Disclaimer: Grissom and Sara belong with one another, but not to me.
Author Notes: Too many words in my head, so little time... This is a strange fiction – I had one idea and could not decide which way I should work it. I started the first one – and then I decided to write it another way, and try and combine parts of the two – but that didn't work... so basically I decided that you get to see both. The Visitor Mark One and Mark Two if you like! So both chapters are unrelated, but the second is M! x
The Visitor
By Rianne
Should he have knocked first?
The turning of the key in her lock was loud.
Intrusive.
As good as knocking.
And as uncomfortable to him as the weight of her unfamiliar key had been against his thigh on the journey over.
But both a mere drop in the ocean when compared to his unprecedented and wholly unexpected reaction to the calm way she had passed him the spare key from her locker and told him to just drop the file off when he was finished with it.
He hadn't liked it.
This blasé Sara wasn't normal.
This wasn't their usual pattern of interaction.
When she had passed him that key he could have sworn he felt them tilt on their already precarious axis.
That key meant more than words.
It meant don't disturb me.
It meant I won't be there?
It meant I don't wish to even spend a few moments speaking with you, or even opening my door?
It meant more than just put the file in my mailbox...?
At least?
Didn't it?
It certainly posed questions.
They had survived tremors before, countless times.
The most recent, incident, as he liked to term them occurring when she had finally trapped him long enough to challenge him about choosing Nick as his recommendation for the Key CSI position, and had not really understood his badly explained reasoning.
In the aftermath he had replayed the moment over and over, the perfect words he should have said filling his head in the clarity of after. The ache in his stomach keen as he recalled the way she let the measuring tape career back, recoiling across the garage floor, severing the physical connection between them, but tightening the tension a million fold.
The emptiness in her eyes had been something else.
Yet, despite everything she had still been there, still just as important as ever.
Still far kinder to him than she should be.
And not as kind to herself he was horrified to discover late one night when a phone call had tightened his chest with more worry and fear than he had felt for anyone for a long time.
She had let him hold her hand in a moment of broken disgrace.
And she had allowed him to help her up and guide her safely to the doorway of her home.
There had been no invite inside and he had expected none.
And since that night time had passed calmly until a misguided confrontation on his part to try and understand her unfathomably angry behaviour had forced painful secrets to revelation.
Time and risk had been spent to try and repair.
His unwittingly caused damage.
The blemishes to her career and professional reputation.
And to try and fix them.
He had hoped to call her 'friend' again.
Secretly, more than friend.
But she had passed him that key as if it meant nothing, as if he had free access to her home on a regular basis, or had even been invited there before.
Her expression had been blank. No smile. No meaning or invitation in her eyes.
She hadn't even bothered to remind him of the address, or suggest a good time.
Not that he didn't have the address memorised, and in fact he could, if he closed his eyes, also recall the layout and curious unusual decor within with such vivid intensity he could have been standing there, even though he had only been there once.
Bad circumstances, painful words, heartbreaking secrets, tears. He had held her hand then too.
Places of emotional trauma had always ingrained themselves indelibly on his memory.
He could draw you an etching of the living room in which he found his father, aged nine.
No one had held his hand then.
But it wasn't just her lack of reaction, lack of embarrassment or even the way that she seemed completely unaware that she was committing a gesture which was usually loaded with sexual insinuation.
Instead it was his own response that had left him infinitely more dumbfounded and awkward.
This afternoon he had stood, with all of his forty-something years behind him and blushed like a five year old school girl, heat radiating from the furls of his ears, unable to say anything, whilst Sara in turn had simply straightened, adjusting her bag on her left shoulder and walked away unruffled.
When had things changed?
He didn't like it.
Had he done something wrong?
Again?
This new Sara, he didn't know her.
And that sat uneasy.
He had grown accustomed to the way she blushed when he smiled at her, praised her, flirted mildly with her whilst keeping her at bay.
It had boosted his flagging ego, warmed his lonely heart.
Even tempted him on occasion to move closer to her, before his head and conscience had taken over.
Kept a careful limit on control.
But when had they traded places?
It was extremely unsettling.
And even more painful questions had begun to plague.
Did he not mean as much to her anymore?
Did she not need him as much anymore?
Had she emotionally grown away from him?
Had she given up?
Was it too late?
Was there someone else?
Someone younger, who was openly affectionate with ease? Whose shorter lifespan held no baggage?
He had weighted the small coppery key in his palm, thoughtful as ever.
Ruminating in the still air of the empty locker room.
Then slid it safe into the pocket of his jeans.
Until now, when it had fit with perfect ease into her front door, allowing him unannounced entry into the dark room within.
It was a real key at least.
And the contrast between the bright outdoors and the dusky interior took him a few moments to acclimatise.
The file in his hand, tapping in distracted rhythm against his thigh.
She hadn't left any lights on, the room was shadowy and still.
It smelt faintly of calming sandalwood.
He hovered by the front door.
Ears practically twitching, listening for any sound which might threaten the silence, and reveal occupation.
Maybe she wasn't home after all, and yet that also played on his mind.
If she wasn't here, where was she?
There was a small dark wood table by the door, the perfect place for the file.
Unobtrusive, in a clear space so that it's delivery would be noticed.
He wouldn't have intruded far into her space to bring it.
Yet, where was she?
He had honestly expected her to be here.
If he was even more honest, he had wanted her to be here.
She could be anywhere, out grocery shopping; did she still take long runs?
He had envisioned entering to find her curled with book on her strangely shaded sofa, steam wafting from her tabled mug of tea, or fingers flying over her laptop keyboard, writing a diary, or maybe a novel, or even just a crime scene report.
But no such ghostly apparition Sara materialised into reality.
Yet her bedroom door drew his gaze.
Open ajar.
The one space in her apartment his eidetic mind had not had chance to photograph.
Her truly private space.
He was tempted.
He wavered.
He wanted to see.
To have a place to recall as he worried away time concerned about how much rest she got, or if she was looking after herself more as she had cautiously promised him she would. Brows creased in a faint frown, words most likely to placate him in this rare and awkward display of compassion for her.
The door was partially open after all.
She would never know.
Never find out that he was just looking, it wasn't like he planned to touch anything.
He wasn't a perverse man.
Just an inherently curious one.
The floor didn't creak as he crossed it.
Finding himself by her bedroom doorframe before he knew what his feet were doing.
And in he peered, the sight before him making his heart clench in surprise.
The room before him was not empty.
Sara.
In bed.
Stretched out across the white bedcovers.
His mouth was open, he only realised when he forced himself to swallow.
She was simply beautiful.
Sprawled out on her stomach, her face turned towards the door.
The covers tangled about her waist.
She was sleeping nude.
The outer curve of her breast on show, half concealed by the way she lay and the outreach of her arm.
He knew, somewhere distant in what once was his brain, that he should look away, but he couldn't.
Too many thoughts were fighting for his attention.
Had she forgotten that he would be stopping by?
Did she think he wouldn't remember her request?
Did she always sleep this way?
Had she wanted him to see her like this?
To see her differently?
As a woman and not just a student, a CSI, a colleague?
Had she always been this gorgeous?
Yes.
His brain had always known that, but these images of her tangled up in her bed sheets like a sleeping angel were never going to leave him.
He was licking his lips now, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Imagining touching her, imagining fleeing the scene before he got caught.
He closed his eyes, trying to trap the image behind his eyelids forever.
"Griss?"
His heart nearly stopped.
His eyes flying open.
A lump in his throat.
She was looking up at him dazed, sheets clutched to her chest, a single curl tumbling down her forehead.
And mouth opening and closing like a fish he merely dug his hole deeper.
And fled.