Title: A Joining of Understanding
Summery: "So, so don't you see?" "See what?" I mumbled, my tone barely audible. Is this what my anger's reduced me to? Mumbled barbs in the darkness?
Disclaimer: After I commit the ultimate bank job I should have enough money to buy the rights to CSI, but at present, no. They don't belong to me.
Notes: This story began years ago when I was a young, idiotic duckling. The spelling was ok; grammar a joke, description unnamable and the plot was eh. To prove my point, I could tell you the title, but it's hidden in my account's bio.
Anyway, I have now gone over this thing scrupulously, and hope it's much better. Review if you want, but don't feel too inclined, as this was posted before. Although the similarity of this version to the original? I'm unsure how close they are.
And enjoy.
On my left Sophia and Grissom were speaking in a friendly banter and I pointedly ignored the way my stomach felt. To my right Greg was talking to Nick and Warrick in an animated voice, all looking engaged in the story. I looked down at the computer screen. A flash of letters, numbers, words and concepts, here was the information I needed but refused to let myself understand. With a deep breath I blinked, and then with great care looked down, Paroled- March 17th, 1998 Status- unknown. Uncontrollable rage overtook me and the coffee cup I grabbed to stay alert, (what was it, weeks, months ago?) smashed on the wall, fell to the floor, the liquid inside it dancing on the walls and floor. Had I done this?
Anger and hurt inside me fused with embarrassment, and I irrationally needed to get out of there. I turned off the computer and left the room in what seemed like slow motion, but I'm sure if I'd checked my watch, not even a minute would have passed. Later, when I was gone from here, I'd make up some excuse, I told myself, but right now I needed out. Still dark out, I sat on the curb, needing to catch my breath, get my bearings, I couldn't have a panic attack. A minute passed and my feelings decreased. The casual way people ignored (it wasn't deliberate, never) me was helpful in this instance, and I felt safe in the dark. Then my hopes were dashed when suddenly the door opened and someone sat beside me.
"What was that about?" A voice asked, the tingle in my stomach appeared; I tried to ignore it, because it was so clear he didn't want me to have these feelings.
"I needed air," I replied coldly, wanting my cold exterior to match the insides, wondering why I didn't just give up on him.
"Why did you throw the cup?" There, the 64,000 question. So sure he didn't want any real, intense, emotionally-messy answer, I made a joke. Although with my state of mind, I doubted it would possess humor.
"I was tired of coffee," The problem with acting like this though, is that it isn't me. Never ever me.
"Sara," He spoke in that demanding tone of his, demanding and difficult, couldn't he just let me break in peace?
"Grissom, I'm fine," always fine "just... please go,"
"You don't seem fine," Voice calm and controlled, couldn't he ever show me emotion? "Sara, look at me," A part of me wanted to refuse, to stay cold and keep away from him, to show him how it felt to be shunned, but against my better will, I turned to look at the man I loved.
"A few years ago, I uh, I broke a coffee pot."
"Yeah, Ecklie spread that around pretty well." I turned away, that was what he wanted to say when I was gazing into his eyes? Words offbalance, tone offkilter,
"So, so don't you see?"
"See what?" I mumbled, my tone barely audible. Is this what my anger's reduced me to? Mumbled barbs in the darkness?
"We're the same." How does he get away saying that when I can't even ask him out to dinner? My next words were intent on causing harm,
"And did you want someone to comfort you afterwards?"
"If it were you," Staring at the ground, I snorted through my pain. How could he get off saying that? Was there a hidden meaning? Was I even allowed to search for it? Saying nothing, it waited for the darkness to overcome us, seep through our clothes and when the silence overcame the little conversation that we had, I spoke.
"My mother got out of jail," Such a small sentence, soon a whirlwind of questions would follow.
"I'm sorry?" His question meant for me to repeat myself, only I took it another way, was I sorry she was in jail?
"Are most adults upset when their misbegotten parents are finally paroled from jail after twenty -three years?" I could get much more specific then that, but desperation can only be measured so far.
