i)
It really isn't such a bad birthday.
She'd had worse.
Grissom had woken her up with lunch in bed. They'd had time for a quickie.
There's no more love.
It's emotionless, cold, mechanic.
It's Grissom.
Catherine had given her a spa voucher; Warrick had pre-ordered the latest Forensic Journal for her, and Nick had presented her with a bottle of her favourite perfume. Even Hodges had done something to make her smile, promising to put her on top of his list for Trace for a whole week.
My makeshift family.
Wait. What about Greg?
He was sitting on the other side of the room, paying no attention to the birthday wishes, sipping a Dixie cupful of water and reading the newspaper.
Dixie cups should make him their spokesmodel.
Had he forgotten her birthday?
Impossible. He teased me all last week about it. Even came up with his own parody about it.
She had had to slap him on the arm to shut him up.
I can't help it. I like the feeling of his skin against mine.
Stop.
Rewind.
Pause.
Is it wrong to think of him in that way?
Yes. You have a live-in lover now.
Can I help it if I never need the things that I want?
"Sara. You're with Catherine."
It's a body dump on Fremont. That's going to take all day.
"Greg. Solo case: bloater down at Lake Mead. Brass will meet you there."
Damn.
"Ready?"
Greg waves goodbye to the others and heads in the direction of the locker room.
"Uh. Cath? I… Need to get my kit. It's… In the locker room."
Five minutes. That's how long Greg takes to gear up.
I can make it.
"I thought it was in my Denali. In the parking lot."
Four.
"Um. Well. I need… More swabs. Meet you outside!"
I slow down before entering the room.
God, I hope I look all right.
"Hey."
My mouth is dry.
"Hey."
His smile melts me faster than the hot Vegas sun.
"So. Bloater."
We worked on one before. Do you remember?
It was a Monday. Rural part of Vegas. Kid, about eighteen, supposedly drowned in his own bathtub.
You pointed out a knife. Helped me bag it.
Our fingers brushed.
Do you remember?
"Huh. My lucky day."
Three minutes.
"Well… Good luck."
Smart, Sidle.
"You, too."
Two minutes.
"Um…"
Where do you begin when there's so much to be said?
"See ya later, Sidle."
I shiver as he winks and punches my shoulder.
He walks out the door.
And I'm left in the dimly lit jaws of defeat.
One minute.
ii)
She's worked three shifts in a row.
My birthday has passed.
She's tired.
Thirty-six candles, extinguished.
She heads to the locker room.
I wonder how long one lives.
Do we die regretting?
Will I die happy?
Will I be with the one I need, and not want?
He's in the locker room.
I slow down before I enter it.
God. I hope I look all right.
"Sara."
I like the way his mouth tilts to the left. His kind of smile.
"Sanders."
I like the way his name rolls off my tongue so easily, like it's an old line from a fairytale I read before.
"How's it going?"
I like how he doesn't bother to dry his hair after a shower.
"Great. This has been one of my best birthdays."
I like the obsessive-compulsive way he ties his shoelaces; right loop, left loop, right knotted over left. Tug, tug.
"Yeah. Happy belated birthday."
I like the way he gets up. Always with both hands pushing him off the seat with a gentle grunt.
"Thanks."
I like how he opens his locker. Left thirty-two, right nine, right fifteen. His lock squeaks out a catchy little tune.
"Here. This is for, um. You."
I like the way he fumbles and blushes, stowing his hands in his pants' pockets.
It's a tiny white box.
Crammed inside is a green glass star, one-third the size of her palm.
"I made it in this art workshop. I know it's not beautiful or whatever…"
I like the way he squirms when he's embarrassed.
She smiles and glances up.
I like the way he looks so intensely at something with those cinnamon eyes.
I love the way he looks at me.
Brown into brown.
"It's perfect."
iii)
She had managed to drill a hole through a point.
She wanted it to be a pendant.
"That's… an unusual necklace," Catherine commented while looking through crime scene photos.
I smile.
"Thanks."
iv)
She watches Greg watching her while they're dusting for prints.
The glass star dangles from her neck, reflecting the beam of flashlight that is Grissom's.
His eyebrows tighten, lips purse up.
He walks pass them without an acknowledgement.
You can't stand the fact that I wear it everyday, to and from work, never taking it off.
She likes how cool the glass feels against her damp skin in the shower.
How Grissom has to struggle inside while quietly observing from a corner.
How Greg has to turn away to hide a smile whenever it dangles out from under her shirt.
You feel threatened.
And somehow, she likes him feeling that way.
v)
"Why isn't there a medic on Greg?"
"He's been stabilized. Sara, he's going to be okay."
Oh, God.
Greg.
She kneels beside him quickly; she can't believe he's still alive, after being so badly beaten up.
"Sara…"
I swallow a gasp.
"I didn't think you could see me."
I'm so close to him I can smell his aftershave.
"I can't. But I know that Sidle scent."
I smile.
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
I look at him sadly.
He's so bruised.
So broken.
"I scratched one of them. And you should check my vest. I think the same guy s-spit on me."
He can hardly get the words out.
I turn away so he can't hear me sniff.
"And one of their cars crashed into the Denali. I guarantee there's transfer on it."
I didn't realise I was stroking his hair, or holding his hand.
"You should process the scene now. Me later."
I slip the glass star off my neck and place it in his palm. Familiar to his touch, his fingers wrap around it instinctively.
"I came here for you, Greg."
Maybe it's my imagination, but he squeezes my hand hard, just once, before a smile flickers across his face.
And she continues to run flesh through brown.
vi)
She feels like she's on a balance.
One wrong step, and I'll fall off the scale.
She remembers calling her name.
Natalie! Natalie!
She remembers headlights.
The roar of an engine.
Then… Wet.
She remembers rain.
She remembers choking on the sludge.
Something in the monsoons and mud catches her attention.
No, it's not Death.
Her star winks at her from her right.
That damn girl.
She twists herself under the damned vehicle so her right arm sticks out from underneath the wreckage.
Come on, come on…
It's coming down really hard now.
She nearly cries out in frustration as she claws the slushy soil around her.
I can't reach it.
Try.
I can't. It's too far.
She dissolves into tears.
I die under a car, drowning in rain and bleeding on the inside.
I die in a suffocating relationship with a man I want but don't need.
Raindrops slide down its smooth surface. All that glisters is not gold.
I die not reaching the pendant.
I die not knowing what it's like to give love and never expect anything in return.
She doesn't stop clawing.
I die when I'm thirty-six.
She stretches out a bit farther.
I die loving but never having Greg.
She feels something smooth and familiar. Instinctively, she tightens her hold on it.
You know what?
Next time, Death.
Next time.
And now she finally knows what it's like to fight for her life.
For love.
For hope.
viii)
It was my birthday. Do you remember?
It was a Thursday morning. In the locker room.
You handed me a tiny white box. Inside was a glass star you made yourself.
I made it into a pendant. You liked how it was always so close to me.
Maybe one day we'll be like that too.
It was cloudy. Do you remember?
You were down, but not out. You recognized my scent.
I knelt beside you. Gave you the star to hold.
It gave you comfort.
It was raining. Do you remember?
You were the one who found me. In all that dirt, clutching a green glass star smeared with dirt and my blood.
You held me until all the medics came. You followed me to the hospital. You never let go of my hand.
You told me you love me.
Do you remember?