April 28, 2005

Gil Grissom, Nick Stokes, and Sara Sidle were sitting at the table in the lunchroom, awaiting the end of their shifts. Grissom sat at the far end of the table, while Nick and Sara sat on either side. They were each starting to show the subtle signs of fatigue. Nick's eyes were drooping, his navy blue shirt was slightly wrinkled, and the pantlegs of his jeans were damp and muddied from the rain. Sara slumped forward in her chair, her chin resting in her hands and her eyes straining to stay open. Even Grissom, as proper as he usually looked in his black pants and polo shirt, looked a little worn as a few of his grey curls sat slightly out of place on his forehead.

Grissom and Sara and had just returned from the psych hospital after dealing with the murder of a patient who was killed by one of his nurses. The accused nurse had been having an intimate relationship with her son, who was, coincidentally, another patient in the hospital. She'd used her son to fill the void of her dead husband who had died several years earlier. Her son had taken the blame for the murder, but it was science that managed to reveal the true culprit.

Nick had also recently finished working on a case that had led him all up and down the strip, tracking down person after person, but to no avail. Needless to say, he needed a break. And possibly even a shower.

The cases had taken their tolls on the CSI's, but had also inspired some passionate discourse.

"You know," Nick said, his gaze downcast, "it still astounds me what parents can do to their children." He eyes flashed inwardly, as though he was recalling some distant, disturbing memory. Grissom and Sara both understood. "It's no wonder some people turn out to be such wackjobs. It's... insanity."

Grissom nodded once. "Killers are made, not born, Nick. Killers are forged by the hands at which they grow."

Sara glanced at Grissom. Nick laughed bitterly, shaking his head with quiet disbelief. "Yeah, well thank goodness there isn't some sort of 'murder gene'. Now that would be a catastrophe to modern science." Silence suddenly flooded the room as he waited for their responses. Sara and Grissom both looked uncomfortable. "What," Nick said, obviously confused. "You... don't think there is a muder gene..."

"No," Sara and Grissom said simultaneously. Sara looked sideways at Grissom, whose lips were pursed in a subtle fit of embarrassment.

Nick flashed a knowing smile at the duo and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, that's a relief." He stood up. "I think Cath and Warrick have already punched out. I think I will join them, if you don't mind. I'll see you folks tomorrow." He gave them a weary wave and left the room. Not until the soft thud of his workboots had faded did Grissom and Sara dare to breathe.

Each of them was lost in thought. The room was lit by a modest light fixture suspended from the ceiling. Its incessant hum detracted from the activity that rumbled beyond the windows. There were a few dainty appliances lining the counter on the back wall, a modest couch, and the glass table at which they were seated with six leather-upholstered office chairs surrounding it.

"Sara," Grissom said, suddenly breaking the silence. "I wanted to ask if you were okay after what happened today at the hospital."

"Hm?" she said. She'd had her arms crossed and was mindlessly staring at her feet through the glass tabletop. She uncrossed them and leaned back. "Sorry?"

Grissom sat back and let his hand fidget with his glasses on the table. He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh," she said, recalling, against her will, the horror that had befallen her in the nurses' station. She had been locked in with a deranged patient --the son of the accused nurse --the sharp end of a clay pot handle held up against her neck. Grissom had watched helplessly through the glass while a worker tried to open the door. "Yes," she said quickly. She tried to smile. "Yeah... yeah, I am." He nodded. "Uh," she said, feeling suddenly awkward, "I think I-" She stood up to leave but Grissom interrupted her.

"Please," he said. "Stay." His expression showed concern.

Sara seemed a bit flustered. "Umm, okay." She wanted more than anything to be anywhere butsitting there in the lunchroom alone with Gil Grissom. His presence made her behave strangely. It always had. She never quite knew what he was thinking or how he felt. Then again, she never really gave him the chance to express those things either. She overtalked. She rambled. She flirted. She made comments with malicious undertones. He made her feel like a teenager again. They were, of course, good friends and co-workers, but they were not usually okay alone together, especially during their time off duty. Cases were fine. Things like that were fine. Everything else was, well, difficult.

"We got interrupted earlier," he started. "You never finished telling me about what happened and I-"

"It's okay," she heard herself say. "Things like that... it's just part of the job."

Grissom watched her. "He's going to be okay, you know," he said, referring to the patient who had then turned the handle on himself. "Are you?"

Sara glared straight ahead of her. "I already-" She stopped and stood up, knocking her chair back. This is ridiculous, she thought to herself. In a sudden burst of frustration, she shouted, "You know, it's not your job to constantly be checking up on me."

He stared at her in disbelief and she stared right back, her chest heaving as she breathed.

God, Grissom! she thought. You drag stuff out of me, then close yourself off. You tell me you want me, and your behaviour suggests otherwise. You tell me you don't want me, and your behaviour suggests otherwise. You poke. You prod. You flirt. You tell me you care. You're indifferent. You're a rock. You're a robot. You're concerned. You're obsessed. You're oblivious. You're... a complete, damn mystery! Damn it, Grissom! What do you want from me!

He looked almost hurt. Deep down, she hated causing him stress and usually scolded herself for doing so later. But this time she was mildly glad to know she wasn't alone.

He sighed. "It is my job."

"You're my boss. This stuff... it shouldn't matter to you."

He furrowed his brow. "I'm your friend. It does."