Summary: Sara needs a break. GSR, though Grissom won't appear in the fic until some time later.
A/N: None, really, though as this is my first chaptered fic, advice is welcome.
Sometimes I can forget, for little blips of time. When I'm out in the field, examining the evidence, talking to a suspect--my instincts take over, and I forget. Work has been my distraction whenever there's something in my life that I don't want to think about. In high school, when my older brother was hit by a car and ended up hospitalized for two months, I flung myself into my schoolwork. By the time he had recovered, I'd chosen a career for myself.
It's a bit of sick irony, then, that the thing I want to forget is a part of my job. He's always there, it seems, though we hardly ever work together anymore. Maybe he's only trying to be helpful. Perhaps he knows that seeing him is akin to being a veterinarian allergic to dogs. A key element of my work environment is almost physically painful to me now. For a day or so I toyed with the idea that he was trying to push me at Nick--that the fact that I always seemed to be working with the younger criminalist meant something. I threw that idea out almost instantly, though. I couldn't imagine Grissom being that calculating when it came to human relations.
I think that he thought I was acting childishly when I put in for the leave of absence. In fact, that was one of the more mature things I've done in my relationship with him--only, true to form, I allowed his gesture to pull me back. If I couldn't be with him, if seeing him only made it worse, then why was I staying? I could certainly get a job elsewhere--there were no real career advantages to staying where I was. I couldn't escape the truth--I was there because he wanted me there.
It wasn't true, no matter what I told myself, that he'd behaved particularly poorly. He'd flirted with me, of course, but it wasn't his fault that I'd been so stupid as to let it affect me. My mouth curled sardonically. 'Let it affect me.' 'The thing that I wanted to forget'. I think of him in euphemisms now, my mind skittering over his name, and I hadn't even verbalised the truth in my own head. Not until last week.
It had been nothing--we'd been working on a case together, and I'd made an observation that gave the problem a whole new angle. He'd looked incredulous for a moment; then he'd smiled at me. Nothing that he hadn't done before, but my stomach lurched and I felt a combination of understanding and nausea as something crystallized in my mind. 'Sara Sidle,' it said, 'You are in love with this man, and you'll never get over him if you see him every day.'
I wasn't at the point where I could face the idea of never seeing him again. The idea of not seeing him for two weeks was bad enough, but if I meant to get over him, then I had to do something about it. Even if there'd been some sort of support group ("My name is Sara, and I'm addicted to...") I wouldn't have gone. This was my problem.
It was only the flight attendant's landing announcement that snapped me out of my Woman Power reverie. Well, I told myself, when this was all over, I'd have enough material to write a CD full of empowerment songs. Despite myself, I felt anticipation begin to kick up, just a bit. It had been several years since I'd seen my best friend, and I was looking forward to see her again, though I'd left half my heart in the crime lab. Not as literally as the victim in Nick's most recent murder, perhaps, but all the same.
I'd told her that I could take a cab to her place, but she wouldn't hear of it, and the sight of her standing by the baggage claim made me stop making up morbid jokes. "Rachel!" The short blonde waved frantically back at me from across the airport, maneuvering through the crowds effortlessly.
"Sara! You look good! Considering you just got off a plane, at least," she added, and I snorted at her. She stood back and examined me critically, taking in the untucked tie-dyed t-shirt and faded jeans I'd worn for the plane ride. "But you have to stop wearing those shirts."
"What's wrong with my shirts?" I pretended to be offended for a minute before grabbing her and swinging her around in a circle. She rolled her eyes before hugging me back. "Thanks for coming to get me," I said casually, then muttered a quick, "I missed you."
"I missed you too." She stood there and smiled at me for a moment. I *had* missed Rachel--we'd met at Harvard, and had seen each other frequently since. She now made her home in California--only a six hour drive from where I used to work in San Francisco, and too far from Las Vegas.
"I'm not letting you take me shopping." My words signalled a return to our normal friendship, where we were almost as stingy with displays of affection as your stereotypical back-slapping guys.
"That's what you always say. I bet you that in four days I'll have you down at the mall--*and* that you'll have bought something."
