Disclaimer: Some troubling behaviour from the CSI's in this one… CBS, when they're naughty they are gladly all yours! ;)
Author Notes: The genesis for this one was slightly strange. I dreamt it up whilst lying (embarrassingly hung over, and deserving no sympathy) on my friend's couch on Sunday morning after an excellent party! And it haunted me until I hand wrote it out on a LOOOOOOONG train journey home.
I'm not sure if this counts as canon or as AU. Can a story be both?!
Either way… get ready for the angst.
It makes mention of several CSI episodes in varying degrees, mainly Bloodlines, but there are also references to events in No More Bets and Butterflied. Any lines you recognise are clearly not mine. I also borrowed a touch of Shakespeare – I'm English I'm allowed to do that! ;)
Falling Deeper Into Darkness.
By Rianne.
Nothing.
She felt nothing.
And she had only wanted to feel.
Something.
Anything.
Other than numbness.
Other than that she was sinking.
Drowning.
Loosing her already tremulous grip.
Like her whole life was sliding greased through her grasp.
She had just wanted a little escape.
A couple of hours, not even that.
Her day had sucked.
She had been looked at like an alien when she had asked Catherine to interview a rape victim.
She hadn't taken the time to explain why. She wasn't sure she could.
She just couldn't do it.
She had then been cornered, tentatively ambushed if that was possible, by Grissom about taking leave.
Yeah like she actually had enough of a life to occupy the slim number of hours she already had to fill between shifts.
She was annoyed that Catherine had ratted her out.
She'd been defensive.
Sarcastic and sharp with him.
Nothing more than he deserved.
He had been doing his job, supervisor behaviour.
Speaking to her because policy dictated it.
Damn near scolding her, behind a veil of pretty, carefully chosen suggestions.
She wanted none of that.
And there was no way she was letting him take the only reliable constant from her life without a fight.
Yeah this job she loved…
This job that this afternoon had involved a gun being shoved in her face by yet another crazy.
Yeah, that had been great, delicious icing on her already rotting cake.
She had been forced to draw her weapon.
And for hours she had still felt the chilling residual rumbles of adrenaline.
She'd only craved a little light relief.
Nick's day had sucked too.
He'd spent hours sifting through dirt and dust and soil.
And they had caught the guy.
Two different strands of DNA.
A medical anomaly.
A near miraculous case.
But the woman had still ended up dead.
No one had been able to protect her.
A relaxing drink had sounded great to both of them.
Unwinding.
Normal.
Socially acceptable behaviour.
It was after all what everyone had been on at her to get lately.
A life.
But her life was never that simple.
Never.
She couldn't say she hadn't been warned.
That what she had done wasn't unbelievably stupid.
Unforgivably stupid.
That a vacation hadn't been suggested.
That Brass in all his fatherly wisdom hadn't seen right through her cough drop defence.
She had been teetering on the edge of everything for longer than she'd like to admit.
Hank and his betrayal.
Nick getting the nod for the key CSI promotion.
And Grissom.
"I couldn't do it."
To know he just didn't care enough.
She just couldn't face any of it alone anymore.
So she had buried her head in the lull of liqueur and over working.
She knew if she took a step back and viewed her life from the outside she would be horrified.
When she had wanted to escape her social service controlled teenage years she had done it by imagining all the ways she would organise and execute her own life as soon as she was legally free to.
That Sara would be so disappointed in the shell of a person she had become.
All the opportunities wasted.
No social life.
No personal life.
Just work and work and work.
Slowly turning her into someone she didn't recognise.
A hollow eyed spectre reflected back at her in the glittering glass.
Her mother.
She was beginning to look far too much like her mother.
But the bruises she was hiding were on the inside.
Her once colourful wardrobe had melted into charcoal, then black.
Deepening to match her mood.
To match the heavy cloud which haloed her heavy head.
Nick and Warrick's invite had sounded like a heavenly temptation when laid in comparison to the suddenly unwelcoming quiet of her lonely apartment.
Her empty bed. Her empty fridge. Her emptiness.
A few drinks with friends never hurt anyone.
They had both easily had as many bottles as she had, and that hadn't been many.
Although in her defence she did recognise that she was smaller. Maybe not in height, but certainly in build.
