Author: Lithium – Infected – Shamrock (LIS)
Spoilers: PNN
Paring: Grissom/Sara
Authors note: An unusual fic for me, but I felt compelled to write it.
Setting: S4; but only for aesthetical reasons.
*
I stood for a moment, outside my door; knowledge that if I went it, this all might become real.
But it couldn't be real, could it? Not if I didn't want it to be.
I'll go inside, I'll sleep, and when I wake up, everything will be ok. Because really, I'm dreaming now, I have to be.
I can feel the sharp burning, as tears etch pathways down my face. I'm guessing my eyes are pretty red now; but it's not like I have anyone to impress. When I'm in my home, it's just me, I'm alone, I can say, think, feel and do what I want.
Maybe I can do something to forget. I can wash away the sickness in my stomach.
Then I see you. You're sitting there, on my couch, and it sickens me that you let yourself in to my home.
Because you had no right to.
*
I can't stand to see him right now; but turning away from him, he stands and catches my arm firmly. I look down to his hand, his touch is eerily cold.
I didn't think it would be. He shouldn't be this cold. He feels like a winters day.
"It's ok," he says reassuringly, as he loosens his grip on my arm slightly. I know he wants to talk; he wants to make my tears go away.
Maybe he should, after all, he caused them.
"Sit down and talk to me," he says, his tone is warm, but distant and unfamiliar. He releases my arm.
I recon he thinks he's won. And I guess he has. All he has to do is touch me and say a few kind words and I become his again. And I know it's wrong to act this way; if a man treats you badly, you should walk away.
I guess I like the pain he caused me. Love hurts, right? If pain is any measure of love, then this has to be strong.
I thought he wouldn't cause any more pain; but here he is.
I turn to see him, his beards gone, and he seems thinner than I last saw him. But I guess that's just my way of seeing him. He hasn't really changed. I'm just seeing what I want to see, like usual.
"We can talk now," he says softly, placing his hand on the couch next to him, indicating I should sit. Why wouldn't I sit? This is my house.
"That makes a change," I reply grimly. I'm not going to make this easy for him, because he shouldn't be here.
If I make this hard, he'll disappear, I wont see him again.
"Sara, if I go now," he said seriously, looking me in the eyes, "I won't be back, I'll just be gone. They won't be another chance," he continued.
I let out a deep sigh, and look away; I look around my room and back to him. He seems so foreign in this environment.
He shouldn't be here.
"What are we meant to talk about?" I ask, succumbing to his pleas. I guess I do want to talk to him; it would just be better if we did it later, when I'm calmer.
"Anything," he says, stressing the word. His whole attention is on me, it's eerie, the way he's watching my every move. I usually like it when he watches me, but this feels wrong.
"Why didn't 'this' go anywhere," I ask sadly, fearing the answer. Because I knew what he was like with words.
"Because 'this,'" he started, raising a hand and signalling the gap between us, "would have been too…problematic," he finished.
It's weird how certain he seems about everything. Usually, he's the avoidant one; it's me who has to go chasing answers.
Chasing answers and chasing him.
"Such a word-smith," I utter sarcastically.
Another one of my problems. When he say's the wrong thing, instead of trying to provoke a more positive response, I verbally abuse him with sarcasm; then he acts hurt, and I feel guilty.
It's a vicious cycle; one I fear I must subconsciously enjoy being in. I guess it makes me feel close to him, I cause his hurt, and his hurt causes my guilt. Like an invisible thread which links our emotional states back to each other. It makes me feel like part of him.
"Hey," he counters, in a slightly hurt tone. He raises his hand to my face, and brushes the tears, which have faded. His fingertips are so cold, and the touch is so light, it feels like a feather has brushed past me.
I don't remember his fingertips being that smooth.
"Sorry," I apologised, and looked into his eyes. They seemed empty; like mine.
And there the cycle continues. He's hurt, and I'm feeling guilty again. But at least I'm capable of making him feel something; even if it isn't a positive emotion.
