Disclaimer: Not mine.
Chapter Two: Greg and Grissom
Sara sighed as she logged in evidence and distributed it to the respective labs to be processed. She was always over-talking around Grissom. She had simply wanted to converse with him—wanted to feel close to him again, and then she was spouting off about her troubled childhood to the only person in her adult life who knew and she'd made him uncomfortable. She wouldn't want to keep talking to herself either. She didn't know why he had this effect on her… It had been that way ever since they'd met. He'd been a speaker at a forensic anthropology conference, and she'd been getting her masters at Berkley. Of course she had attended—he had been one of the biggest names in forensics… hell, he was even more respected now than he was then. Their lab was one of the best in the country and he had been instrumental in that achievement.
What she had not expected was to be enthralled by the man behind the science—the articulation in his voice, which came soft and slow and deliberate—the unruly curls like a salt and pepper halo, framing the most breathtaking eyes she had ever seen. They were so expressive… and the way he spoke filled her up in a way she had never been filled before. She hadn't felt empty for the first time she could remember in almost an entire lifetime, just with his voice and his logic and his unerring devotion to justice and the evidence and the inevitability of the science winning out. If she had ever questioned her career of choice prior to that moment, such a thing no longer registered. How could she do anything else with such beautiful truths swirling around inside her, and enticing her to be better than she was?
She had wanted to ask him out—she'd gone up when he had finished speaking with the premise of asking a question, hoping a conversation would develop naturally and she could work up the courage to ask him to dinner. Even at the time, she realized she was likely to be disappointed—why would the famous Gil Grissom go out to dinner with someone still several months from graduating and entering the field? But she talked herself up while waiting for others to finish speaking to him—she was younger than him, which ought to add to her appeal, right? She had never viewed herself as particularly pretty, but she had been pursued a great deal since coming to college, and this convinced her that there was something desirable about her, even if she couldn't see it.
She had taken a deep breath and approached him, the anthropology question falling from her lips with more ease than she could have expected. It had been easy to talk to him… but the nerves didn't die, and so she asked follow-up questions and referenced some of the more famous cases he had worked on, not wanting to let him know she knew every detail of many more obscure ones—when she had done the research, it had been in an attempt to prepare herself to get the full experience from his lecture, but now that they were face-to-face, it felt like it would be too telling; he would see how badly she wanted him. He had seemed interested…enthralled, really, in their conversation and she felt herself relaxing. She mentioned cases she'd worked on or observed and he opined on them, adding so much more insight than the people she had worked with had been able to glean from the evidence. He was so inspiring! And, relaxed now, she asked to keep in touch with him—leaning over to write her name on the conference pamphlet in his hand, followed by a phone number and an email address.
He had smiled an amazing smile and she felt his intensely blue eyes pierce her with something stronger than she'd ever been witness to. The dinner invitation was at her lips when they were interrupted—an older woman, closer to his age, approached, grasping his shoulder a little too comfortably. She was older than Sara, but she didn't look worse for it—she had a shapelier figure, long blonde hair, and much lighter brown eyes than Sara's…they were golden honey and brown sugar.
He turned to acknowledge her, and Sara lost her nerve, taking in all that she must be up against. How much a child she must seem to him—much younger than the average grad student—and nowhere near being the kind of woman he must be used to. Grissom had turned back to Sara, and she had smiled and admirably shook his hand, thanking him for speaking with her and agreeing to keep in touch…professionally. He had smiled—a little too knowingly—and told her she didn't need to keep calling him 'Dr. Grissom.'
She had looked at a loss, not sure what to call him, and he had laughed. It was a deep and contented laugh, no mocking implied. "Just Grissom is fine. It's what everyone calls me… I'll talk to you later…Sara. It was really nice to meet you."
He had seemed very sincere, and she had walked away slowly, replaying every nuance in his words over in her mind when she heard the blonde speak again. "Here's your coffee, Dr. Grissom. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
He shook his head. "No, thank you. It was an honor just to be invited to speak."
She turned in alarm, realizing too late that the woman must work for the committee who found speakers for the conference. But he was already moving out of the hall, a myriad of people blocking the path between them.
She had lost her chance.
With a deep sigh, she brought herself back to the present. No, she'd always been more open with this man than anyone else…even before he'd asked her to come to Las Vegas to help him—a CSI had died, and he wanted someone outside the lab who he trusted to investigate. Of course she had come—how could she not? And then she'd been offered a job…at one of the best labs in the country, working under the most brilliant man she had ever known. The right corner of her mouth pulled up sadly—how could she have refused such an offer? It was a dream job, but she had now spent years longing for a man who wasn't interested or, on the rare occasions that he had seemed interested, had too much to lose and too little to gain.
She jumped when Greg put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Sara, you okay? You seem like you're somewhere else."
She immediately smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. He wasn't fooled, and she knew he wasn't, but neither commented on that. "No, just a little tired. You should hook me up with some… Blue Hawaiian."
He put on a face of shock. "How do you know about that?"
A real smile rose to her lips at his playful banter. "You know you can't hide anything from me…"
He chuckled. "I'll share…I'll even go brew you a fresh cup…for a price."
His eyes flashed but she did not seem as alarmed by his demands as he intended her to be. She leaned up, without hesitation, and kissed his cheek gently. "Thanks, Greggo. You're my hero."
