Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: I'm back from what seemed like a very long, forced vacation. But I have moved now, and I have internet access, and it's good to be writing again. I hope you enjoy this! Thanks for stopping by:)

And big, hearty thanks to Cincoflex for all her help! And a double helping to Mingsmommy, who is cooler than she'll ever know.

The Lucky Ones

by Kristen Elizabeth

Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted, but getting what you have. -Garrison Keillor
For most people, cleaning up the mess that resulted from two year-old learning how to finger-paint was a hassle that should be avoided at all costs.

But for Heather Kessler, it was nothing short of a joy.

As she gathered up the pink and purple-splattered newspapers that had protected her Queen Anne dining table during Alison's all-too-short visit, she smiled to herself. It hadn't been so very long ago that she'd been convinced she had no reason to smile ever again. Her daughter was gone; her granddaughter had been out of her reach. She'd given up on life.

But then, at her darkest moment, everything had changed. Jerome still had custody of Alison, her last, precious link to her beloved Zoë, but he'd had a change of heart regarding visitation. In only a few short weeks, she'd seen the little girl a dozen times.

The premiere dominatrix of Las Vegas had become a doting grandmother who finger-painted on a two thousand dollar table, had almost memorized the characters on Dora the Explorer, and was happier than she had been in years.

And she owed it all to one man.

Still smiling, Heather balled the newspapers up and walked into the kitchen to throw them away. The maid had left the small television that sat beside the refrigerator on, tuned to a telenovela. After disposing of the papers, Heather changed to the local 24-hour news station, and started stacking the dirty dishes from Alison's lunch and afternoon snack.

"…and discussion about possible troop withdrawal legislation was not on the governor's agenda. In other local news, the search continues for a Las Vegas criminalist who was abducted from a parking garage late last night."

Heather turned the water off, her heart skipping a beat.

"CSI Sara Sidle was discovered missing shortly after ten p.m. A county-wide search was immediately launched, however yesterday's unexpected rain showers drastically slowed rescue efforts. Although police have an unnamed suspect in custody, CSI Sidle's whereabouts remain unknown. A press conference was held earlier today at the LVPD crime lab, where senior CSI Gil Grissom made this plea to the public."

The moment his face filled her screen, she knew everything she needed to know about his relationship with the missing CSI…the same woman, she recalled, who had treated her with surprising respect in the hospital following her attempted suicide.

He was, to put it mildly, worn-down. His skin was ashen and drawn; he needed to shower, shave and probably eat something substantial. But it was his eyes that gave him away. Bloodshot and miserable…Gil Grissom was grieving, and not like a boss or a co-worker. She knew from painful experience that you only let yourself fall apart like that for the people closest to your heart.

On the screen, he cleared his throat, but it did nothing to improve the quality of his voice. "We're asking everyone in a four-state radius…please…if you're driving anywhere in the desert, be on the lookout for an overturned 2007 red Mustang. We have reason to believe she's…she's trapped underneath it." Gil swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing madly.

Unable to go on, he stepped away from the podium. His place was immediately taken by Detective Brass who finished for him. "Her name is Sara Sidle. She's been making this city safer for seven years. Now…she needs your help."

Heather put her hand to her mouth as a picture of the woman appeared on the screen. She looked a little younger in the photo than Heather remembered her from the hospital, but it definitely the same CSI who had processed her with such unexpected compassion. She hadn't really noticed it then, but there was something unconventionally, yet undeniably beautiful about her. Of course he would be attracted to that, conventionality not being interesting to man who spoke with such passion about cockroaches.

"If you have any information, please contact the Las Vegas Police Department, or this station," the reporter finished up. "After the break, we'll talk to weatherman Bob…"

She snapped the set off and left the dishes sitting in the sink as she ran for her car keys.

There were a few reporters camped out in front of the crime lab. They looked almost bored with their assignment, like a missing criminalist wasn't exciting enough for them. Heather brushed past them all, and they barely acknowledged her. In jeans and a button down shirt, without makeup and with her hair in a ponytail, no one ever saw the Lady.