"Ask me what you wanted to ask me," he whispers. He seems so calm. I guess he can afford to be now.
"Why…problematic?" I question. My eyelids are becoming heavy now, I'm so tired; talking to him usually leaves me tired, but now, more than usual.
"I'm you're boss, I'm older than you, I'm bad with relationships," he counts off quickly.
It sounded so rehearsed and false to me. I guess when we can't work out what our problems are in relationships we listen to the alleged problems that others imply there should be.
Those points should be a problem; but I don't think they are. There's a deeper problem that runs between us; and I doubt neither of us knows what it is.
There was a long poignant silence, where we both looked away from each other.
Even he knew they weren't the real reasons. I just don't understand why he's here if he's only going to lie to me.
"Did the beauty comment mean anything?" I said, breaking into the silence.
I don't know why I asked it, but out of anything he, or anyone else has said to me, it's been the most enigmatic comment I have ever received.
I guess I want to know if I mean as much to him as the beauty comment means to me.
Maybe I shouldn't know what it meant. That way, I can keep my own explanation safe…and right.
"Does it really matter?"
"You asked me to ask questions!" I throw back at him; even though I wasn't keen on hearing the response.
I must like to argue with him.
I guess it doesn't matter to him. I don't matter to him; why can't I realise that?
"Sara, I'm only here because you want me to be." He says as though he's stating the obvious. He shifts slightly from where he's sitting.
He looks like he wants to leave.
"I know," I responded automatically. I want to be here; but not like this. I want him to be here everyday, I want to wake up to him, I just want…him. Always.
But I know that's impossible.
"I have so many more questions." I say, my gaze drifting off.
It's only a pretence to keep him there. I guess I don't really have any questions for him. Because he will never be able to answer them to any kind of satisfactory level. I don't want him to tell me how he feels; I want him to feel the way I want him to.
"You know I can't answer them," He says, getting up. He looks at me one last time before turning and heading for the door.
"Just one more question," I ask quietly.
He turns, and gives me a small smile.
"Why did you have to die?"
Spoilers: PNN
Paring: Grissom/Sara
Authors note: An unusual fic for me, but I felt compelled to write it.
Setting: S4; but only for aesthetical reasons.
*
I stood for a moment, outside my door; knowledge that if I went it, this all might become real.
But it couldn't be real, could it? Not if I didn't want it to be.
I'll go inside, I'll sleep, and when I wake up, everything will be ok. Because really, I'm dreaming now, I have to be.
I can feel the sharp burning, as tears etch pathways down my face. I'm guessing my eyes are pretty red now; but it's not like I have anyone to impress. When I'm in my home, it's just me, I'm alone, I can say, think, feel and do what I want.
Maybe I can do something to forget. I can wash away the sickness in my stomach.
Then I see you. You're sitting there, on my couch, and it sickens me that you let yourself in to my home.
Because you had no right to.
*
I can't stand to see him right now; but turning away from him, he stands and catches my arm firmly. I look down to his hand, his touch is eerily cold.
I didn't think it would be. He shouldn't be this cold. He feels like a winters day.
"It's ok," he says reassuringly, as he loosens his grip on my arm slightly. I know he wants to talk; he wants to make my tears go away.
Maybe he should, after all, he caused them.
"Sit down and talk to me," he says, his tone is warm, but distant and unfamiliar. He releases my arm.
I recon he thinks he's won. And I guess he has. All he has to do is touch me and say a few kind words and I become his again. And I know it's wrong to act this way; if a man treats you badly, you should walk away.
I guess I like the pain he caused me. Love hurts, right? If pain is any measure of love, then this has to be strong.
I thought he wouldn't cause any more pain; but here he is.
I turn to see him, his beards gone, and he seems thinner than I last saw him. But I guess that's just my way of seeing him. He hasn't really changed. I'm just seeing what I want to see, like usual.
"We can talk now," he says softly, placing his hand on the couch next to him, indicating I should sit. Why wouldn't I sit? This is my house.