He rolled his eyes and exaggeratedly slumped his shoulders and stomped from the room and she giggled. If it weren't for her lab family, she didn't know what she would have done. She had moved to Vegas for a man who couldn't love her. At least she had found some other companionship in the desert.
He returned five minutes later, carrying the mug like a large, precious jewel and set it ever-so gently on the table in front of her.
"Thanks Greg," She said, reaching for it, but his hand remained over the top of the mug, holding it in place. She looked up at him, confused, and he was gently tapping his other cheek expectantly. She giggled and kissed it willingly, pulling away before he'd gotten the chance to turn his head and change the playful atmosphere she treasured. His eyes narrowed as she outsmarted him, sipping smugly, but he couldn't stay mad at her.
"What're you working on?"
"Eighteen year old girl was murdered in her apartment…"
"Who called it in?"
"Her mother. She came over to drop off some things the girl had left at home when she moved and add a few groceries to the girl's cupboards. She said she'd talked to her daughter…four, five hours before our TOD."
Greg sat down beside her, looking at the file in front of her. "First Witness—First Suspect. Do you think she did it?"
She gave a wry smile. "I dunno. We'll see what the evidence says… speaking of, don't you have DNA to be processing?"
He gave her a wounded look and put a hand to his heart. She just raised an eyebrow.
"I'm on break. Give me some credit."
She had smiled, nudging his shoulder with her own, and then the smile faded. "Oh, Greg, go relax on your break, make some food… you shouldn't be making me coffee or—"
He interrupted her. "Trust me, I am enjoying my break." He swung an arm over her shoulders. "I'm with my best girl."
She laughed. "I think I'm your only girl…and I'm not even really…"
"Where are we?" Grissom's voice came from behind the pair, and she jumped, Greg's arm sliding off her immediately. She turned to look at him standing in the doorway behind her, feeling guilty—like she'd been caught cheating. He looked at her kind of like she had been, too.
"I, uh, was just going over our findings in more depth until some of our results came in…trace is swamped right now, and you were down with the body…"
His eyes took in the guilty look on her face and then turned to Greg. "Trace might not be so swamped if DNA had someone to spare…"
His voice squeaked when he responded, but he stood up for himself. "I'm… I'm on break, Grissom. OSHA and all that…"
Grissom paused, his lips pursed. "Well, you shouldn't be distracting Sara then…" Sara blushed and Greg flashed her an apologetic look as he quickly left the room. Grissom did not acknowledge her blush as he moved closer, taking the seat that Greg had vacated. "Anything standing out?"
She took a deep breath. "Her age…"
He set a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him in alarm, the tension between them tangible once more—it always was, if they were close. "You can't get personally attached to every victim, Sara. I don't want you to burn out… I don't want you feeling guilty."
She had met his intensely blue gaze while he spoke, but in the silence that followed, her eyes flickered back and forth between them and his lips—they looked soft. He gave away his mutual involvement in the tense moment by unconsciously licking his lips, maddeningly aware of her attention there. He swallowed hard, sitting back in the chair and removing his hand from her shoulder before he did something they would both regret. "…Let me know if you find anything…" He muttered, trying to block out the poorly-hidden look of surprise and hurt that had raced across her features when he broke the moment.
She nodded. He left the room, and she struggled to focus again—if there was anything that could rival how she felt about the man who had just left her, it was the job she was presently neglecting. So she buried herself in evidence, taking the results from the different labs into a layout room and trying to connect the dots.
She hadn't left yet when Grissom knocked on the door to the layout room and told her that shift had ended over an hour ago. She half-smiled, sheepish, telling him that she knew but—"Go home, Sara," had been his response. So she reluctantly sealed all her evidence and put it away, making her way out to her car slowly. He was right behind her, passing in front of her little silver car to move to his SUV. She had the urge to ask him to get breakfast…since they'd both stayed so long after shift… but the thought dragged in her throat, and by the time it reached her lips, he was in his vehicle.
She drove home, not truly realizing how tired she had been until she unlocked the door and took off her shoes. The carpet felt good on her feet as she padded into the living room and flicked on her television. It was already on her favorite news channel, so she tossed the remote to the couch and made her way into her little kitchen, listening to the news anchor reel off the horrors of the day. She made a bowl of cereal and poured herself a glass of apple juice before seating herself on the couch and changing the channel. She'd had enough bad news for one night. She managed to find a morning show that wasn't completely mind-numbing, and ate quickly, feeling the exhaustion of a long night creeping into her eyes and limbs. She swallowed the last drops of juice, put her dishes in the dishwasher, and clicked off the TV.
Even though she was exhausted, she made herself shower before bed. She hated the idea that she was carrying the crime scenes into her home with her, but she wouldn't let them into her bed. Once clean, she curled up under a white comforter and fell immediately to sleep, despite her wet hair. She awoke in surprise to a knocking on her door—having fallen asleep in only a tank top and underwear, she scrambled into pajama pants, looking frantically at the clock, worried she was late.
It was only three in the afternoon…she still had hours to sleep. She was suddenly very upset at whoever continued to pound at the door—her sleep had been dreamless, and it was rare to get rest without the nightmares. She stomped over, her hair still damp and in messy curls that she had to straighten out daily. She swung the door open angrily—and felt the anger fall out of her at a great speed. Grissom stood in her doorway.
