New Hobby
All the usual disclaimers. Summary: Post-Bloodlines. Sara gets a new hobby and finds herself again. Complete.
The music is heavy, bass, and driving. She brings her own mix and they let her play it when nobody else is in the gym. She's always there late or early, before or after shift, so she's alone often. Only one day a week does she work with her trainer, on the day off she now insists on, refusing all entreaties and threats to get her to come to work. She mentions the magic word, "burnout," and they, usually he, stammers in reply and hangs up the phone. Everyone looks at her different since she started insisting on personal time. The DUI thing didn't stay private, not even for 24 hours, and she got used to the pitying, concerned looks and the attempts at camaraderie: invitations to breakfast, dinner, and even movies and art exhibits. It would be touching if it weren't so obviously forced. She knew they did care and were concerned - her co-workers weren't heartless, after all, and she genuinely liked them on some level - but the attempts were too little, too late. She wasn't interested in being part of the team anymore, especially when it seemed that they read the DUI as a call for help, and not the momentary lapse in judgment it had been.
So she refused their offers and invitations, even Grissom when he tried to talk to her, and spent hours in the gym. She came in twice a day, sometimes, when the case had been particularly difficult or one of her co-workers, Catherine especially, had gone out of their way to ask her how she was doing. Like she was damaged goods, the person with the drinking problem, and not just a person who had used a bad coping mechanism during a bad streak. AA had been suggested, recommended, and encouraged from various people, and everyone thought she was in denial when she took the recommendations 'under advisement.' They watched her, evaluated her, every time she showed up for her shift, and she knew they were waiting for her to come in reeking of booze or cough drops or some other hint of her 'problem.' Brass had been the most supportive, and he was the only one who didn't look at her like she's fragile, about to break under the stress of her work. Only Brass was able to see that she was taking positive steps and beating her demons. She had refused their labeling and socially-approved therapy/solution, and for that, everyone else had decided that she wasn't coping. But she was. The mind and emotions followed the body, in a way. Her life had been entirely too cerebral, a common trap of scientists who repudiate the life of the body for the life of the mind. Her life of the mind equated with work, which meant that her work became her life. She remembered once, not long after she had starting working in Las Vegas, Grissom asking if she had hobbies, diversions, from her work so that work wouldn't consume her. She had told him, angrily, that she didn't do anything, didn't like anything. Now, as the music changes to a favorite Veruca Salt tune and her heart rate picks up just a little more, she rues the three years it took her to take that piece of advise.
Here, in the gym, she's found her definition of beauty, one she's not sure Grissom can appreciate. His rollercoasters remind him of his body, of risk, adrenaline, and a world outside of the mind, but those rides are fleeting, she knows. Like the moments when he would touch her shoulder or talk about beauty or call her honey, the moments are fleeting and don't impact him as deeply as they obviously impacted her. But every moment she spends in the gym or running, pushing her body further and further, seeing the muscles develop, and feeling the strength and speed grow, she feels more connected to her body on deeper, more intimate levels. She admires the evidence every time she sees herself in the mirror after her shower, the obvious outlines of the muscles in her triceps, the tight firmness of her stomach. She was always skinny and strong, but this lean power is intoxicating.
The head trainer comes out of the office, noting her there, and supports the heavy bag she's been working on for the last thirty minutes. He calls combinations and she pounds the bag in reply, fists snapping in and back to guard with a speed she never would have imagined possible six months ago. She commits her whole body to each punch, swiveling her hips and rotating her shoulders to drive the power of her whole body and concentrate it into the surface area of her fist. She notes, not for the first time, how well her physics background serves her in this. Balance, motion, and acceleration guide her in the dance with a satisfying 'thud' at the end of every movement. The trainer grunts in satisfaction and orders her off the bag. She wipes her sweaty forehead with the sweatband on her forearm, pushing a few stray hairs back that had come out of her ponytail, before pulling the velcro of her bag gloves with her teeth.
She was just settling in with the speed bag, the three-beat cadence filling the quiet gym, when Tony called. "Sidle." He indicated his office with a twitch of his head, and she followed, obediently, pausing only to grab her water bottle from beside her bag. Tony didn't usually pay any attention to the 'recreational' boxers at the gym, spending all his time with the pro and semi-pro boxers who trained there, and Sara was surprised he even knew her name. She nodded to Tony as she sat down on a much used and abused couch across from his desk. She had never been in his office before, and she took in all the clippings and pictures from a lifetime of working with boxers that passed for decor while she waited for Tony to speak.
"So, Sidle, have you ever considered competition?" She must have looked surprised, because he reacted to her silence as if he were answering a question she had asked. "There's another amateur competition here next month and there's an up-and-coming female fighter out of California who wants to compete and needs a challenger. I'd like you to fight her."
"Me?" Her voice was incredulous. "I'd last all of 15 seconds. Wouldn't be much of a challenge for her."
He looked over her, appraising. "Actually, I think you can take her." He shrugged at her disbelieving look. "The talent pool for female boxers isn't deep. Up-and-coming means she's won two or three matches. You, you have power, speed, and reach. We'd have to change your workout schedule and move up your sparring so you get ring experience." She looked at him with skepticism, but he met her gaze confidently. "I wouldn't suggest it unless I thought you had a chance. Think about it."
------------- Thanks for to the reviewers for the encouragement to continue working on this. I still like the first few paragraphs as a Sara character sketch, but obviously there was more to say. If you just want the character sketch, stop reading now.