"That makes a change," I reply grimly. I'm not going to make this easy for him, because he shouldn't be here.
If I make this hard, he'll disappear, I wont see him again.
"Sara, if I go now," he said seriously, looking me in the eyes, "I won't be back, I'll just be gone. They won't be another chance," he continued.
I let out a deep sigh, and look away; I look around my room and back to him. He seems so foreign in this environment.
He shouldn't be here.
"What are we meant to talk about?" I ask, succumbing to his pleas. I guess I do want to talk to him; it would just be better if we did it later, when I'm calmer.
"Anything," he says, stressing the word. His whole attention is on me, it's eerie, the way he's watching my every move. I usually like it when he watches me, but this feels wrong.
"Why didn't 'this' go anywhere," I ask sadly, fearing the answer. Because I knew what he was like with words.
"Because 'this,'" he started, raising a hand and signalling the gap between us, "would have been too…problematic," he finished.
It's weird how certain he seems about everything. Usually, he's the avoidant one; it's me who has to go chasing answers.
Chasing answers and chasing him.
"Such a word-smith," I utter sarcastically.
Another one of my problems. When he say's the wrong thing, instead of trying to provoke a more positive response, I verbally abuse him with sarcasm; then he acts hurt, and I feel guilty.
It's a vicious cycle; one I fear I must subconsciously enjoy being in. I guess it makes me feel close to him, I cause his hurt, and his hurt causes my guilt. Like an invisible thread which links our emotional states back to each other. It makes me feel like part of him.
"Hey," he counters, in a slightly hurt tone. He raises his hand to my face, and brushes the tears, which have faded. His fingertips are so cold, and the touch is so light, it feels like a feather has brushed past me.
I don't remember his fingertips being that smooth.
"Sorry," I apologised, and looked into his eyes. They seemed empty; like mine.
And there the cycle continues. He's hurt, and I'm feeling guilty again. But at least I'm capable of making him feel something; even if it isn't a positive emotion.
"Ask me what you wanted to ask me," he whispers. He seems so calm. I guess he can afford to be now.
"Why…problematic?" I question. My eyelids are becoming heavy now, I'm so tired; talking to him usually leaves me tired, but now, more than usual.
"I'm you're boss, I'm older than you, I'm bad with relationships," he counts off quickly.
It sounded so rehearsed and false to me. I guess when we can't work out what our problems are in relationships we listen to the alleged problems that others imply there should be.
Those points should be a problem; but I don't think they are. There's a deeper problem that runs between us; and I doubt neither of us knows what it is.
There was a long poignant silence, where we both looked away from each other.
Even he knew they weren't the real reasons. I just don't understand why he's here if he's only going to lie to me.
"Did the beauty comment mean anything?" I said, breaking into the silence.
I don't know why I asked it, but out of anything he, or anyone else has said to me, it's been the most enigmatic comment I have ever received.
I guess I want to know if I mean as much to him as the beauty comment means to me.
Maybe I shouldn't know what it meant. That way, I can keep my own explanation safe…and right.
"Does it really matter?"
"You asked me to ask questions!" I throw back at him; even though I wasn't keen on hearing the response.
I must like to argue with him.
I guess it doesn't matter to him. I don't matter to him; why can't I realise that?
"Sara, I'm only here because you want me to be." He says as though he's stating the obvious. He shifts slightly from where he's sitting.
He looks like he wants to leave.
"I know," I responded automatically. I want to be here; but not like this. I want him to be here everyday, I want to wake up to him, I just want…him. Always.
But I know that's impossible.
"I have so many more questions." I say, my gaze drifting off.
It's only a pretence to keep him there. I guess I don't really have any questions for him. Because he will never be able to answer them to any kind of satisfactory level. I don't want him to tell me how he feels; I want him to feel the way I want him to.
"You know I can't answer them," He says, getting up. He looks at me one last time before turning and heading for the door.
"Just one more question," I ask quietly.
He turns, and gives me a small smile.
"Why did you have to die?"