The receptionist looked stressed and worried; she politely, but firmly informed Heather that CSI Grissom was unavailable at the moment.

"I'll wait," Heather told her. "Until he is available."

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry, but this is just not a good time for visitors to…" The girl was cut off by the phone ringing. "Crime lab, how can I help you?" she answered with a sigh. A moment passed. "I can't comment on that. No…no, I don't have any authority to give a statement about the Miniature Killer…"

When the receptionist looked away, Heather slipped past her, into the maze of corridors that made up Gil Grissom's world.

It wasn't hard to find his office; it was just around the corner from the front desk. The blinds were drawn tight and the plaque that bore his name and position as supervisor sat slightly ajar on the door. Even though she couldn't see a light at the threshold, Heather instinctively knew that he was inside.

She rapped lightly on the door, but only as a formality. After testing the knob and finding it unlocked, she stepped inside the darkened room.

"If you're not here with news, go away." He spoke without turning his chair around to see who it was; all she could make out was the grey top of his head over the back of the headrest.

After closing the door behind her, Heather walked towards him. Crumpled papers and broken glass strewed the floor, and she was glad she hadn't worn sandals. There were three full paper cups of coffee sitting on his desk, no doubt offerings from concerned co-workers that had gone ignored. She'd never been here, but she recognized the scent in the air.

Utter anguish mixed with complete helplessness.

She cleared her throat. "Grissom." His chair jerked a little, like he started to turn it around, but suddenly stopped himself. "I came as soon as I heard."

"You shouldn't have," he said after a moment. "People already think…and I don't want her to hear that you…" He let the thought fade away.

The words he'd spoken to her not so long ago came back to her. "What was I supposed to do?" Heather asked. "I'm your friend."

Grissom turned around slowly, and as he came into view, she could immediately tell that he'd deteriorated in the short time since the press conference. The bags under his eyes had grown deeper and darker. Upon seeing her, he half-heartedly raked his fingers through his unkempt hair like he was trying to make it presentable, but didn't care enough to put any real energy into it.

She slipped into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Has there been any news?"

At first, all he could do was shake his head. "Two dozen sightings of red Mustangs," he finally made himself reply. "Every single one of them intact and upright."

"I think she's lucky," Heather said after a few seconds passed. His eyes grew wide with indignant shock. "If I were lost…I'd want you on my case." She looked straight at him. "You always find what you're looking for."

Grissom didn't quite relax at hearing this, but he stopped staring at her like she'd just kicked a puppy. He shook his head. "I should be out there searching."

"Why aren't you?"

"They're worried I'll fly off the deep end." With a sigh, he added, "Probably not an unfounded fear."

Silence stretched between them until Heather asked something that had been weighing on her mind ever since she'd seen him on her television. "Have you always been in love with her?"

"Maybe." There was something in his hand. A rosary, she realized. He was rolling one pearly bead between his fingers. "I can't remember the time before her. Just…that there wasn't much to care about." He closed his eyes.

"Our attachments don't weaken us. They make us stronger. They give us something to live for."

"And when they're gone?" he asked, opening his now wet eyes. "When some psychotic Nazi butcher…or...or crazy, broken bitch takes them away from us? What do you do?"

"You don't do what I did." The corner of her lip turned up wryly. "Not that you would."

He slid the rosary through his fingers, bead by bead. It was a ritual that had once provided him comfort, she could tell. He was falling back on an old habit. "Why did you come here, Heather?"

"I'm not really sure. Maybe just because…" She smiled softly. "I liked her. She was kind to me. She thought I'd been violated, so she asked my permission before she moved my hair. Little things like that make an impression, and tell you so much about a person."

Grissom nodded listlessly. "That's my Sara."

Another minute ticked by. "When I invited you into my bed…was I taking you away from hers?"

"No," he answered emphatically and without hesitation. "Back then, she wasn't…I hadn't let myself…" He gave up trying to explain something that probably only made sense to him. "She has to be all right." Looking up at her, his eyes burned with unshed tears. "She knows me. And she still loves me."