And she had drunk just two before being called into work, but that had been hours ago.
She had just wanted to feel.
To feel wanted.
To remember what it was like to have fun.
To be invited and actually want to say yes.
To laugh and joke with her friends.
And the real kicker was that she wasn't even drunk.
She hadn't really been then and she certainly wasn't now.
There was no longer warmth ebbing in her veins.
Just chill realisation of exactly what she had done.
She would certainly remember this in the morning.
There was a solid lump of ice right where her heart used to be.
Even the burning churning heat of nausea in her belly wasn't making that chill sweat.
There were footsteps approaching.
Voices speaking quietly.
Talking quietly about her.
She could hear his footsteps.
If she hadn't been in such a fugue state she would probably have been amused that she could identify him by footfall.
It was just another great big warning sign that should hang from her sad little life.
Obsessive. Infatuated with her boss. And apparently now; alcoholic.
Of all the people that they could call.
Her knight in a shining lab coat.
It had to be him.
He who had told her to take a vacation.
Hypocritical King of the Lab.
Who said that he didn't have a problem with her.
Well he certainly did now.
He was in the doorway with the officer.
She could hear him thanking him for his courtesy.
All unruffled politeness.
Talking about her in that neutral tone that he used when he discussed victims.
When he discussed the accused.
Talking about her in that same non-emotional way.
Closed off.
Lifeless.
Like she wasn't in the room too.
Like he didn't care.
When all she wanted was for him to care.
For him to notice.
Well…
He'd have to notice now.
But not for the reasons she wanted him to.
She could never be graceful and trouble free.
Her genetic make up had put paid to that.
Even her intelligence couldn't help when she allowed herself to make so serious a mistake.
But this hadn't been a cry for help.
Had it?
It had just been a mistake.
A really stupid mistake.
A lapse in all good reason.
She didn't need help.
Did she?
o0o0o0o0o0o
The Officer was talking, but he was barely listening.
The summoning phone call had shattered his already shaky reverie and his even looser resolve to get through some of the mounting paperwork he was drowning under.
He had been thinking about her.
Thinking about their earlier conversation in the hall.
The one where he had suggested she take some time off.
The one where he had seen all the warning signs.
Seen that she had been acting rather uncharacteristically lately.
Since when had Sara Sidle not wanted to take the statement of a victim?
Especially when the victim was an abused woman.
He had been torturing himself over her response.
Her immediate defensive.
The vulnerability in her eyes.
He had already guessed that he was not yet anywhere near forgiven for all his past fumblings.
She didn't even bother to say 'Hello' anymore.
He had pushed her and pushed her further and further away, yet he had never imagined the day would actually come when she would stop.
When she would just give up and walk away.
He had this horrible feeling that today might just be the day.
Even the way she had spoken to him was tired.
She had asked him when the last time he had taken a vacation was.
Sharp and to the point, clear-cut Sara, but never had one sentence said so much.
Her tone had been sarcastic, dry, but the levity was forced.
There was a depthless emptiness behind her words.
Hollow.
Lost.
But he had thought as he had sat in his office considering once again what to do about 'this' that she had been out with Nick and Warrick.
He had overheard them making plans as they had left the Lab.
He had assumed that Nick and Warrick would look out for her, like they always did.
Treating her like the little sister they could tease and taunt, but loved desperately all the same and would defend without question.
They were cheering her up in ways that he couldn't.
Easy conversation, hugs, laughter.
All the things he found so unfathomably hard.
Then that call had come.
Since the moment he had placed the receiver back in the cradle he had thought of nothing but finding out if she was okay.
Hearing the Officer say she was all right was no comfort.
All he wanted to do was see her.
To see for himself that she was all right.
To understand why.
Why she would risk everything like this.
Behave like this.
Be a danger to others like this.
Only that would relieve some of the tightness in his chest.
Only that would relieve some of the guilt.
The shame he felt for not stepping in.
For not helping when he knew he should.
When he had a pretty good idea that he might have been the only one who could.
The only one who had a chance of getting her to listen.
Of getting her to rest.
To slow down.
To relax.
He had been in his car before he had even realised he had left the building.
Had been stalking into PD all the while working to morph the look of panic that he knew had taken hold of his features back into the smooth unruffled and expected professional façade.
