because, well, I was kind of unconscious at the time. But I saw him. Through the dehydration, the broken arm, the EMTs doing their job, the noise of the helicopter...I saw his name on his vest, and then I saw relief on his tired face, and I thought about the other times he held my hand, and how this time it was different. This time it wasn't about starting something new, it was about surviving. It was about remembering the past and acknowledging the future. it was about enjoying our lives together. It was about making up for lost time. It was about figuring out how to live together when we both had gotten used to the idea of that never becoming a reality. It was about love.
And on that blazing hot day, the day after a serial killer abducted me and almost took me away from Gil Grissom, I knew it would be okay. Because he was holding my hand.