Title: Drive.
Author: The Crane Wife.
Pairings: Grissom/Sara
Spoilers: Living Doll/Dead Doll.
Disclaimer: I do not, in any capacity, own CSI, it's characters, and I am in no way affiliated with it. I don't make money writing - that's what my day job is for.
Author's Note: I spent too long watching a CSI marathon. This is what came of it.
The thing about their relationship is this: it's not defined by words. It's not gestures or actions, the way that he holds onto her at night like he wouldn't ever let her go, or how she lays her cold, small hands against his ribcage while she pinches her eyes shut and struggles to breathe below him. How tiny and fragile she feels, with her head against his chest, lying on the couch and talking about foster care or memories of her mother, and alternatively how strong and enormous she looks when she goes head to head in battle with him; he thinks they are the only two people in the universe who argue over blood spatters and the pathologies of serial killers. This, however, is what makes them them; it's not gestures or actions or how small or large, it's pure passion and emotion. They don't need long winded explanations for what is, because words would be superfluous. They just know. They always have. They always will. It's natural and perfect and it's what drives him every day. She's what drives him every day.
Except that when he sees her, a dot, a blip in this entirely yellow map, eyes closed, not breathing; when he hears voices saying we can't get a pulse and she's not responding, he thinks: I should have told you more. He thinks he should have told her what a precocious woman she seemed like, when they first met at that conference, but that he realized she was just trying to prove herself. She was always trying to prove herself. Sara, honey, you've never had to prove anything to me. He should have mentioned, one of the mornings when he was routinely awake before she was, the way sun catches the highlights of her hair, with a half smile playing on her mouth, and her eyes moving under their lids – he should have mentioned how this is what he wants to wake up to forever. He should have told her that he was just scared, but never unwilling. Okay, maybe a little unwilling. He took his time, but she was a risk he would never regret taking. It's this feeling that's defining him right now: what if she had died without knowing? He can't even think of himself without her, and yet it was nearly a reality for him.
They are two parts of the same awkwardly shaped whole. Yes, they are together in this. And it's not quite over yet.
He doesn't say anything, as the medical team works and works to get her up and full of fluids and to the hospital. He can't find the words, any words at all, and instead he rubs his eyes because he realizes he's crying out of exhaustion, and panic, and a strange sense of relief. He's here with her now. He can protect her. He doesn't dare touch her because he thinks she might shatter like glass. This is a dream, he's sure, what are the odds that she would survive in that rain and under that car, and then in this heat and in this condition? And yet.
And yet.
She barely nods her head when she wakes in the helicopter, tears leaking out of the corner of her eyes. She feels safe again, finally, in his shadow. This will be nothing but a nightmare soon, when they're lying in their bed together and talking about books and bugs and laughing and stealing these moments back that were stolen from them. She wants to smile at him, she wants to let him know that she's never been happier in her life to see a familiar face, his familiar face, but she can't quite muster the energy to do it. Instead, her eyes close again, and she's feeling herself drifting in and out of consciousness, determined to stay at least somewhat awake, but the last thing she sees is his smile and the tears that are falling onto his pants, and then nothing but darkness and light, fear and comfort all at once. She remembers nothing of how he went with her to the hospital, but couldn't go any further than those god damn double doors, how he yelled at a nurse to give him some information or he was going to raise hell, how he peered through the glass windows to see if he could catch sight of her. No, she remembers nothing of how his stomach lurched and he felt like he might throw up or pass out; how Catherine sat with him, holding one of his hands while he used the other to hold his head, thinking of a thousand medical reasons for why she couldn't, shouldn't, survive.
And then, a doctor comes out, stiff looking, with a mask hanging from his ear, "Gilbert Grissom?" he asks, consulting a chart he's holding. He stands and the doctor stalks over,.
"Will she be okay?" he prompts.
"Well, uh, Dr. Grissom, she has susta-," the doctor begins, and is cut off.
"That's not what I asked."
The doctor looks perplexed and also annoyed, not being able to flex his medicinal expertise, but he obliges with, "Yes. We expect her to make a full recovery," before the doctor launches into an unnecessary explanation. He will read the chart later. He will understand what she went through. He will remember tomorrow morning to tell her about the sunlight and her hair and how absolutely fucking perfect she is. Yes. He will never forget again. "So if you'll follow me, you can come see her," and without another word, noting the more annoyed and less perplexed look on the doctors face, he follows through the double doors and down the hall and into a room where she's lying in a bed that swallows her whole. The doctor tells him that she needs her rest, and then turns on in a huff, leaving them. He stands in the doorway, looking at her: she's pale, her lips are almost as white as the sheets she's lying on, and there's a cut above her lips he is almost tempted to kiss, but then he thinks he feels too big to be anywhere near her right now, like the feeling of his breath on her skin might hurt her. She's got bandages around her head and bags under her eyes. He steps inside, and sits down in a chair next to the bed. He moves his hand to take hold of hers, hesitating slightly, and then pressing his skin against hers because he needs to feel how real she is. She's here, and it's a miracle.
Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles at him, that same smile she was saving from the helicopter. She opens her mouth to talk, but finds her voice has mysteriously left her, and he shakes his head anyway. "Don't," he commands, and she closes her mouth again. "Sara…" he says, and he wants to say so many things that he can't localize one thought, not to mention he's never been any good at this kind of thing, "I love you," he starts, and thinks that maybe nothing more is required, but he feels like he should say something more, she was nearly dead 12 hours ago, so he says, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
And she grins now, broadly, and she pulls her hand away from him, and he furrows his eyebrows, thinking that maybe she's going to tell him to fuck off or that he should have gotten to her sooner – both would have been warranted statements – but instead he surprises her. She always does. She brings her right hand, the unbroken arm, to her chest, all her fingers folded down except her pinky. And then she crosses one arm over her chest and she can't move the other one, but she's hoping he knows what she means, and of course he does. And then she points to him. And he grins right back at her, because for them it's never been about words, they've always seemed superfluous, it's not gestures or actions or small or big. It's about passion and emotion and how no matter what, they can always express it. They just know. They always have. And they always will.