Title: Sweat
Author: Burked
Disclaimers: I don't own the rights to anybody or anything even remotely related to CSI.
Rating: PG-13 for gutter language typical of people who are really pissed off, or so I am told. I would have no personal experience to draw on here.
Summary: G/S, post ItB by a few weeks at least. Grissom and Sara find themselves in a dangerous situation, and it shows him more than he wants to know about what's going on with her.
A/N: I wrote this mainly to prove to myself that I can write something less than 60 pages long.
The good thing about the lack of direction and continuity to this last season is that it leaves so much open for us to write about! There must be a million ways to write a resolution to Play With Fire, all of which would be infinitely better than Inside the Box.
Sweat drops snapped free and ran in rivulets down his forehead, most of it tracking around his eyebrows, but enough falling into his eyes to sting and blur his vision. He desperately fought the instinct to wipe his face and rub the salt out of his eyes.
He couldn't afford to free either of his hands – one was wrapped too tightly around the grip of the nine-millimeter pistol, the knuckles gleaming white with strain. The other was trying to hold his aim steady at the wrist, a seemingly impossible task.
For the first time in his life, Grissom was aiming directly at someone's head, waiting for the moment he could separate a large portion of it from his body.
He was afraid to move, afraid it would set in motion the very disaster he was desperately trying to avert. He warred with the adrenaline that made his face hot, but his body shivered with chills. The very hormone that was intended to give him sudden strength was making him feel weak and shaky all over.
"Don't stand there like a deer in the headlights, Grissom!" Sara shrieked. "Shoot him!"
"Put down the gun and get out of my way!" Bobby McPherson screamed. "I swear I'll blow her fucking head off!" he shouted, jamming the gun barrel against Sara's right temple, causing her to flinch slightly.
"Let me give you some advice, Bobby. When you're going to grab a hostage, dumb ass, you should pick one who gives a shit whether they live or die. You fucked up," she said calmly.
"Shut up, bitch!" he squealed, tightening the grip his left arm had around her throat and slamming the barrel of the pistol roughly into her temple again.
"Ow! That's gonna leave a mark!" she said.
"If you don't shut up, there's gonna be a hole there to cover it up!" Bobby answered, giggling nervously at his own humor.
"Grissom, shoot this asshole right now. He's starting to annoy me," Sara commanded, resolutely looking into Grissom's panicked eyes, willing him to pull the trigger.
"If you try it, she'll hit the floor before I do," Bobby threatened. "You'll be scooping her brains up with a spoon!"
"Let her go, Bobby. You're just making it worse on yourself," Grissom forced out hoarsely. He had known that she would be cool under pressure, but he was looking directly into her eyes, and he was convinced that she felt nothing but irritation with the situation. Why wasn't she afraid?
"Or what? They gonna give me one more life sentence? I'm probably getting the death sentence anyway. They gonna kill me again for shooting this useless bitch? I ain't got nothing to lose, asshole, so I don't care if I cap her or not. It's your call, dude."
Grissom knew that McPherson was right – he had nothing to lose, which was the most dangerous kind of adversary to face. He had already killed five women that they knew of, and they had posed no threat to his survival. Grissom unconsciously relaxed his grip on the pistol slightly.
Seeing his resolve wane, Sara intervened, "You've got nothing to lose, Bobby? Well, join the club, dude. I've got nothing, too. At least we have something in common, huh? We're both losers." She huffed out a contemptuous cackle.
"Shut up, cunt!" he growled, jerking her by the neck harshly to get her attention.
"You call me that again, and you're really going to piss me off. You do not even want to see me pissed off!" she warned.
"I may have to shoot you, just to shut you the fuck up!" he screamed in frustration.
"Go ahead. Then Grissom will finally get the clue that you were going to kill me anyway and blow your fucking head off."
"You'll still be dead, you stupid bitch!"
"Then I'll see you in hell, Bobby," she smiled at him.
Grissom could perceive that Sara was pushing him too far, and Bobby was dangerously close to snapping. "Sara, don't," Grissom pleaded.
