A/N: We do not own CSI or its characters. Just 'making things right' after "Forget Me Not". Our story does not re-tell the episode, but sets the stage before, during and after. Enjoy!
Significance of a Flower
Forget Me Not, a low-growing wildflower with blue or white flowers, commonly regarded as a symbol of faithful love and consistency.
Chapter 1
The local bus chuffed slowly up a long winding highway leaving a trail of brown muddy sludge and gray smoke in its wake. The driver banged on the horn constantly—which sounded like a goose—squawking out a noise that was more comic than imposing. Before leaving the last town, the bus driver had 'fixed' the windshield wipers by using his shoe and now they moved back and forth but never touched the glass.
Gil Grissom had no idea how the man kept the bus on the narrow road. Most of the other passengers were sleeping or pretending to sleep. For a while he and his two fellow travelers had talked about the black scorpion they had seen at their hotel; the housekeeper had scooped it up and thrown it out a window, saying it was bad luck to kill a scorpion.
The bus continued its journey bumping along the half-paved road. The land they passed seemed almost mythical as distant mountains spread into valleys eroded into a vast and changeless earth. Occasionally, they passed a group of squat buildings usually grouped along a dirt cross-road but he had not seen signs of life in any of the houses for two hours.
Looking out the window, he thought, "This is the farthest I've ever been from home."
His journey had already taken ten days—from the time the jetliner had landed in Istanbul—getting the necessary work permits, gathering needed supplies before heading into a remote province—had kept his mind on other things. Not on what or who he had left behind. He wiped a hand across his face, pulled his hat down, and closed his eyes, but his thoughts kept him awake…
Although the arrangement had been a temporary one initially, Sara remained in Vegas. The position she filled became permanent, more by accident than design, just as Grissom became well-known with forensic archeologists. And as with Sara's work with the crime lab, one project followed another until Gilbert Grissom was one of the renowned experts in the field.
In the beginning, in Costa Rica, in Paris, in Las Vegas, they talked about a joint project; for a while, every few months, they would fill out reams of paper and send it to one of the grant organizations, but after two years with no funded project, Grissom was working with others—projects all over the world—and Sara had settled back into Vegas, her job, and was developing a tenuous relationship as daughter-in-law with his mother.
It was not a surprise to Grissom when Sara started talking about a larger place—a real house, a permanent home—a place for his work that had outgrown the small study in the condo.
"But what about our plans—our own grant, for us to work together?"
Sara insisted, "We need a base. A place to call home, to live when we aren't traveling. Your mother is here." She was calm, serene, and well-informed as she quietly convinced him—premium real estate was a bargain in Las Vegas.
Before the closing was completed on the new house, Sara had suddenly had to make a decision about her mother; failing health, the inability to take care of her own needs had manifested into an emergency trip to San Francisco which resulted in Laura Sidle moving to Vegas and being placed in a long-term care facility.
He knew the situation put an enormous burden on Sara; one that she would never admit; one that she refused to share with anyone. With her usual rebounding energy, she jumped full-force into moving into their new house, never admitting her worries or mentioning her mother to any of their friends.
Grissom stayed another month while they emptied one place and moved into a beautiful mid-century modern house; Sara knew his needs better than he did and arranged a convenient, well-planned office in one of the bedrooms. He had smiled with satisfaction as he watched her plan and arrange and find appropriate furnishings for the house which she quickly made into a home.
…The bus shuddered, grinding gears as the driver made a tight turn. The passengers seemed to moan in unison before falling quiet as the bus driver gained control of the vehicle to complete the turn.
Grissom never lifted his hat but let his mind play back to the beautiful day he and Sara had moved into their new home. She had made sure no one was around as they had made the bed with new sheets.
"I've been thinking of you on this bed all day!" Sara had said as she hooked her arms around his waist. All the weeks since that day, he could remember how warm her skin was, how smooth. And despite all the smells surrounding him on the bus, he could remember the secret, sexy scent of Sara as they made love.
When he left, heading to a remote area of Russia, he promised to call every day—both knowing it would be impossible—promising to return in six weeks; before leaving for the airport, he suggested they should meet in Paris. Sara agreed; she always agreed. She always waited—even when he was delayed, arriving in an airport as she was scheduled to depart.
After three such incidents, paying the inordinate price for changing her flight so they could have a few days together, they had argued.
"I think we need to re-evaluate this long-distance marriage," Sara said.
Grissom looked at her with unbelieving eyes, could not rationalize what he had heard. Icy fingers pricked his spine. He could not believe how calm she was as she sat drinking tea—and then she laughed.
"Oh, Gil, I mean for you to come home—one of us is in the air every two weeks or so. We're fighting jet lag and sleeping more than we talk! I've seen all of Paris, Rome, Frankfort, New York, and Atlanta airports I ever want to see!" She pushed a plate of French pastries near his plate. "Eat these—you aren't eating enough. You and I love each other—separation, living apart for a few more weeks isn't going to make me stop loving you—or you stop loving me!"
"You are probably right," he agreed. They were spending an excessive amount of money on airfare.
Together, they watched the sun break through the Parisian fog, coming back to the nearly deserted streets, causing pools of water left by street cleaners to dance with bright points of light. Sara pulled a petal from the flower on their table and traced a pathway along her husband's arm. She kissed his forehead in an attempt to erase the deep furrows between his eyebrows.
"We'll be fine, Gil." Her hand covered his and she met his mouth and kissed him as he smiled.
Somehow they ended up with a compromise. If a project took him away for six weeks, Sara would remain at home. If Grissom was to be gone for eight weeks, then they would meet at a mid-point city. This should have worked—except, too often, six weeks turned into eight or nine weeks and Grissom frequently added on "another week" before he returned to Vegas.
They talked every day—almost every day—when work, time zones, remote locations came together in the right order and they managed to find dozens of ways to continue loving each other; they used Skype, sent text messages, wrote real letters—it was an adventure thinking of ways to make the other smile. Grissom's favorite shared activity was what he named 'my daily panty update'.
But they made it work. And when they connected, when they were physically together, there was little need or reason to talk. They were happy, laughing, content; the world outside did not exist and the weeks apart faded into a pale memory.
And then, the invitation arrived—Turkey.
"We'll be digging up mass graves from the Dersim Rebellion! Trying to determine if it was ten thousand or seventy thousand people killed—trying to give an official estimate," he explained, excited as a five year old at Christmas, as he read the initial invitation. He had two weeks to prepare.
In Grissom's mind, this trip should be no different than any of the other projects he had worked on. Officially, he would be living in Turkey for a year, but they made plans to meet—Istanbul in the fall, Paris was a favorite for Christmas, Rome or Lisbon in the spring.
In a modern world of lightening fast internet connections, of instant messages, of satellite phones, of jets criss-crossing the sky, it was easy to stay connected—it should have been easy. Except it wasn't.
A/N: We appreciate your reviews. And know this one will end happily.