The Officer was walking him down the hall towards her now.
Now that he had signed papers and half listened to explanations and other words that lost all meaning in the confused sea of emotions in his brain.
He could see her now through the glass walls that divided PD.
Little dark figure.
Thinner than he remembered.
How was he to deal with this?
He had no idea how to deal with this.
If only he hadn't burned so many bridges with the woman who sat motionless, her back to him, in the room before them.
She looked like a reprimanded child.
Forced to sit alone.
Lost between all the empty seats.
Her spirit well and truly crushed.
This was why.
This was why he had forced himself to say no all those months ago.
Why the rulebooks forbid inner office relationships.
He cared too much.
This was why none of this was ever a good idea.
This was why he never wanted to be a supervisor.
Other people meant responsibility.
Meant tangling his carefully tailored life with other lives.
Meant complications to his simple ways.
Had tempted him out of his shell.
Had finally satisfied his curiosity over what it was like to be involved.
To be a part of a group and not to belong only on the edges observing the interactions.
It had begun to change him.
He didn't always want to be the loner.
He didn't want to be the supervisor either.
It was in moments like this when he didn't want to have to be that guy, the one adhering to the policies.
He was too involved.
Too entangled.
He wanted to listen to his heart.
o0o0o0o0o0o
The Officer was gone now.
Grissom was approaching.
His footsteps as cautious as the aura of trepidation about him.
She had prepared for this.
Spent the last half an hour wondering how he would react.
Working on tailoring her own reaction to his.
Thinking over the options.
He was closer now.
Seeming to move from her perspective as if in slow motion on the periphery of her vision.
She relaxed her joined hands.
Lowering them.
No longer using the cage of her fingers to support her chin.
Lowering them in time with his sitting.
Preparing herself.
o0o0o0o0o0o
He really hadn't known what to expect.
Defiance, maybe.
Defensiveness, almost definitely.
For her to cry, had been an unwelcome possibility.
For her to yell and scream and pound her fists against his chest and cause a scene.
That would have almost been welcome right now.
A reaction he could have dealt with.
He hadn't for some reason anticipated this.
This listless defeat.
This staring blankly forward.
He couldn't stop observing her.
Cataloguing her.
Analysing her.
Her stiff shoulders.
Her tense frame.
Her rhythmically flexing fingers.
Distancing himself from her by force of habit.
Trying to understand her by examining her actions.
Trying to decide what she was thinking.
Second guessing.
Processing her.
Assuming he knew.
Assuming he knew her.
Instead of just asking.
Instead of just caring.
He didn't even realise he did it anymore.
If he was going to do anything helpful here he had to remedy that.
He carefully lowered himself beside her.
Never taking his eyes off her.
She lowered her hands as he sat.
Then nothing.
She didn't move, but he could have sworn he felt her tension increase.
Ebbing off her in waves of heat.
Almost like she wished she could move over, move away from him.
But the arm of the chair prevented her leftward mobility and any hope of escape was dashed.
o0o0o0o0o0o
He was staring at her.
Cataloguing her.
Splitting her down until she was simply categorised and easily referenced.
Clinically, detached.
Just what she needed.
The man was always so wonderful with the details, until it came to her.
Then her world rapidly shifted.
He was speaking.
His words slow and deliberate.
Soft and filled.
Kind, overflowing with caring and affection.
"Come on. I'll take you home."
He was moving.
She actually felt the breeze of his movement against her once numbed skin.
Felt the heat of his hand as it drew closer.
So much larger than hers.
She still couldn't look as his skin brushed hers.
Or even as he was easing his palm in between her touching fingertips, breaking apart her cage.
Breaking down her defences.
But he wasn't forcing his way in.
He was tentative.
His touch so gentle.
His palm gliding against hers.
And for some reason the Shakespeare line about 'Holy Palmers Kiss' filtered into her brain.
"And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."
If only.
His thumb was stroking, warming her cold skin.
Like he was trying to caress life back into her.
If only it was that simple.
She could still feel the heat of his gaze.
He was waiting for her.
Waiting for a response.
But this wasn't what she had expected.
It wasn't what she had prepared for.