"Yeah, Sara. Don't," Bobby mocked in a sing-song voice that terminated with a giggle.
"Look, this is ridiculous," she snorted. "We all know how this is likely to end up, right? So what are you guys waiting on, an engraved invitation? We're both dead, Bob – no big loss to the world. Or, you could put your gun down and we both live, like either of us gives a damn. The only value to that would be to irritate other people, just by our mere presence in their world," she said, casting a brief glance Grissom's way.
Loosening his grip slightly, Bobby shifted his head around slightly to read Sara's expression. She turned her head to him, her face devoid of any affect, no emotion but ennui. Her dead eyes fascinated him – he was accustomed to seeing only stark terror when he was this close to a victim, and that feeling warmed him. He could see fear in the one she called 'Grissom', but not in her. She left him still feeling cold inside; he would get no joy from killing this one.
"You really don't care, do you?" he asked in a surprised whisper in her ear.
"No, Bobby, I really don't," she affirmed blankly.
"But he does," Bobby answered back, jerking his head towards Grissom. "He's the weak link in this, baby, and you know it," he purred in her ear, trying to shake her resolve.
Snickering, she responded, "He couldn't care less about me, Bobby. He hasn't spoken a civil word to me in longer than I care to remember."
"If you let her go, Bobby, I'll let you go," Grissom offered, shame from her words burning his cheeks.
"You're lying!" he screamed suspiciously.
"You never know. He might be telling you the truth, Bobby," Sara considered. "But you see, that may work for you, but it just doesn't work for me. You'll just go out and rape and kill more women who actually care about their lives. Women who may have families, or people who love them."
"What are you doing, Sara?!" Grissom demanded.
"I'm doing what you should be doing, Grissom. I'm going to stop this psycho from hurting people who really do have something worth living for. Sooner or later he's going to shoot me. You know that, right? When he does, kill him," she spat out evilly, glaring at Bobby.
"I told you to shut up!" Bobby yelled in her ear, bringing a one-sided wince to her face.
She exhaled deeply and looked Grissom in the eyes, her own eyes unnaturally serene.
"Grissom," she started off soothingly, almost hypnotically. "Breathe. Calm yourself down. Breathe. That's right. ... Accept the inevitable."
"Better listen to her, man!" Bobby agreed, but not realizing to what.
She watched Grissom fill his lungs with air, then breathe out slowly, one breath after another. His shoulders and arms relaxed, though he was still aiming at the only exposed area, Bobby's head.
He was as composed as he could possibly get under the circumstances, but he could not bring himself to take the shot. His reason argued that Bobby was likely to kill her either way, but he could not be the cause of her death, as Bobby's fingers would no doubt spasm against the trigger. He would feel that way no matter who the hostage was, but he could not compound the guilt with grief over losing her, especially by his own hand.
She could read the hesitancy in his eyes and it angered her that, as usual, he couldn't make the right decision where she was concerned, and she concentrated beams of fury toward Grissom.
It angered him that she had put him in this untenable position by goading the suspect into a murderous rage, and his eyes turned icy gray in frustration with her.
They stood and glared at each other for what seemed like hours but was actually only a matter of seconds.
Gradually, her face softened towards him, as she recognized that he was what he was.
Grissom also accepted the mystery of Sara Sidle, and his face revealed that to her as well.
Slowly, a smile formed first at the corners of her eyes, then crept unhurriedly down to her mouth. Grissom could not allow himself to smile without giving her away to her captor, but he watched as her face opened up to him. It was the smile of ages ago, the smile that used to light up the room whenever she graced him with it. It had been so long ago that he last saw it that he had forgotten that it could take his breath away this easily.
She had made her peace with him in those few moments, letting him know that she forgave him and begged his forgiveness as well. His eyes told her that he understood and reciprocated. Just in case the unimaginable happened, they had said their farewells.
Sara allowed her eyes to break off from his, rolling down for a moment to collect her thoughts and make a decision. She allowed the smile to fade so that he would be able to read her lips when she looked back in his eyes and mouthed silently, "I love you."