Heather lowered her chin. "I always wondered what kind of woman would be the one to whom you wouldn't say 'stop'."

"Couldn't," he corrected her. "I couldn't stop her. She got in…and it's been…I've been happy."

"I can tell."

Grissom twisted the rosary around his index finger, pinching off the circulation to the point where his skin started turning purple. "We've been talking about having a baby."

This surprised her, but enough of the Lady remained for her to hide it from him. "You'd make a wonderful father."

"I don't know," he mused, releasing the beads. She was relieved to see his finger slowly go back to its natural color. "It could just be a sociobiological instinct to perpetuate my genes." He paused and she somehow managed to keep from laughing out right at his self-analysis. She was glad she did when he continued, "But I also really want to hold a child that Sara and I made together." A blush colored his cheeks when he realized he'd said all of that out loud. "Forgive me."

"Not necessary. You've certainly seen enough of my most vulnerable moments." Heather stood up and walked around the desk. Kneeling in front of him put her at his eye level. "Is there anything I can do? I have some money...would a privately-funded search operation have any more success?"

"I doubt it," Grissom replied wearily. "But thank you. It means a lot that you offered."

She put her hand on his knee, nothing sexual, just a warm reminder that he wasn't alone. "If I brought you coffee or something to eat, would I fare any better than those who've tried before me?"

He shrugged his slumped shoulders. Still holding the beaded strand, he covered her hand with his. "I'll be fine."

"I know." She placed her other hand on top of his, sandwiching his cold fingers. "So will Sa…"

The office door flew open, and a young man with mussed hair burst in. "Grissom! Someone's spotted…" He froze upon seeing them in what must have looked like such an intimate moment.

Grissom shot to his feet, forcing Heather to hers, as well. "Someone's spotted what, Greg?" he demanded.

The kid looked back and forth between them, and for the first time in a very long time, Heather felt a bit embarrassed. She was the stranger here, the element that didn't fit. The other woman.

"The car," Greg finally said. It wasn't Heather's imagination. His eyes narrowed a bit at her.

"Sara?" she heard Grissom ask, almost like he might jinx the whole thing if he dared to hope too much.

"I don't know." Greg's glare faltered at the mention of their missing friend's name. She couldn't help it…he was so easy to read. Sara Sidle was very important to him, too. "The call just came in for a wrecked Mustang, couple miles off I-15."

Grissom turned into a hurricane of frantic energy. "I have to…go. I need to…" He turned around, patting down his pockets. "My keys…"

Just then, Catherine Willows entered, looking almost flustered. "Brass is waiting out front. He'll drive," she told Grissom. When her gaze landed on Heather, her expression cooled a few degrees. "Just go…" He was already out the door. "…bring her back."

If Gil realized that he didn't say goodbye to her later, Heather was sure he would apologize for it. Right then, though, she couldn't hold his manners against him. He had larger concerns that her feelings. But she was surprised at how that still stung a little.

Once he was gone, it was just her and Grissom's CSIs.

"Greg," Catherine said, her eyes never leaving Heather. "Go get some coffee."

Subtle communication passed between Catherine and Greg, the product of years spent working together, relying on each other, defending one another. Within moments, they'd become a united front against her. It was fascinating and alienating and made Heather miss the young men and women she had recently let go; her strange little family, not too different from Grissom's.

"You got it," Greg replied, smoothly stepping back until he was out the door.

Now it was just the two of them. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Catherine. I'm just sorry we never seem to meet under better circumstances."

"Heather, I want you to know…I was rooting for you."

She hadn't lied to this woman years earlier…she did have the makings of a dominatrix. Part of that had to do with the fact that she wasn't easily read or anticipated. "Come again?" Heather had to ask, genuinely puzzled now. And a little intrigued.

"If I was going to hand-pick someone for Gil, you probably would have been my first choice." Catherine folded her arms over her expensive-looking blouse. "You might have been really good for him at one time."

Heather's frown relaxed into a cool brow arch. "But now?"

