Theory of Independance
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Amazing, isn't it? None of these characters are mine. Except the computer. That's all me, baby.
[Actually, it's all SAL9000, the Microsoft-maddened iMac.]
They belong wholeheartedly to CBS, A. Zuiker, and the man himself, W. Peterson.
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More paragraphs! Thanks to Devanie for set design. =)
A[nother] Sara/Grissom fic. Spoilers for "The Hunger Artist" - sort of.
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Street. Lights. Street lights. Las Vegas; empty streets. Empty lights, but emptier streets. Where am I? No, where are you?
Slap. "Goddamn!"
Grissom woke up abruptly. Couch...break room...work. I'm at work. He directed a quizzical look across the room to the young brunette who sat before an uncompromisingly crashed computer station.
"Greg helped me install that yesterday. Did you break it already?"
Sara couldn't quite repress the slight yelp of surprise.
"I...you were asleep, but obviously, you're...not now." She paused. "I should go."
He sat up quickly, and winced, lowering his head.
"Sara -"
She halted, in midflight.
"Things are awkward now. Even I notice that."
Sara grinned, despite herself. Grissom looked up at her - slowly. He tried to read her posture, her body language; practice makes perfect. And perfection will be very shortly needed.
"I don't mean - us. I mean the whole team."
The grin left Sara's face.
Grissom stood up and slowly paced between Sara and the door, keeping his eyes locked on her face.
"I know you know. I know they know. What I don't know, Sara, is how four people can manage to figure out so much of my business in so little time."
He saw the fear in Sara's eyes mix with guilt, and then anger. Anger?
"You know, Grissom, I probably shouldn't care if you decide to just screw us all and leave the division. None of us should give a damn."
He started to interrupt; Sara kept talking right over him.
"...You can't shut us out! You can't! We need to know this, and it isn't just your problem. You can't tell us to keep objective principles and turn around and violate them yourself."
She paused, as if waiting for a reaction. He turned away from her, retreating to the couch. He could almost hear her teeth grind; Sara always tried to get a rise out of him.
"You know, Sara-" and here, he saw her tense herself, waiting for some acerbic remark, "-some days, all forty-six of my years seem to be waiting just behind my shoulder."
He could've sworn her jaw literally dropped. He watched guilt and anger turn to pure concern, passing over Sara's expressive face in a paean to human inconsistancy. He waited for the inevitable expression of pity that he seemed to evoke from so many people, so unexpectedly.
Instead, Sara shook her head, as if clearing away mental smoke, and joined him on the couch. Grissom inhaled deeply, hoping to delay the formation of an impending migraine. He put the heel of his hand against his forehead, pressing hard, as if he could somehow massage away the nascent pain behind his eyes.
He felt a gentle touch on his chin; Sara's fingers gently tugged his face up until he was looking directly into her eyes.
No pity. No guilt. Just honest confusion, and...
Sara's hand slid up along the side of his face, as she leaned in to kiss him; he felt his muscles tighten, as adrenaline slid into his veins. He tried to turn away, almost instinctively attempting an unapproachable posture.
He could feel her smile, against his cheek.
"Nice try."
He turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes again.
"It will be."