An argument. Judgement. Anger. Incredulity.
Anything but kindness.
Her shoulders sagged.
Her head dipped forward, unable to hold it upright any longer as her shaded eyes filled with tears.
Tears of shame.
Of broken pride.
Of disappointment in herself.
There was no one else to blame.
All the previous pain in her life she had been a victim of.
It had befallen her.
This time all this was her fault.
She knew better.
There was no one else to blame.
This was her shame to shoulder.
Yet his behaviour some how shamed her more.
There was no judgement in his actions.
And that somehow made it worse.
Infinitely worse.
o0o0o0o0o0o
Around them PD was surprisingly quiet.
The odd officer streaked through the surrounding corridors bathed in an eerily pale blue glow.
He could hear her breathing.
Heavy, unhurried.
Like she was slowly exhaling her sadness with each breath.
He gave her time.
And the long moment stretched.
And stretched.
And stretched.
And he found himself falling into synch with her silence.
Her hand in his was finally beginning to warm.
But it remained limp and still.
He wondered for an odd moment if she had forgotten he was there.
He took a breath himself.
A deep breath and then he moved.
Standing slowly.
He actually heard his knees creak.
He tugged lightly on her hand, pulling her upright after him.
Surprised at how light she felt, how easily she followed.
She still wouldn't look at him.
He let go of her hand, his fingers lingering without his permission.
Unsure.
Like she might blow away if he let go.
He didn't want to break that contact.
Hesitantly he placed his palm to her lower back instead to pacify that little niggling voice in his head.
The cool material of her long black coat was sleek under his bare palm.
They headed to the desk, her footsteps slow and weary.
A million miles from her usual determined stride.
There was a pause for a time, waiting for her personal belongings to be returned, when he studied her again, whilst she studied the grain in the marble counter top as if it held all the answers.
Her handbag, her badge, her weapon.
She scrawled her name.
He was the one to thank the officer.
Sara said nothing.
Hand still firmly in place he escorted her out into the Las Vegas night.
Held the car door open for her.
She brushed past him still seemingly in a daze.
The drive seemed long.
Stretching out.
He studied the road.
She studied her hands, knotted tight and still on her lap.
Her skin a pale and bright shock against the dark of her coat.
The air around them ached with all that was unspoken between them.
He had barely cut the engine at her home before her hand was on the door handle.
o0o0o0o0o0o
She just couldn't stand it any longer.
Couldn't stomach his patient silence.
Why wasn't he talking?
Why wasn't he shouting, reprimanding, wounding her with the words she knew he was thinking?
Beside her he sighed.
What was he waiting for?
A thank you?
An apology?
Was he preparing himself to give a lecture?
He was just sitting there, tensions clearly at war in his brain and his body.
He just didn't seem angry.
Instead he seemed almost sad.
The concern in his voice back at PD still echoed in the silence between them.
It had been undeniable.
He hadn't been Supervisor Grissom in that single moment.
He had been what she needed.
He had shown a glimmer of what lay beneath.
And he pitied her.
Her stomach rolled.
She had to get out of this car.
She had to get out right now.
This space was too small, they were too close, there was nowhere to go.
Flexing her fingers around the door release she forced the door open.
Sucking hungrily on the fresher wave of air.
Her long limbs stumbling after her.
But something was wrong.
She was falling.
Her hands came out just in time, bracing her for impact with the cement ground.
She landed with a heavy thump that reverberated through her bones and bruised her flesh.
Her stomach rolled violently again and her vision swam at the change in altitude.
What had happened?
Why was she on the ground?
He was there again.
Grissom.
At her side, his hands on her shoulders, guiding her to sit up.
Frantically saying her name.
His eyes wild and darting, his fingertips brushing the stray strands of her hair back from her face to check she was all right.
She kept her eyes lowered.
Even when he tilted her chin up to check for damage.
The long strap of her bag was tangled around her right ankle.
She looked at that instead.
In her haste to get out of the claustrophobic interior of the car it must have managed to interlace with her, bringing about her downfall.
He was untwining it from about her with gentle fingers.
Testing the motion of her ankle.
It hurt but she didn't give him the satisfaction of expressing that twinge of pain.
It was a single drop in the vast ocean of her humiliation right now.