"Which I'll never wear." We kept up the banter as I retrieved my luggage and we walked towards her car.
As we got in the car, I asked about her job at the local pharmacy, which seemed to be going well; she asked about my brother's marriage, which wasn't going quite so well. We were halfway to her house before she brought it up--I mentally congratulated her, because if something's on her mind, she usually can't let it lie for five minutes. "So what's the real reason you suddenly decided that you had to see me?"
"Would you believe me if I told you that I'd realized I had been suppressing my love for you all this time, and that I just had to let you know the truth?"
She whacked me on the arm. "You tease," she kidded. "Something happened at work, I take it?"
"Something like that." I had no real intention of not telling Rachel about my ulterior motive for this vacation, but now wasn't the ideal time to get into it. "I'll tell you about it this evening after a few glasses of wine. It isn't as interesting a story as you're thinking, I'm sure."
"If you're suggesting wine, I take it you aren't pregnant," she deadpanned.
"Not unless it was the work of angels, I promise you." Her comment had reminded me of something, though. "Uh, Rachel, I did tell you that I was a vegetarian now, didn't I?"
"I'll tell the cook ixnay on the pig with the apple in its mouth, then. Yes, you told me. Something about some guy and a dead pig?"
I choked. "Exactly." She caught my reaction and looked at me sharply, but let it drop. I encouraged her to talk about herself for the rest of the drive, assuming that she didn't have anything to talk about that would require lubrication with alcohol.
"I can't believe that you took so much time off work," she said, grabbing a suitcase and pulling it awkwardly towards her front stairs.
"It's only ten days," I reminded her, hauling my remaining bags out of the trunk. "Most people wouldn't consider it excessive."
"If it were anyone other than you, no. You seem to think that the lab will fall apart without you, though."
"I do not!" I couldn't see her face, but I knew that she was smirking at me. "I happen to enjoy my job," I said grouchily. "Most people would consider that a good thing."
We eventually got my suitcases into the guestroom, and by that time I was fairly exhausted. "I think that I'll just take a short nap before dinner, if you don't mind."
"Of course not--but you aren't getting out of telling me why you're here!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered, already half asleep.
A/N: None, really, though as this is my first chaptered fic, advice is welcome.
Sometimes I can forget, for little blips of time. When I'm out in the field, examining the evidence, talking to a suspect--my instincts take over, and I forget. Work has been my distraction whenever there's something in my life that I don't want to think about. In high school, when my older brother was hit by a car and ended up hospitalized for two months, I flung myself into my schoolwork. By the time he had recovered, I'd chosen a career for myself.
It's a bit of sick irony, then, that the thing I want to forget is a part of my job. He's always there, it seems, though we hardly ever work together anymore. Maybe he's only trying to be helpful. Perhaps he knows that seeing him is akin to being a veterinarian allergic to dogs. A key element of my work environment is almost physically painful to me now. For a day or so I toyed with the idea that he was trying to push me at Nick--that the fact that I always seemed to be working with the younger criminalist meant something. I threw that idea out almost instantly, though. I couldn't imagine Grissom being that calculating when it came to human relations.
I think that he thought I was acting childishly when I put in for the leave of absence. In fact, that was one of the more mature things I've done in my relationship with him--only, true to form, I allowed his gesture to pull me back. If I couldn't be with him, if seeing him only made it worse, then why was I staying? I could certainly get a job elsewhere--there were no real career advantages to staying where I was. I couldn't escape the truth--I was there because he wanted me there.
It wasn't true, no matter what I told myself, that he'd behaved particularly poorly. He'd flirted with me, of course, but it wasn't his fault that I'd been so stupid as to let it affect me. My mouth curled sardonically. 'Let it affect me.' 'The thing that I wanted to forget'. I think of him in euphemisms now, my mind skittering over his name, and I hadn't even verbalised the truth in my own head. Not until last week.
It had been nothing--we'd been working on a case together, and I'd made an observation that gave the problem a whole new angle. He'd looked incredulous for a moment; then he'd smiled at me. Nothing that he hadn't done before, but my stomach lurched and I felt a combination of understanding and nausea as something crystallized in my mind. 'Sara Sidle,' it said, 'You are in love with this man, and you'll never get over him if you see him every day.'
