She tries to act blasé after she puffs on the Breathalyzer, while the young cop examines the reading. Truth be told, her heart is pounding hard in her tightened chest, and she feels like her stomach has just dropped out on the pavement. But she stuffs her hands in her pockets and glances around the seedy Las Vegas night in a casual way, as though there's nothing wrong, as though she is fine, as if things are normal. Like the three and a half beers she drank aren't threatening to come back up full force, not because she can't handle her liquor, but because she knows what's going to happen next. On the ride to the station she stares hard out the window, listening to the roaring in her ears and dreading the next couple of hours. They certainly live up to her expectations.
The young cop is nice, sympathetic, even. She doesn't know him. He seems mostly to feel sorry for her. There's nothing she hates more than pity from strangers. He gets her coffee in a Styrofoam cup while she waits. Somehow he guesses how she likes it, on the rare occasions that she drinks coffee; black, with sugar. She dumps it on an anemic-looking potted plant when he's not looking.
And then they're telling her (raised eyebrows, crouched down to her seated height, kind but reproachful) that they're going to give her a break, since the limit was just lowered and since she's "one of them." They won't arrest her (thank God, thank God, she knows that would mean immediate termination, no questions asked). That she'll have to meet with a P.E.A.P. counselor, that her car's been impounded for the night. That they've called her supervisor. That he's coming to pick her up. He's on his way now, as a matter of fact. He sounded concerned. Horrified, she focuses on the shined leather shoes of the young cop and wishes desperately, belatedly, that she'd drunk his coffee. Her mouth is suddenly very dry, and when she opens it to thank the cops, she can barely croak out the words.
And so she sits alone in silence, awkwardly, and waits, like a lamb for the slaughter. The room is bare and impersonal, the vinyl couch uncomfortable. Her ass falls asleep. Curious police and technicians stroll past the windows and pretend not to look in at her. She keeps her head down, stares at the floor. Her hands shake slightly, and for lack of anything better to do she twists them, lacing her fingers tight, pressing her palms together and pulling them away, worrying at the skin around her fingernails. He's coming here, for her, and she has no idea what he will say. She cannot predict his behavior any better today than the on the day they met, years and years ago. Normally this is one of the things she finds attractive about him, but tonight, she would give anything to avoid him entirely. Grissom and his enigmatic reactions. She concentrates on her breathing and trying to calm the sick feeling that has wrapped itself tightly around her heart.
She hears him first. Thanking the older cop. Though she doesn't turn her head, her ears strain to judge the cadence of his voice. He doesn't sound angry. Or disappointed. She thinks that that would be infinitely worse. He sounds... concerned. Like they said. Concerned and anxious. She can tell that he hauled ass to get here, hurried down the hall, was perfunctory with the cops. But now that he sees her, he takes his time. He crosses the room slowly and sits without a word, very close next to her. She feels the warmth of his leg through their layers of clothing, and smells his aftershave. She cannot look at him. She feels dazed, like this cannot possibly be real. The moment stretches out between them, and it's every bit as bad as she thought it would be.
And then he reaches over and slides his hand into hers.
Prickles run over her entire body. It takes all of her nearly shredded self-control not to shiver. Her other hand freezes perfectly stiff and still, poised beside its twin, now held unexpectedly in Grissom's warm grip. She is afraid to move. His thumb strokes lightly over her knuckles.
She forgets to breathe.
"Come on," he says quietly, his voice even, soothing, and calm. "I'll take you home."
And for one wild moment she thinks he's going to take her home with him.
Then she comes back down to earth, lets her head drop, shoulders sag. That's not what he means.
And after all that she's been through tonight, it's only now that her carefully constructed mask chooses to slip. She cannot stop it in time. Suddenly her eyes are overflowing, tears spilling hot and treacherous down her cheeks, dripping onto her knees, the floor. Suddenly she's trying to breathe again, and it's in deep, chest-shaking, smothered gasps. He's fumbling, surprised, in his pocket, because he's the type of man who still carries a handkerchief, clean and neatly folded in the pocket of his Dockers. He hands it gently to her and her entire body rocks back and forth a couple of times with the sudden force of rarely unbound emotion. With her left hand she presses the soft cotton hanky to her eyes, willing herself hard to stop this, breathes deeply, quaking, shuddering. Her outburst is over as quickly as it begins. Humiliated and exhausted, she sniffles as she hastily mops her eyes, tries to hand him back his damp handkerchief. She still can't meet his eyes, manages to look only as far as his chin before ducking her head. "Keep it," he says softly. She lets out her breath. "Thanks," she whispers, shaky, and crinkles it firmly in her fist. It is only then that she realizes her right hand is still locked in his; in fact, his grip has tightened to the point that it almost hurts. Unconsciously, she's been squeezing right back.