"You're not like most adults. You're special." Grissom said, a hint of something I couldn't recognize in his voice, "I'm hear if you want to talk." Voice calm and sure, I shivered because of the cold. And not the calm protective tone in his voice.
"It's a long conversation."
"I'm comfortable."
"Well I'm cold." A jacket was shrugged on my shoulders, feeling and smelling just like him not like I noticed, I don't notice and the action of it- the subtle audacity- like he had a right to offer after all we'd been through- it made me speak.
"My father left us.. my family, when I was young. My mother blamed it on my brother's drug addiction but I knew that it wasn't because of that. He just couldn't take it, us really. The stress of everything. A failing business, my Mom's alcoholism, an antisocial daughter, and finally a son dealing with illegal substances. My brother left shortly after, and it seemed to become a common occurrence in our lives, men leaving us when we need them most." I hadn't meant for that sentence to be a dig for Grissom -much- but his reaction, a subtle intake of breath and movement to close the distance between us, it kept the words flowing. "So it was just me and mom. Which was fine, "I hastened to add, "for awhile. But I wasn't enough for her, and she started dating all these guys. Some that weren't so good for u.. her. My life became a series of Dynasties as every new guy came about." Why is my torrid past being shared?
"There was Frank, who insisted on tidiness, the kitchen had to be scrubbed every Saturday with a toothbrush. Then Michael, who believed in g-d so fervently that we went to church every Sunday and I still can't write g-d with the 'o' in it. Rupert was British and so normal I knew he wouldn't last long. Mike." I stop speaking the moment his name is spoken aloud, had I really just uttered the name I refused to speak? Had I just acknowledged his existence? Had I just opened up a conversation about the one man that broke me worse then anything Grissom could ever do?
"I'd get into all these 'accidents' at home, come to school with all these bruises up and down my arms and legs. My mother was too drunk to realize what she was doing, and it's not exactly like I had any stable guardian figures to run to. Suspicion grew, and lies only went so far until protective services were called. I was put in foster care, and transferred to a new school because of how 'traumatic' life had been until my father reappeared and took me in."
"Sara."
"You're wondering what my troubled past has to do with my mother's jail time, aren't you?"
"I-"
"Well my mother came to my father's apartment house one night, drunk. She ended up stabbing him. He never recovered." Sounding plain; lifeless again, like it wasn't mine, I was just glad my voice wasn't shaking.
"I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, well. She's free now. She can do whatever she wants."
"This must be hard for you." That imperceptive change from friend to supervisor was so tiny and so gaping I closed up the minute he switched roles. Even in my deluded state I understood how heavy this all was, that he just wanted to step back from it all. But this just hurt, and I reacted accordingly.
"Just leave me alone," Not my finest moment, but I was hurt and his cold impersonal tone blasted me at my weakest.
"Sara."
"You've done your supervisor duty making sure I'm not a harm to myself or others, and guess what? I'm no harm."
"SARA." Like velvet to my ears, why is it my name sounded so good from his lips? Even when he was angry with me.
"I'm, I'm going to be fine, ok? I just need a minute alone." Men you're in love with shouldn't be allowed to say your name; it makes it so hard for you to hold on to your anger.
"I want to keep on talking about this."
"Ok." The possibility of being left alone when I felt so emotionally vulnerable- It was enticing. Even though it meant I would have to go without Grissom's questioning glance, soft words and casual touch.
"How about breakfast after work?" The question sounded so sincere and realistic in the situation I didn't think about it. I just answered honestly.
"Sure."
"Good." And then with a quick glance at my expression, Grissom leaned in, put a hand on my cheek, tilted up my head, and kissed my forehead. After staring into my eyes to make sure whatever point he was trying to make got through, Grissom left me on the curb. Warm from his touch and jacket.
With a small smile on my face.
Until I realized that he had just asked me out to breakfast, and that I'd said yes.
TBC.