I wasn't at the point where I could face the idea of never seeing him again. The idea of not seeing him for two weeks was bad enough, but if I meant to get over him, then I had to do something about it. Even if there'd been some sort of support group ("My name is Sara, and I'm addicted to...") I wouldn't have gone. This was my problem.
It was only the flight attendant's landing announcement that snapped me out of my Woman Power reverie. Well, I told myself, when this was all over, I'd have enough material to write a CD full of empowerment songs. Despite myself, I felt anticipation begin to kick up, just a bit. It had been several years since I'd seen my best friend, and I was looking forward to see her again, though I'd left half my heart in the crime lab. Not as literally as the victim in Nick's most recent murder, perhaps, but all the same.
I'd told her that I could take a cab to her place, but she wouldn't hear of it, and the sight of her standing by the baggage claim made me stop making up morbid jokes. "Rachel!" The short blonde waved frantically back at me from across the airport, maneuvering through the crowds effortlessly.
"Sara! You look good! Considering you just got off a plane, at least," she added, and I snorted at her. She stood back and examined me critically, taking in the untucked tie-dyed t-shirt and faded jeans I'd worn for the plane ride. "But you have to stop wearing those shirts."
"What's wrong with my shirts?" I pretended to be offended for a minute before grabbing her and swinging her around in a circle. She rolled her eyes before hugging me back. "Thanks for coming to get me," I said casually, then muttered a quick, "I missed you."
"I missed you too." She stood there and smiled at me for a moment. I *had* missed Rachel--we'd met at Harvard, and had seen each other frequently since. She now made her home in California--only a six hour drive from where I used to work in San Francisco, and too far from Las Vegas.
"I'm not letting you take me shopping." My words signalled a return to our normal friendship, where we were almost as stingy with displays of affection as your stereotypical back-slapping guys.
"That's what you always say. I bet you that in four days I'll have you down at the mall--*and* that you'll have bought something."
"Which I'll never wear." We kept up the banter as I retrieved my luggage and we walked towards her car.
As we got in the car, I asked about her job at the local pharmacy, which seemed to be going well; she asked about my brother's marriage, which wasn't going quite so well. We were halfway to her house before she brought it up--I mentally congratulated her, because if something's on her mind, she usually can't let it lie for five minutes. "So what's the real reason you suddenly decided that you had to see me?"
"Would you believe me if I told you that I'd realized I had been suppressing my love for you all this time, and that I just had to let you know the truth?"
She whacked me on the arm. "You tease," she kidded. "Something happened at work, I take it?"
"Something like that." I had no real intention of not telling Rachel about my ulterior motive for this vacation, but now wasn't the ideal time to get into it. "I'll tell you about it this evening after a few glasses of wine. It isn't as interesting a story as you're thinking, I'm sure."
"If you're suggesting wine, I take it you aren't pregnant," she deadpanned.
"Not unless it was the work of angels, I promise you." Her comment had reminded me of something, though. "Uh, Rachel, I did tell you that I was a vegetarian now, didn't I?"
"I'll tell the cook ixnay on the pig with the apple in its mouth, then. Yes, you told me. Something about some guy and a dead pig?"
I choked. "Exactly." She caught my reaction and looked at me sharply, but let it drop. I encouraged her to talk about herself for the rest of the drive, assuming that she didn't have anything to talk about that would require lubrication with alcohol.
"I can't believe that you took so much time off work," she said, grabbing a suitcase and pulling it awkwardly towards her front stairs.
"It's only ten days," I reminded her, hauling my remaining bags out of the trunk. "Most people wouldn't consider it excessive."
"If it were anyone other than you, no. You seem to think that the lab will fall apart without you, though."
"I do not!" I couldn't see her face, but I knew that she was smirking at me. "I happen to enjoy my job," I said grouchily. "Most people would consider that a good thing."
We eventually got my suitcases into the guestroom, and by that time I was fairly exhausted. "I think that I'll just take a short nap before dinner, if you don't mind."
"Of course not--but you aren't getting out of telling me why you're here!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered, already half asleep.