Cotidie

Author: wobbear

Rating: T
Disclaimer: The story, rambling and ridiculous as it may well be, is mine. All the clichés, mistakes and non sequiturs - mine again. The characters within, however, are not.
Spoilers? Grave Danger. Some Way to Go will sneak in at the end.
A/N (1) I've often wondered what happened in the immediate aftermath of Grave Danger. This is what resulted - my first, and very likely my last, fic.
(2) Not very vital hat point: Grissom's hat first appeared in season 6, but it suits my purposes to think he'd been wearing it for some time before that (just not on camera!).
This is a WIP, but it's pretty much all written, so updates can be regular.
Summary: Things were changing. Every day there was another clue. GSR.

Chapter 1: Every day

He stood at the edge of the crater, hands stuffed into his pockets. All around him, the dance of evidence collection swirled: CSIs spotted potential evidence, crouched, placed numbered identifiers, snapped photos, then bagged and tagged, signing over the seals. The brightness cast by the portable crime scene lights was dimming, as another Nevada sun edged its way slowly up into the sky.

A casual observer might think he was supervising the scene. But he didn't move, and he never spoke. Not one gesture towards a speck of possible trace, not a word of encouragement or direction.

His eyes, nearly grey in the pre-dawn light, stared blankly over the busy investigators. Bristles were growing in above and below the closely-trimmed beard; the dark, saggy eye bags and slumped shoulders confirmed that Gil Grissom had been up way too long.

He'd almost been blown up twice in 24 hours, and behind his stoic façade he was crumbling. The adrenaline rush of urgency to find his abducted CSI had long since ebbed away, leaving behind an empty shakiness in his limbs and gut.

Twenty yards away, Sara Sidle was sitting on the open tailgate of a Crime Lab Denali, swinging her legs gently as she munched a granola bar. Her shiny silver kit sat next to her, all compartments clipped shut. She too was sagging with weariness, but her eyes were sharply focussed on the lonely figure in front of her - her … what? Mentor, boss, unrequited love? Check box (d) for all of the above.

Greg was long gone, sent home by Grissom to recover from the multiple shift they'd all pulled.

The Brass man was somewhere about, chivying along the police cadets who were searching the outer reaches of the former plant nursery.

Ecklie, reverting to type after his unexpectedly sensitive reactions during the crisis, had scurried off eagerly to update the sheriff and do media relations - as he'd said, someone had to front up on TV. It was sad, Sara reflected, that his was the face the Crime Lab showed to the world. Couldn't be helped. Ordinarily Cath was happy to step up to the mike, but of course she and Warrick had gone to the hospital with Nick.

And why was Sara still there?

Because Grissom was.

Still standing at the edge of the hole where Nick's temporary tomb had been.

Even if he wasn't aware, even if he didn't want it, she couldn't quell the concern that tugged at her heart, the worry that churned in her stomach.

"I want my guys back", he'd said to Ecklie. The ambulance had long since driven away; an hour later Grissom remained rooted to the spot.

Folding the snack wrapper neatly into her jacket pocket, Sara leaned forward, shifting her weight, and dropped from the tailgate down onto her feet. Rolling her shoulders and circling her head in a futile effort to ease the stiffness, she plodded over to Grissom.

Stopping beside him, she glanced at her day shift colleagues, and then said, "Hey."

He started at her voice.

Her hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Hey," she repeated, "there's nothing more for us to do here. Let's go check on Nick and then head home. Don't a shower and sleep sound good?"

His eyes flickered. He heaved in a big breath, letting it out in a long, long sigh. "I know, I do know, but I can't seem to move. I--I keep thinking how close we were to losing him."

"Yes, but he's safe now. He's OK, or at least he will be. C'mon, let's go see for ourselves at Desert Palm."

Thinking back, Sara realised it had all started on that peculiar day, when she'd sniped at Catherine, talked back to Ecklie and ended up - she could still barely believe it - with Grissom clutching her hand as she told him her story.

They hadn't really spoken about it since, although a few oblique references had passed between them.

But still, something was different. At first she had refused to believe in it; she'd been disappointed too many times before. But she had been well taught, and the paramount principle was "follow the evidence". Every day there was another clue.

One day she'd catch him looking at her with a soft expression and, instead of immediately averting his eyes, he'd hold the contact.

Another time she'd find herself teasing him, and Grissom giving back as good as he got.

Or he'd escort her through a doorway, his hand just brushing the small of her back.

Or he'd come up with another pathetic pun that she couldn't help giggling at.

Or …

Many little words and gestures, each nearly nothing on its own, but when taken together they made for a new comfort zone. It was friendly, but with definitely un-platonic prospects. For now that was enough; it was plenty. She'd never thought she'd revel in feeling comfortable, with Grissom of people, but there it was - warm, fuzzy, quite possibly ridiculous, and it felt great.

He had even, inadvertently, solved one of those little conundrums about which she'd always wondered: how did a guy who worked nights and slept during the day have such a tanned face? No question, he wasn't the type to roast himself in a tanning clinic. And any time he worked in the sun he wore a cap or that hat - Greg had secretly named him "Amish Grissom", but was wise enough not to say it in his supervisor's hearing.

Returning to the lab one morning from a desert crime scene west of the city, they had been driving into a stunning Vegas sunrise. The ride had been mostly silent, both reflecting on the last horrible days of their young victim's life - a six year old boy, tied up and left in a sack, concealed between boulders out at Red Rock Canyon. He'd been reported missing by his first grade teacher after a week's absence from school. It turned out that his mother had wanted to start her new life in Albuquerque without him, and the media vultures had greedily ripped into the "bound and bagged" story.

Into the quiet, Grissom exhaled a gusty breath and remarked, "I love seeing the sun rise."

Sara was driving, and snuck a glance at him. A wistful smile emerged on his face, and he continued, "It's just, ah, sometimes it's the only good thing after an awful shift."

"I know what you mean," she said. "I see a gorgeous sunrise and it somehow reminds me there still is beauty in the world."

Grissom opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Then he swallowed, gulping a little, and started over.

When he got home in time, he recounted, he liked to sit out on his deck watching the sun rise over the eastern hills - winding down with a Nevada Gold and the mellow tones of James Taylor.

"Y'know, I've never been to the Carolinas, but sometimes I like to imagine myself on an Outer Banks beach, leaving sandy footprints at the edge of the ocean, far away from the horrors of the Vegas night ..."

He hesitated, then added, "Occasionally I drink more than one beer, and drift off to sleep. I don't wear hats at home, and I hate sticky sunscreen, so I end up roasted."

Sara decided to go easy on him and just picked up on the music. "Carolina in my mind, huh? I thought you were more a classic rock kinda guy, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, that sort of thing."

"Horses for courses," was all Grissom would say, suddenly rattled by his rambling. As abruptly as he'd started speaking, he stopped. He clamped his lips closed, as if to prevent any further slips.

Everything was relative, of course. Grissom would never be an in-your-face extrovert like Catherine. Anyway, Sara shuddered at that thought.

How bizarre that finally telling him her terrible, long-kept secret should turn out to be the way to crack open the door to Grissom's inner self.

Or was it?

He guarded his private life so closely that perhaps he was one of the few people who could appreciate what a giant leap it was for Sara to finally break down her barriers.

Whatever. Over-thinking, like over-talking, rarely did her any good.

Now, Grissom was having his own troubles, and Sara wanted to help. This wasn't a novel feeling, but what was new was the real possibility that he might let her.

TBC