They sit like that, in silence, for a few more minutes. He does not relinquish her hand, does not press her for details, doesn't rail or get angry. He just lets her be, waits for her. She stares at their joined hands, watching the skin on the tips of her fingers go white with the firm, steady pressure of his grip. And when she can finally look him in the eye, she does, and she tells him in a mostly steady voice that she's ready to go. He stands first, and surprises her by keeping hold of her hand. He pulls her carefully up and eases the pressure; she feels blood rushing back into her fingers. Now hold on her is gentle, but she feels like there are sparks going off between their palms. They stand facing each other. She looks openly into his face, her eyes searching his, lips parted. She knows she is a mess; a desperate, pathetic, needy mess, but for once she doesn't care. For once she doesn't want to close off. Her hope rises silent, springing, welling between them. Their faces are very close; he's gazing back at her, and if she didn't know better she would say he looks almost fearful. She knows it's her chance, takes the risk. Slowly, she runs her own thumb across the back of his hand. A smooth, deliberate caress. He opens his mouth slightly, as if to say something, and she cannot help leaning toward him, just a little more. But her nearness seems to make the words catch in his throat, and he abruptly closes his mouth again. He releases her hand then, gently, and it swings back down to her side, ineffectual, limp. Bereft. She feels the moment fluttering away, like so many others; he looks away from her, toward the door, and it is gone.
She swallows and presses her mouth into a thin hard line.
He guides her out with a light touch on the small of her back, ushering her quickly down the hall, past the inquiring gazes of police officers and secretaries. She wraps herself in her coat and keeps her head down. Within moments they're in the parking lot, and he's leading her toward his parked SUV. He unlocks her side first, opens the door for her and waits for her to get in. She stops short and looks at him. "Grissom," she blurts before she can stop herself. "You don't have to do this." Her voice sounds hollow in her own ears. She is definitely crashing down off of her buzz. He cocks his head to the side, raises an eyebrow. "Do what?" he asks. "Drive me home," she rushes, trying desperately, so belated, to seem nonchalant. "I can get a cab. I mean, I've got cash, it's no problem..." "Sara," he cuts her off in that composed voice which means he won't accept any arguments. "Get in the car."
To her chagrin, she does, without another word. They're both silent as he pulls out onto the street. She stares straight ahead, though she can feel him glancing at her from time to time. She feels deflated, worn out. The evening's events whirl endlessly over her, but she knows that she cannot deal with them right now. Not yet. As he navigates the predawn gray, she tries to clear her thoughts, to instill some temporary calm. It's not easy, especially when it begins to register in her mind that Grissom is headed in the opposite direction of her apartment. If she were thinking rationally, she would assume that he doesn't know the way; he's never been there, after all. But Grissom is Grissom, and she feels instinctively that he does know the way to her place. On edge, she says cautiously, "This isn't the way to my apartment."
"No, it's not," he says simply.
Grissom and his damned enigmatic reactions.
He drives down the strip, parks in the New York New York hotel garage. Gets out of the car, walks around to her side, opens her door, closes it when she steps out, bewildered. "Grissom, what..." He doesn't let her finish. "Just come with me," he says. Her heart is thumping again. She doesn't know how much more of this it can take. When she doesn't move, he says gently, "humor me, Sara." She shuts her mouth and walks beside him, through the blinking garish lights of the casino, past the bleary-eyed all-nighters pulling slot handles.
They're the only customers at this time of the morning, as the sky lightens perceptibly in the east. The attendant seems to know Grissom; he grins at them in a friendly way as he takes the cash and straps them into the very front of the car. She's never really been one for roller coasters. But she knows from experience that they are one of Grissom's very few passions outside of work. As the car starts to roll, he turns to her with a half-smile and tells her, simply, to hold on. Awed, wondering, she faces front, gripping the seat cushion with both hands. They climb slowly, wheels clicking on the tracks, high into the pale morning. And then suddenly for one single moment they're hovering at the top of the world, looking out across an endless expanse of glittering lights and flowing desert beyond. The first rays of sunlight are crowning over the hills in the east, so bright they hurt her eyes, and it's all so beautiful, she feels tears springing for a second time. In that crackling, heart-pounding moment, she takes a deep, freeing breath of fresh air. It is a new day today, and she is here in silence, but this time with him beside her. So maybe this silence can be OK for awhile. As the coaster tips over the edge of the precipice, to begin its incredible, stomach-dropping descent, she feels him watching her. She doesn't look at him, but smiles, her first real smile in a long time, closes her eyes and tips her face to the sun as the coaster snakes along the track, dropping, rising. The cool morning air rushes through her hair, and she is flying, as though she is truly free.