Grissom comprehended in a panic that this went beyond 'just in case'. She would never have said that, after everything that's happened in their relationship, unless she thought it would be her last and only opportunity.
Though it was over in a few seconds, the scene played out in slow motion in front of Grissom, but he was powerless to affect the outcome. Sara jammed her chin down toward the crook of Bobby's elbow, preventing him from crushing her trachea. Her right hand flew up to grab the hand with the pistol, knocking it away from her head as a round exploded out of the chamber into the ceiling, the noise stunning her slightly with a cracking sound that faded to a dull ringing in her right ear.
At the same time, she slammed her left elbow as hard as she could into Bobby's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Shocked and in pain, his grip loosened slightly, and Sara took advantage of that to wrestle out of his armlock around her neck.
Still holding his weapon hand, she brought her left hand to join her right, twisting Bobby down, separating the pistol from him as he fell. When she was done, he was gasping on the floor, clutching his broken wrist, and staring down the barrel of her Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter pistol.
"Sara! Are you all right?" Grissom asked, rushing forward to look her over to ensure that she hadn't been hit by the shot.
"I can't hear anything out of my right ear and the side of my face stings, but I'm all right."
"Are you crazy? You could have been killed!" Grissom shouted, grabbing her by the top of her arms. Now that Grissom was sure Sara was all right, his anger resurfaced. He wasn't sure whether he most wanted to hug her or shake some sense into her.
"Well, I wasn't," she answered evenly, still looking down at Bobby McPherson, who was struggling to push himself up to a sitting position against the wall. She pulled back and Grissom dropped his hands.
"You broke my fucking wrist, you bitch!" he cried.
"You're lucky I didn't kill you," she assured him. "But the night is young," she said hopefully, bandying about the pistol carelessly in his direction.
"You really had me scared, Sara," Grissom acknowledged. "That was some act you put on."
"That wasn't no act," Bobby sneered. "Didn't you look in her eyes, man? She really don't care."
Grissom ignored McPherson and walked back towards the door, speed dialing Dispatch to have them get some uniforms there as soon as possible. Ending the call, he called Brass directly to tell him that they apprehended McPherson. He gave Brass the address and hung up.
"I told you that you fucked up, Bobby," Sara snorted.
"You'll be dead before I am, Sara," Bobby said, nodding. "You'll either cap yourself or get someone else to do it, but you aren't long for this world at this rate."
"Geez, Bob, I didn't realize you were so multifaceted. A few minutes ago I just thought you were a worthless kidnapping, raping, murdering sack of shit. Now it turns out you're a psychoanalyst in your spare time."
"Truth hurt?" he laughed.
"It used to, but not anymore. As a matter of fact, I don't feel much of anything anymore – so it's not going to bother me one bit to blow your head off if you so much as twitch."
"You got your hands full with this one, mister," Bobby shouted over to Grissom.
"I've been told that before," Grissom nodded. Holding out a large evidence bag, Grissom said, "Sara, put your gun in the evidence bag. We may still be able to get some of his prints or DNA, even though you've handled it."
"I'll put it in when the cops get here," Sara rebutted.
"Why not now? I've got my gun. He's not going anywhere," Grissom guaranteed her.
"Because you won't shoot him if he moves. I will," she answered simply, training the weapon squarely on McPherson's heart.
"Sara ..." Grissom's plea was cut off by Brass and four police officers bursting through the door.
Surveying the scene, Brass said under his breath towards Grissom, "I've seen that look she's got before, and it's never a good thing."
"Sara? It's Brass. We're behind you and we've got him covered. Lower your weapon and back away."
Sara stood transfixed in front of Bobby, their eyes feuding, although they spoke not a word. His silent smirk dared her to do it; she wordlessly warned him not to tempt her.
"You try, Gil," Brass suggested in Grissom's ear. "But be careful. She's on adrenaline autopilot right now."
"Sara, honey? Can I have the gun now?" he asked gently. "You said I could have it when the police got here, and they're here now."