He was helping her up, gently brushing her down, keeping his hands to acceptable regions.
But she couldn't stand it.
She couldn't stand his pity any more.
Her arms flailed, she pushed him back, pushed him away.
Almost fighting him.
Pushing away his calm and silent help.
Fighting the caring she had craved.
How dare he.
How dare it take something like this for him to show her he cared.
Her stomach was rolling again.
Inside.
She had to get inside and alone.
She was going to be sick.
She had been keeping it down for hours.
It was winning.
She staggered away from him on shaky limbs.
She didn't care what it took to get there, she just had too.
Her keys were in the door before she knew it.
She was stumbling to her right, sliding to her knees.
The cold of the bathroom floor bleeding into her trousers.
Numbing her knees.
She was peripherally aware of him.
Calling her name.
Before the wave hit and she emptied her stomach with a ferocity she hadn't known her muscles possessed.
It was minutes before she sagged.
Resting her arm against the toilet seat, her face pillowed in its curve.
Her heart was still racing.
She was sweating.
Her body chilled and shaking.
She could feel tears on her cheeks and her nose was running.
She jerked in shock when she felt his warm palm press against her back, right between the cradle of her shoulder blades.
He sank to the floor beside her.
Then he was moving her.
Leaning her against his chest, her body lolling weakly as he carefully unwound her long striped scarf.
Lifting it and its restrictions away.
Then he had eased off her coat, baring her down to her black tank top beneath.
His hands smoothed back her hair, capturing the strands between his fingers, combing them back into a makeshift ponytail.
His free hand returned to her back, swirling in gentle circles.
Until her stomach protested again.
As she scrambled back to the bowl, pushing away from him and she felt him take an added step back.
Beneath the swish of her released hair roaring past her ears she heard him stand.
He was leaving.
She tried desperately to remind herself that it was for the best.
Desperately in the swirl of emotions that were too close to the surface right now for her liking.
She heard his footsteps retreat before they were lost to the sounds of her own making.
But this time there was only air left.
Sagging again she closed her eyes.
Swayed.
Lowered herself to the floor, her forehead pressed to the cold tile.
No longer caring that her knees trapped beneath her were rapidly going dead.
Her arms hung limply at her sides.
Had she more energy she might have curled them around herself for warmth, but instead she used the last of her stores to simply breathe in and out as she waited for the room to stop spinning.
It was quiet again.
Even the demons in her head had enough about them to leave her alone right now.
She just wanted it all to be over.
Or to never have started.
But chances there didn't look good.
So instead she took refuge in the quiet respite.
o0o0o0o0o0o
The water in her kitchen sink roared fast, temporarily drowning out her gut retching sounds.
He let the water run.
His mind nowhere near the place his body was.
And run until the frigid liquid overspilled the glass and rushed down over his fingers.
Waking him again.
He jerked his hand back.
Placing the glass on the side he turned the temperature dial to warm.
Then concentrated on soaking the small towel he had snagged on his way out of her bathroom with the tepid water.
Concentrated on the tasks at hand so that for just a moment he didn't have to deal with the multitude of problems that lay before him.
Then with a collected sigh he was moving back to the bathroom.
Glass in his left, towel in his right.
His world stopped.
Dead.
He was vaguely aware of the glass slipping from his grip and hitting the floor in an explosion of crystal clear shards.
He couldn't even be sure if her name left his lips, or if it just screamed that wildly inside his brain.
Then he was on his knees hauling her towards him.
Ice flooding his veins with fear.
Too panicked to be gentle.
There had been no way to know.
No way.
He had made sure of it.
He had made painfully sure that she never saw even a glimpse of the crime scene photos.
Yet here she was.
Arranged on her bathroom floor just like Debbie Marlin.
She was motionless in his arms.
Her skin deathly cold against his.
His heart burst in his chest.
The horrified moment stretched.
Then, like a switch flicked back to start, she moved.
Shocking him so much he cried out.
Fighting him.
Thank God she was fighting him.
Crying out, her eyes flying open, panicked, blindly wild.
Her heart was beating.
She was alive.
Alive.
Alive.
He held tight.
Unable to let go.
Slumping back against the tiles with her still in his arms.
Clutching her tight, his grip flexing with his crazed heartbeat.
