I walk around the whole next day
Feeling like I still
got something to say
I don't know what
it is
And I don't know
how to reach you even if I did
Do I want to hear
that you forgive me?
Do I want to hear
that you're no good without me?
And am I big enough
to hear it
That you never even
think about me?
Why should you ever think about me?
-Everything
but the Girl
The first week after Sara moved out was torturous for Catherine; where once she was the object of warm smiles and 'accidental' touches in the break room, now Sara seemed to look straight through her if they happened to be in the same room, which didn't happen very often. Worse, she had to suffer in silence and alone. Nobody had known about their affair, even though Sara had basically been living with Catherine for the last two months, and as much as she wanted to confide in someone, she knew that it wouldn't be fair to Sara to expose their relationship.
Nor did she want to try to explain to any of their colleagues about the passionate, complicated, crazy, troubled relationship or the reasons for its demise. And she suffered alone, because when she saw Sara, it was obvious that the brunette was not feeling the same agony of separation. Sara looked remarkably put together every time she came into work, earning the praises of Greg and even, once, a whispered 'damn' from Warrick for a particularly nice suit and low-cut blouse that, had they still been together, Catherine would have shredded by the end of shift.
But that agony, Catherine realized, was nothing compared to the next week, after Grissom's startling announcement that Sara had taken the next week off 'for personal reasons.' Because at least when Sara was ignoring her at work, Catherine could at least watch her from a distance and notice when a case stressed her out or whether she ate during shift. Several times she even picked up her phone to call before realizing that that interaction was denied her as well.
After two exhausting weeks of watching, waiting, and wishing, Catherine collapsed into her bed not long after Lindsey, determined to get a good night's sleep. She was woken a short time later by an odd yet familiar sound. Lying absolutely still and straining to identify the sounds, Catherine finally put a name to the sound: Sara. It was the sound of Sara moving quietly through the house, taking off her work boots and slipping them in the closet, tip-toeing up the stairs and avoiding that one squeaky step, and, at last, sliding through the merest crack of the bedroom door.
Catherine didn't believe it was actually her, was sure it was a dream or mirage or wistful thinking, until a weight settled in on the other side of the bed, Sara's side of the bed. Better able to trust the fear than the hope that she felt, Catherine kept her back turned and her tone was harsh as she broke the silence, "It's been two weeks, Sara."
"I've been thinking about what you said," came her quiet, thoughtful reply.
Catherine recognized the tone in her voice, it was the low, contemplative tone she used to tell bad news to victims, to reason with Lindsey when she was being unreasonable, to talk Catherine out of a blind rage, the one that meant she was choosing her words carefully and thinking about every one she said. So Catherine let the long silence stretch because she knew Sara was preparing herself for something, even though the silence made her more and more nervous. And when Sara finally began to speak, Catherine kept quiet, even though the questions she wanted to ask bubbled up and threatened to overwhelm her at times.
Sara's recitation was monotone, quiet, barely above a whisper, and Catherine strained to hear every word. "In foster care, you don't make waves. If you talk too much or act emotional or want too much attention, you go back to the group home faster. You learn fast that the people who take you in don't want problems or emotional attachments. They want well-behaved children and a check at the end of every month. And you, you don't want the group home, because at least with a family, you can pretend."
"The kids, they all had their own stories, you could see it in their eyes, but nobody wanted to share the humiliations. The stories were all variations on a theme anyway. So you stayed quiet, kept your head down, and hoped against all hope that someone would want to keep you, make you part of their family, make you safe and loved."
She drew a shuddering breath, and finished the thought, "And even if that happened, you couldn't trust it, because you had had a family before all the judges and courts and advocates and that hadn't lasted either."
Catherine had slowly rolled over as Sara spoke, to see her framed by the thin glow from the streetlight, her hunched shoulders as Sara sat with her back to the other on the bed, fingers steepled between her knees. Sara had paused, seemingly find the words or the strength to continue, and Catherine swung herself around and wrapped her arms around Sara's waist, her legs on either side of Sara's. For a long moment, Sara sat, as unresponsive a marble statue, unmoving and stiff, but finally one cold hand covered Catherine's warm one, and they linked their fingers against Sara's stomach.
"When I was ten, my mother stabbed my father to death. It was 1979, before The Burning Bed and widespread interest in the concept of spousal abuse. Back then, it was a domestic dispute, or as the cops who used to come to our houses used to call it, 'an argument.' They'd ignore the bruises and the blood and tell my parents to stop arguing because it was disturbing the neighbors and that if they had to come back again, they'd arrest them both. And then my father would beat my mother, sometimes until she was unconscious, for making him look bad."
"Then one night, after the cops left, she got to a knife before he got to her." Sara's fingers tightened their hold on Catherine's hand then, and Catherine risked a light kiss on her neck. "It all came out in trial and she got a lighter sentence, manslaughter, instead of murder. Served the minimum and I was only fifteen when she got out, but I was never returned to her care. She was never quite right after that night. She died when I was Harvard and I never even arranged a funeral."
Catherine felt Sara draw in a deep, shaky breath and continue on a different topic. "I'm not saying I forgive you, but I think I understand. I can never be what you want and what you need." Sara started to pull her hand away, maybe to stand, but Catherine tightened her hold and kept the slim body tight against hers. "I can't, I just can't, I'm sorry…"
Sara's body was shaking, not with tears, but from reaction to what had obviously been her own emotional journey of the past two weeks, and Catherine spoke at last, whispered words against the chilled skin. "What I want is you. What I need is you. And you can. I know you can, even if you don't know yourself." She felt Sara shake her head, trying to deny the possibility of another way, of her way, of their way together. "Trust me. We'll figure it out." She punctuated her words with light kisses and a death grip around Sara's waist.
"I should go," Sara said after another one of her long pauses.
"Stay," Catherine commanded gently, "sleep." Knowing Sara had come here to come back, to try again, but was about to protest anyway, she played the one card she knew would reach her. "I'll sleep better if you are here. And Lindsey will be happy to see you in the morning."
With her nod of acquiescence, Catherine drew the still-shaking body down to the bed and held tight until the shaking subsided. Into the quiet, she said, "I love you." After a pause, there was a quiet reply: "I love you too."
fin