She didn't answer, but she very slowly raised the weapon from Bobby's chest to aim it directly at his face, upping the ante in their war of wills. The police officers reacted automatically by training their weapons on her, looking anxiously over at Brass for direction. He held his hand up, letting them know to hold their positions until he told them otherwise.
Grissom soothingly called her name several times as he slowly inched closer to her, not wanting to startle her into a reflexive shot. Within a few moments he was standing right behind her, so close he could feel the heat coming off from her back. Leaning forward to whisper in her ear, he asked, "Did you mean everything you said earlier?"
She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, keeping her eyes fixed on McPherson like a lioness watches her prey, waiting for the slightest move on his part that would signal the time to pounce.
"Everything?" he confirmed.
She nodded again.
"Sara, do you really love me?" he whispered in her ear as softly as any love song.
She froze momentarily and narrowed her eyes in contemplation. It was one thing to say it pretty much in private the second before you expected to die. It was another to acknowledge it in a roomful of people, and have to live it down. But she considered what she had told Bobby – she had nothing to lose at this point.
"Yes," she breathed out hesitantly.
"Then give me the gun. Let's get out of here. Maybe go grab a drink somewhere. OK?"
She didn't move for several seconds – an eternity to Grissom and the police, but she gradually lowered the gun from Bobby's head to his chest, still lethal, but not as overtly threatening.
"OK," she breathed out finally, snapping on the safety and letting the pistol spin down on her finger until it was hanging upside-down by the trigger guard. Her smirk told Bobby that he hadn't bested her. But maybe another man had.
Grissom held open the bag and she dropped it in. Handing the evidence bag over to Brass, Grissom wrapped his arms around her stiff body, stroking her back and telling her it was all over, but he wasn't convinced of that himself. She wasn't rejecting, but she wasn't responsive either.
Grissom shifted his eyes over at Brass, who was shaking his head back and forth knowingly. He wrote a quick note on a legal pad and showed it to Grissom over Sara's shoulder. It read: "This is the second time. You can't ignore it. Do something or I will." Grissom nodded his assent.
Grissom turned to guide them out of the room where he had seen a new side of Sara that he hoped to never see again.
* * * * *
He chose a restaurant known more for its privacy and lack of tourist traffic than for its cuisine. It was obviously designed with couples in mind, as each table was bistro-sized, with only two seats.
The waiter appeared, taking their wine order, then disappeared just as quickly, leaving them to each other.
"Are you OK?" he asked, pushing back the hair from the right side of her face. He winced when he saw the gray speckles of gunpowder burned into her skin.
"I still can't hear out of my right ear," she said. "I wonder if that will go away," she mused too casually for his liking.
"It depends on how much damage the shock of the discharge did to your ear," he answered pedantically. "When we're done here, we'll go to the Emergency Room to get you checked out."
"I'm fine," she said, waving off the suggestion.
"You always say that, Sara," he rebuffed. "It's not always true."
A silence fell between them, but with questions hanging in the air, bidding to be asked. The waiter reappeared with two glasses and a bottle of wine, which he opened with an expert flourish and left it to breathe, fading back out of sight, out of the faint light shed by the flickering candle on their table.
"Sara, did you really mean all that you said to McPherson? Do you really feel that way?"
She looked distantly over his shoulder, not answering, not sure which thing he was referring to.
"Do you really not care whether you live or die?" he specified, pouring them each a glass of wine and setting hers down in front of her hands.
"I'm not afraid to die anymore. It's not nearly as hard as living – and the pain doesn't last nearly as long," she mumbled, taking up her glass to watch the light from the candle dance in the liquid before setting it back down.
"You're scaring me, Sara. This is the second time since the lab accident that you've put yourself at risk. This time you almost got yourself killed," he said, an undercurrent of desperation flowing beneath his words.
Sitting back, defensively crossing her arms at her chest, she retorted, "It's not like I told him to grab me and put my own gun to my head."
"No, but you told him you didn't care if he pulled the trigger. It was obvious even to him that you were being honest. Why do you feel that way?" Grissom coaxed.