Before he remembered to be gentle.
With sobbing breaths he began to calm.
Began stroking her hair, rocking them.
Whispering he knew not what to her.
Feeling her relax again, already too dazed to ask what had just happened.
Too weak to care.
Clearly exhausted she surrendered herself back to the temptation of unconsciousness.
Her breath was fanning against his chest, yet the image of Debbie Marlin still haunted him.
This was his karma.
This was his guilt.
This was what he had done to her.
This was why this was never a good idea.
Why he couldn't do this.
But it was too late for all that.
Doing this they were.
He lowered his head.
Pressing his forehead to hers.
Ragged breaths alone holding back the heart wrenching sobs that tightened his body.
He just let time pass.
Time heals all wounds.
Right?
o0o0o0o0o0o
He wasn't sure how he managed it with his knees and on half dead legs, but he carried her.
Cradled to his chest.
Her whole body limp.
Manoeuvring around the shattered glass.
He had to turn sideways at her bedroom doorway, his shoulders burning with her weight.
Then he was lowering her to the bed spread.
Working on autopilot.
Unzipping her black boots, lifting her feet onto the bed.
She snuffled almost pitifully, curling up around herself at the loss of his body heat.
He covered her with a loose blanket, which had draped at the bottom of her bed.
His mind warred.
Did he leave?
He wanted to leave.
To get as far away from her and the pain and the fear and the guilt.
He wanted to stay just as much.
To make sure she was okay.
To make sure she slept.
To make sure he didn't loose his mind.
So he hovered.
Watching her chest rise and fall beneath the dark blanket.
It took time but eventually he left her.
He took off his jacket.
Rolled back his shirtsleeves mechanically.
He cleaned the glass from her bathroom floor.
Scraping up the shards, listening to the scratch of them against the ceramic tile.
He wrapped the fragments in an old newspaper.
But his mind never left the woman sleeping in the next room.
He had to stay.
There was no decision to be made.
He crept back into the bedroom, lowering himself into the curved chair against the far wall.
If he could do one thing right by her he could at least watch over her now.
o0o0o0o0o0o
He didn't know how much time had passed but he awoke to her whimpering.
His eyes fluttering open to the darkness of her unfamiliar bedroom.
His mind groggily recalling that even with her only just across the room he had been dreaming about her.
Of the beautiful smile on her face the day she came to Vegas.
Of the way that her sparkling eyes and teasing tone had eased the growing weight in his chest.
And for a time that had been enough.
Yet, over his dream had floated the words Todd Coombes had spoken in his video testimony:
"When I see a woman who arouses me, the whole world disappears, except for her."
It was wrong that he identified with that?
It was another example.
Another uncomfortable parallel.
Another killer he had been able to find similarities with.
It chilled him.
But in his dream he had done things differently.
In his dreams he had told the truth.
He hadn't been selfish.
He hadn't been the man who had brought her here for himself.
Kept her there for himself.
That had wanted her close, but not too close.
That had taken refuge behind the rules.
He had been the good man he had wanted to be and it had all been so easy.
But real life was never so simple.
She was crying.
Her chest quivering.
Her arms curled about her body.
Lost in the privacy of the moment.
She didn't seem to know he was there.
He stayed very still.
Listening to her pain.
Knowing.
Finally ready to admit to himself that he had a big part in destroying her.
Destroying that beautiful spirit which had helped him so.
He could see the glittering trails of her tears.
Yet he stayed still.
Frozen in a moment of emotional need.
Unprepared for the unfamiliar.
And as he rationalised and pondered she somehow managed to fall back into silence again.
Her soft breathing evened out.
Sobbed herself back to sleep again.
As if it was a habit for her.
As if that huge heart of hers just couldn't shed any more sadness.
He couldn't sleep again after that.
He just sat.
His mind as plagued in his waking hours with her as it had been in his dreaming.
It had been going wrong for years between them, but the last few months it was like a tether had been snapped.
She had been unsettled and in turn she had unsettled him.
Then he had recommended Nick for the Key CSI position.
And then he had waited.
Waited for weeks for her to find out.
Knowing he could accurately predict how she would respond.
And he had been correct.
She had waited until they were alone.