All the usual disclaimers. Summary: Post-Bloodlines. Sara gets a new hobby and finds herself again. Complete.
The music is heavy, bass, and driving. She brings her own mix and they let her play it when nobody else is in the gym. She's always there late or early, before or after shift, so she's alone often. Only one day a week does she work with her trainer, on the day off she now insists on, refusing all entreaties and threats to get her to come to work. She mentions the magic word, "burnout," and they, usually he, stammers in reply and hangs up the phone. Everyone looks at her different since she started insisting on personal time. The DUI thing didn't stay private, not even for 24 hours, and she got used to the pitying, concerned looks and the attempts at camaraderie: invitations to breakfast, dinner, and even movies and art exhibits. It would be touching if it weren't so obviously forced. She knew they did care and were concerned - her co-workers weren't heartless, after all, and she genuinely liked them on some level - but the attempts were too little, too late. She wasn't interested in being part of the team anymore, especially when it seemed that they read the DUI as a call for help, and not the momentary lapse in judgment it had been.
So she refused their offers and invitations, even Grissom when he tried to talk to her, and spent hours in the gym. She came in twice a day, sometimes, when the case had been particularly difficult or one of her co-workers, Catherine especially, had gone out of their way to ask her how she was doing. Like she was damaged goods, the person with the drinking problem, and not just a person who had used a bad coping mechanism during a bad streak. AA had been suggested, recommended, and encouraged from various people, and everyone thought she was in denial when she took the recommendations 'under advisement.' They watched her, evaluated her, every time she showed up for her shift, and she knew they were waiting for her to come in reeking of booze or cough drops or some other hint of her 'problem.' Brass had been the most supportive, and he was the only one who didn't look at her like she's fragile, about to break under the stress of her work. Only Brass was able to see that she was taking positive steps and beating her demons. She had refused their labeling and socially-approved therapy/solution, and for that, everyone else had decided that she wasn't coping. But she was. The mind and emotions followed the body, in a way. Her life had been entirely too cerebral, a common trap of scientists who repudiate the life of the body for the life of the mind. Her life of the mind equated with work, which meant that her work became her life. She remembered once, not long after she had starting working in Las Vegas, Grissom asking if she had hobbies, diversions, from her work so that work wouldn't consume her. She had told him, angrily, that she didn't do anything, didn't like anything. Now, as the music changes to a favorite Veruca Salt tune and her heart rate picks up just a little more, she rues the three years it took her to take that piece of advise.
Here, in the gym, she's found her definition of beauty, one she's not sure Grissom can appreciate. His rollercoasters remind him of his body, of risk, adrenaline, and a world outside of the mind, but those rides are fleeting, she knows. Like the moments when he would touch her shoulder or talk about beauty or call her honey, the moments are fleeting and don't impact him as deeply as they obviously impacted her. But every moment she spends in the gym or running, pushing her body further and further, seeing the muscles develop, and feeling the strength and speed grow, she feels more connected to her body on deeper, more intimate levels. She admires the evidence every time she sees herself in the mirror after her shower, the obvious outlines of the muscles in her triceps, the tight firmness of her stomach. She was always skinny and strong, but this lean power is intoxicating.
The head trainer comes out of the office, noting her there, and supports the heavy bag she's been working on for the last thirty minutes. He calls combinations and she pounds the bag in reply, fists snapping in and back to guard with a speed she never would have imagined possible six months ago. She commits her whole body to each punch, swiveling her hips and rotating her shoulders to drive the power of her whole body and concentrate it into the surface area of her fist. She notes, not for the first time, how well her physics background serves her in this. Balance, motion, and acceleration guide her in the dance with a satisfying 'thud' at the end of every movement. The trainer grunts in satisfaction and orders her off the bag. She wipes her sweaty forehead with the sweatband on her forearm, pushing a few stray hairs back that had come out of her ponytail, before pulling the velcro of her bag gloves with her teeth.
She was just settling in with the speed bag, the three-beat cadence filling the quiet gym, when Tony called. "Sidle." He indicated his office with a twitch of his head, and she followed, obediently, pausing only to grab her water bottle from beside her bag. Tony didn't usually pay any attention to the 'recreational' boxers at the gym, spending all his time with the pro and semi-pro boxers who trained there, and Sara was surprised he even knew her name. She nodded to Tony as she sat down on a much used and abused couch across from his desk. She had never been in his office before, and she took in all the clippings and pictures from a lifetime of working with boxers that passed for decor while she waited for Tony to speak.
"So, Sidle, have you ever considered competition?" She must have looked surprised, because he reacted to her silence as if he were answering a question she had asked. "There's another amateur competition here next month and there's an up-and-coming female fighter out of California who wants to compete and needs a challenger. I'd like you to fight her."
"Me?" Her voice was incredulous. "I'd last all of 15 seconds. Wouldn't be much of a challenge for her."
He looked over her, appraising. "Actually, I think you can take her." He shrugged at her disbelieving look. "The talent pool for female boxers isn't deep. Up-and-coming means she's won two or three matches. You, you have power, speed, and reach. We'd have to change your workout schedule and move up your sparring so you get ring experience." She looked at him with skepticism, but he met her gaze confidently. "I wouldn't suggest it unless I thought you had a chance. Think about it."
------------- Thanks for to the reviewers for the encouragement to continue working on this. I still like the first few paragraphs as a Sara character sketch, but obviously there was more to say. If you just want the character sketch, stop reading now.