She shrugged and took a drink to avoid answering immediately. "I'm not trying to die, Grissom. I'm just not afraid of it anymore. There's a difference. If I wanted to die, I'd be dead."
"You've got to get some help, Sara. This sort of thing happens sometimes to people who do the sort of work we do. It's not a stigma to go talk to the LVPD counselor. That's what he's there for."
"Is he going to give me a life worth protecting, Grissom?" she asked angrily.
"No, you'll have to get one of those for yourself," he answered calmly.
"I tried. It didn't work out," she scoffed.
"I'm sorry about the thing with Hank," he offered in reconciliation, trying to sound more sincere than he felt.
She let her head thump back heavily against the top of the chair and rolled her eyes. "I think you wanted me to be with him a hell of a lot more than I ever did," she retorted.
"I doubt that," he mumbled into his wine glass.
"Anyway, I wasn't referring to Hank," she challenged.
Glossing over her implication for the moment, Grissom asked, "Then why were you seeing him?"
"Because he was there," she said flippantly. "I didn't want to end up like Donna Marks, and you kept hounding me to get a life. He was the only one who asked me out," she said with a shrug.
"I can't believe that. There are a minimum of half a dozen guys at the lab who would kill to be able to take you out," Grissom argued, knowing that he was one of them.
"Funny, none of them ever asked me. Except Greg. And he doesn't count."
"Why not?" Grissom asked, curious.
"Oh, for God's sake, Grissom! If for no other reason – and there are plenty of other reasons – I'm a good five years older than him!" she practically shrieked.
"Imagine how I feel," he rejoined, peering into his wine.
"Oh, did he ask you out, too?" she mocked.
"No, smart ass, I wasn't referring to Greg," he shook his head.
"It's not the same," she argued, waving her hand dismissively.
"How so?" he asked.
"Greg is 27, but he has the maturity of a 12-year-old. Boys mature slower, and Greg's slower than most. Any female past puberty would be too old for him," she reasoned.
"On the other hand, I may only be 32, but I'd be willing to bet that I've seen a lot more in my 32 years than most women 15 years older. I won't say it's necessarily matured me, but I can damn sure say it's aged me," she concluded.
"You don't look 47," he said with a smile.
"Good genes," she responded.
"Did you mean the other thing you said?" he asked gingerly, aware that he would be spoiling the lighter mood that had arisen.
"Which thing?" she evaded.
"You know which thing," he rebuffed her softly.
"I already answered that," she said, becoming uncomfortable that the humiliation she had feared was about to commence.
"Then would you please quit taking these risks? For me?" he asked gently.
"Are you going to hold that over my head to get me to do whatever you want now? If you love me this, if you love me that. I didn't tell you so that you could use it as leverage against me." Her body spoke a defensive language, leaned back stiffly against the chair, arms crossed at her chest. Her eyes were harsh and accusing, her breathing fast and loud.
"Against you? How is asking you to not risk your life using it against you?" he asked in amazement.
"The point is, I should never have said it. I wouldn't have if I had thought for one minute that I was going to survive the encounter with Bobby McPherson," Sara answered, as though this nullified her declaration of love.
"But you did say it and you did survive, thank God. Are you going to just pretend now that it never happened?"
"Sounds like a plan," she answered, taking a large gulp of her wine.
"What if I don't want to forget it?" he asked.
"Sounds like a personal problem," she answered brusquely.
"Just one of many," he acknowledged.
"And what do you care, anyway? It's not like it was news to you. You had to have known all along, and you didn't care. So why do you want to remember it now?" she asked harshly, anguish making her voice crack. She quickly averted her eyes to try to gather her composure. The anger was helping, but the pain was still raw.
"I knew how I felt; I didn't know how you felt. If I had, I think things would have gone differently."
"Oh yeah? What? You'd have rejected me sooner?" she spat out, allowing the accumulated pain and anger to spill out of her.
"No, I would have told you I love you sooner," he said, surveilling her face for a reaction, seeing a magnification of the shocked look he received at the ice rink so very long ago.
Handing her a menu, he smiled and said, "Let's have dinner. Let's see what happens."