Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or any of the other media--books, etc.--that are mentioned in this story.
I do not plan to update with any regularity, but I appreciate reviews all the same. They make my day! :)
This was very hastily proof-read, so there are probably mistakes and typos, and they're all mine.
Also, I make a lot of references to GSR moments, but for the purposes of this story, they may not occur in the correct order...
Chapter One: Distraction
They were working. He was focusing—or trying to—despite the distraction of his companion. She hummed softly as she dusted the kitchen counter for finger prints, her soft, chocolate brown hair swinging forward every time she bent down—whether to write on a print she had just lifted, or to resume dusting. He could smell the chemical smell of the permanent marker she used to write, and the vanilla of her shampoo, and the dusty smell of the powder.
He took another deep breath, sifting for any other odors that would stand out—maybe give him a clue as to who had killed the poor girl he was crouched in front of. She sprawled out on the couch, her blood staining the white fabric beneath her—this smell was much stronger than the others, but he disregarded it, looking for something more telling; of course a murder victim would smell like blood.
He could detect the faint smell of a cat—not one who had lived here. Maybe the smell had come in on the killer's body? Maybe the girl had a friend with a cat… maybe her friend's cat had been here in the last few months… His eyes flickered back to his distraction—she had begun to dust around the wall separating the refrigerator from the dining room. It was a spot that wasn't likely to have been wiped down, but which people touched unconsciously as they moved from one room into the next.
He smiled softly, impressed. She was very good at her job—as good as he thought a human could be; ordered, precise, methodical, and at times, like in the case of the refrigerator wall, inspired. His eyes surveyed her face softly, knowing that her being a distraction was as much his fault as it was hers…he indulged in it.
He could see each delicate line of her face—the small, round pieces of powder from the make-up that had been applied too hastily—each chocolate strand of hair, separate and distinct and unerringly lovely. She felt his gaze, and looked up from her work, surprised. "What's up?"
He half-smiled, not allowing himself to look embarrassed that she'd noticed him. "I just glanced up… saw that little corner by the fridge. That was smart."
She beamed, always so receptive to his praise. It worried him—her overwhelming receptivity. He mentally reminded himself to compliment her less, no matter how well he enjoyed the smile it provoked. She returned to her work, and he forced himself to return to his, processing in silence until her humming began again. It was another hour before they walked from the home and he could breathe deeply again—the smell of the blood had sickened him, like spoilt milk or moldy bread, and he was glad to remove himself.
It was a strange profession to have chosen—considering his aversion to blood from a dead body—but he had felt his unique strengths and abilities were most judiciously applied where they were most desperately needed—he gave people justice. The car doors slammed closed as he and his brunette companion seated themselves and he started the SUV. He heard every click and turn of all the various engine parts as well as her sigh when he turned the ignition—but he did not feel like he could ask. She indulged him, seeing his eyes flicker towards her at the sound.
"That was a tough scene… she was so young."
He did not remind her to distance herself from the victim—she had expounded on her thoughts because of his silent inquiry, after all.
"Eighteen." He spoke heavily. "It was probably her first apartment."
Sara Sidle smiled, despite the bleakness of the conversation. "I remember mine… Although, I'd already been living in the dorms for a year and half, so I don't know if that counts…"
He smiled, enjoying the sound of her voice—his own mind already formulating imaginings of a younger, softer Sara. The corner of his lip twisted—she was probably a harder person back then—finally living in a home she could call her own and working her ass off to dig herself out of her father's grave and her mother's weaknesses.
She looked up at him when he didn't respond. "What was your first place like?" He considered her question, and surprised himself by answering honestly, although she did not truly know the story the honesty told.
"Meager…only what I could afford. But it was enough."
Enough. Enough to keep the rain from his head and the beasts in the forests, but not a home—before Sara Sidle, it still would have been enough. Now, he realized, it never could be. He did not expound these thoughts to her, however—she was too smart—she picked up on little details, things he didn't think he'd let her know until she demonstrated that she did. It didn't help that she paid more attention to him than even to her cases… she was too aware of him. It was discomforting.
She nodded, her eyes lost in a faraway look. Perhaps she too was imagining him younger and softer—less concerned with evidence than with sheer gut instinct. She had never known him to be this way, yet the way she spoke to him sometimes implied that she sensed it… she knew that he had once been passionate and foolish and excitable. He just didn't know how she could know such a thing. The conversation had lulled and he found himself wondering how to start it up again. He wanted to hear more about her—her thoughts, her first place, even her silent assessments of him as they drove back to the crime lab.
"What was yours like…? The apartment, not the dorm."
She turned, surprised. It was unlike him to ask about her personal life unless there were no other alternative. She smiled softly, eyes moving up and to the right as she tried to remember details.
"Small… I painted it yellow, even though my landlord said I couldn't paint…"
"Why yellow?" His voice came soft now—he watched the flicker of emotions in her eyes out of the side of his own, not having realized before now how desperate he was to know every detail of her life—every place she had ever touched.
The corner of her mouth twisted. "I was sick of hiding in pink, but I couldn't stand to exist in nothingness either. Dark colors were… dark. Yellow made the place seem bigger…brighter…more hopeful."
He did not ask, but she knew he understood her meaning. The most personal conversation they'd ever had—the only time he'd been in her present apartment—had explained the haunted look behind every emotion her eyes expressed. Before her mother had killed her father, she had hidden the proof of his indiscretions that traced, black and blue, up her daughter's arms, in new clothes—always, always pink, because they were feminine and made her mother think of bubblegum rather than abuse.
Her words had sent them both back to her living room that night, and the silence returned.
Eventually, she broke it, continuing the conversation that had been briefly forgotten. "I moved in with no furniture but my bed and the small television I'd bought for the dorm room. I furnished it within a few months… it felt like I was filling myself up, leaving no room for the past, as I filled the rooms with the present."
"Is it the same furniture you have now?" She shook her head slowly.
"I finally realized that I was still empty, no matter how cluttered my home became."
He did not know what to say to this—though one would think that his years would have afforded him more tact—and the quiet returned. They pulled into the parking lot of the crime lab then, and she gave him a reluctant smile as she stepped out, collecting their evidence and bringing it inside. He allowed himself one shaking breath—drawing in the lasting smell of vanilla—and then got out as well, moving into the lab to finish out the graveyard shift, kicking himself.
Every time he allowed himself to get close to her… every time he allowed her to get close to him… he would eventually reach a point at which he could go no further, and would retreat and detach, and the haunting would show more clearly in her eyes for a few weeks. It was a tribute to his patience, his self-control, his unerring willpower that he could keep himself from her at all. He loved her… and those coffee eyes betrayed that she might, somehow, feel something for him too.
He interrupted his own thoughts, reprimanding himself. It didn't matter how either of them felt—there were a thousand reasons why Gil Grissom could not love Sara Sidle, and only the smallest and simplest of these could even be explained to her. He bustled angrily through the lab, meeting with his various CSI's to check up on their cases, and then retreated to his office to calm himself in the quiet there.