Her clipped words had cut sharply through the garage.
He had been expecting the onslaught for so long that when the comment finally came it had taken him by surprise.
But what had compounded it the most had been the look in her eyes.
Always so expressive.
The overdramatic way she had released the tape measure like she was burning a bridge.
Like she had tired of his ignoring all her subtle little nuances.
Like she was desperately trying anything to get his attention.
That gave him pause.
Did she do this to get his attention?
Did she willingly slip behind the wheel of her car knowing full well that she was over the limit?
No.
Not even at her most emotional would she ever do that.
He wanted to believe it.
But he had to wonder.
That was what had been wrong about the conversation in Sam Braun's Limousine.
The lack of emotion.
She had been cold.
She had spoken to him like she reported as she processed the scene, all whilst she actually processed the scene, jerking back and forth between the personal and the professional, keeping his brain on edge to keep up with her.
Just when he had himself steady she would whiplash his brain again.
But even then their conversation had sounded rehearsed.
And it hadn't been the cathartic experience he had expected.
It hadn't dissipated any of the cloud that surrounded them, which divided them, which was beginning to permeate and pollute all of the wonderful memories he had of them.
But her eyes.
She hadn't looked at him tonight.
And after that exchange in the garage he knew why.
The light was gone.
She was still breathing but the life inside her was barely conscious.
Because of him.
The good guy becomes the killer.
With a pause for a shuddering breath he realised his cheeks were wet.
He was crying.
"I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to help you."
He spoke the words aloud into the darkened room, his voice rasping and whispered.
Admitting it the only way he could.
Then through the darkness he saw her move.
He froze.
He watched her.
Unable to look away as she sat up, as if in slow motion before him, the dark blanket pooling around her waist.
She was looking back at him.
Awake and aware.
Meeting his gaze for the first time all night.
Tears still staining her cheeks, running faster now, but just as quietly.
What flickered between them was overwhelming.
The sheer intensity of the pain.
The grief.
Heartbreaking.
Soul destroying.
He could see panic and fear and pain.
His mouth moved as he tried to speak, her name on his lips, but there was no sound, and he felt like he was dreaming.
o0o0o0o0o0o
She could see risk and desire and need.
She could see his eyes glittering, see the tears already shed.
He looked as broken as she felt.
Staring hard to keep track of him through the shadowy darkness.
Unfamiliar and morphing so she had to fight to concentrate.
To stop her vision blurring.
To stop hallucinations rippling.
It felt like they were living underwater.
Her hearing was funny.
Her heartbeat loud.
And their gaze was not breaking.
She had never wanted something more in her entire life.
Her chest ached with her love for him.
Her want for him to return it.
She needed him so intensely and she hated him all at once.
She hated him for hurting her so very badly.
She wanted him to just break down that divide and kiss her.
She wanted it so desperately she could almost feel it.
Almost see him reaching for her.
His lips hot and desperate.
His heavy and strong fingers tangling in her hair.
Could imagine it so vividly that her breath actually hitched like it would if he were to reach so frantically for her.
She could almost feel him pressing her back into the bed, the warm welcome weight of his body against hers.
The scorching and hungry swipe of his tongue.
The unrestrained and intimate thrust of his hips.
And what's more is that she was almost sure he wanted it too.
Yet he was still there.
Still watching from his distance.
And there he stayed.
And stayed.
As more time passed by, unnoticed.
In the end it was she who broke their fading connection.
With no pride left and a shattered heart.
She who turned her face away.
Who curled back in upon herself.
And he still did not move.
o0o0o0o0o0o
It was a long time before he came out of the shattered fragments of his mind.
Dawn was breaking.
The faint edges of sunlight peeking into her bedroom.
Illuminating the aftermath.
And there was just too much evidence left behind.
And no sign posts as to where to go from here.
No clean up team, or trained investigators.
They were on their own.
He stood.
His whole body hurt like he had been beaten.
But he couldn't leave without one last look at her.
One last chance to see her.
As he had no idea if he ever would again.
His fingers reached out of their own volition to touch her, and he caught them just in time.
Curling them into a fist.
"I'm sorry, Sara." He whispered, barely a breath.
And then he was gone.
o0o0o0o0o0o
She woke alone.