"Maybe you can't know this unless you work with him every day, but that man has exposed more of himself in the past 24 hours than he probably has to anyone in the past 24 years. It's freaky, I admit, but it's also exactly what he's needed for a very long time." She paused. "It's all because of one person. And it's not you."

"I'm afraid I'm not following."

Catherine smiled too sweetly. "I need to make it clear that even though there have been times when I haven't liked Sara all that much, we're still part of the same team. And if I have to defend what's hers when she's not around to do it herself, I will."

"Ah, I see." Heather nodded. "Loyalty is admirable. But let me assure you, I have no designs on your boss." She couldn't help but refer to Grissom as such, instinctively knowing that it would grate at the woman. "He's my friend, nothing more…nothing less."

"Good. Then as his friends, we understand each other."

"We do." Glancing down at the mess of files on Gil's desk, she caught sight of a photograph, half buried under some loose papers, and slid it out into the open with the tip of her index finger.

Someone had snapped the photo of Sara Sidle without her permission, apparently at a crime scene, given the fact that she was wearing her black vest and a pair of latex gloves. The sun was either going down or coming up; the auburn light had turned the woman's hair into molten gold. It softened her serious features, creating a beautiful picture of a subject who was obviously much beloved by the camera's operator.

"I stand by what I told Grissom," Heather said softly. "I think she's a very lucky woman."

When she walked out of the crime lab, the reporters were gone, presumably having chased after Grissom and Brass in pursuit of their story.

By the time she arrived home, there was breaking news on every channel. Heather put a kettle of water on the stove to boil, and sat down to watch the helicopter footage of Sara Sidle's rescue.

Heather decided to bring daisies to the hospital. Light and cheery and optimistic. They were flowers for a new beginning.

As she stood in front of the door the nurse had pointed out, she briefly wondered if her impulse to come here had been misguided. Would her presence be an intrusion? She had no desire to upset the woman inside, or upstage her in any way. Perhaps, Heather thought, she should give the flowers to the nurse and have her deliver them anonymously.

But she'd come all this way. It seemed silly to turn back. He had, after all, invited her.

She rapped on the door lightly and heard a muffled "Come in," a second later.

Grissom's back was to her when she entered, so Heather's attention immediately shot to the woman sitting up in bed. She looked tired and sore, but she was smiling. Heather was bolstered by the fact that her arrival didn't make that smile completely wilt.

Before she could think of anything to say, Grissom turned around, cradling his brand-new son against his chest. She almost stepped back at the sheer magnitude of his grin; she hadn't known until that moment that he was capable of putting so much emotion on display.

The baby was wide awake, looking around at the little bit of the world he could see. He was perfectly plump and pink, and had a cap of dark, wispy curls. She knew instantly that this child would never want for love. He would forever be as cherished as he was right then.

"He's beautiful," Heather murmured.

"Thank you." Sara had been watching her carefully up until that point; now, with that brief exchange, an understanding passed between them. It might have been as simple as the shared joy of motherhood. Or it might have been as complex as their different kinds of love for the man standing between them. Whatever it was, Heather no longer had doubts about her decision to come here.

Grissom looked up from the wonder in his arms and met her eyes. "Not bad for a sociobiological instinct, eh?"

She bit back a chuckle. "No. Not bad at all."

Sara raised an amused eyebrow. "I missed something, didn't I?"

"Later," Grissom promised his wife. He walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge, offering her the little boy. Sara took their son and began rocking him with easy, instinctual motions.

"I'm so very happy for you." The sentiment came out whispered; Heather couldn't seem to make her voice work right. "Both of you."

She only stayed for a few minutes longer, not wanting to wear out her welcome. When she left, she walked away with the image of an overjoyed new father, a man who was still intriguing even without his walls.

On the way home, her cell phone rang. It was Jerome, asking if she'd like to take Alison for the night while he went out of town on business.

Heather realized right then that having Gil Grissom in her life, even as just a friend, made her pretty damn lucky herself.

Fin