Special Note: I want to thank everyone who has read this story. This is my first time posting on FanFiction dot net; I have been welcomed. It takes a certain level of commitment to follow a WIP, and though this one is not long by those standards, it's long for me; many of you have taken extra time to share your thoughts with me. Thanks again for your attention and your time.
Acknowledgements: Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: aflaminghalo, csishewolf, cuttingrmflr, foxtoast, gabesaunt, phdelicious, slipofthepen, and the redoubtable dirtyvirgin.
Author's Note: Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before Rashomama. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, Alter Boys; Season 4 episode, Homebodies, and Season 5 episode, Hollywood Brass.
This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal.
CHAPTER 4
Grissom let himself into his hotel room and put his mother's gift for Sara on the dresser. He'd called her from the car; there was a Do Not Disturb block on her room phone, which he sincerely hoped meant she was sleeping.
Taking a few moments to check for messages, he listened to one from Detective Kramer asking for them to come down to make their statements and to please call with a time that was good for him, his mother, and Sara. Tomorrow would be OK. Let her know.
He was just opening the door to go over to Sara's room when he heard shouting. Listening a moment he realized it was Sara; she must be having a nightmare. He didn't even close his door, but went to hers and knocked.
"Sara, it's Grissom."
The same pleading and crying he'd heard on their trip to L.A. drifted through the walls. Putting his ear to the door, he knocked harder, "Sara…wake up…please, open the door."
Grissom's heart broke as the cries came louder. Pounding on the door with his good arm, he shouted, "Sara…Sara…open the door."
Suddenly…silence. Eventually the door was unlocked from the inside; Sara opened it a crack and peeked out, more relieved than she could say to see Grissom standing there. Wordlessly, she pulled the door open and gestured him in.
Her face was still a wreck from James's backhand, but she was pale beneath the bruises and her eyes were red from crying. She looked so forlorn, he couldn't help himself; he enclosed her in a one-armed embrace. Laying her head on his shoulder, she wrapped her arms around his waist and sighed.
They stood that way for a long time while something healing flowed between them. Finally Grissom said, "Was it very bad this time?" He felt her nod in reply.
As he held her, he realized she was trembling, "You told me your college roommate used to sit with you when you had these dreams…I got the feeling there was something else. What else did your roommate do, Sara?"
She looked up at him – haunted, eyes full of such pain and longing it took his breath. He could see she was trying to force out words but they wouldn't come.
Grissom thought about what Sara might have trouble asking of him and guessed at the answer. He led her to the bed, got her under the covers and sat next to her, holding her hand. "She held you, didn't she?"
Eyes widening in surprise, Sara nodded.
He paused for a moment, startled he didn't have a mental list of consequences to refute, which was good because he'd already made his decision and it had nothing to do with should or shouldn't and everything to do with what felt right. Releasing his sling, he laid it on the bedside table and toed off his shoes. "I've got a bum left arm so I have to lay on my right side."
She scooted over in the bed to give him room then allowed herself to relax into his chest. Every wish, every hope, every dream of comfort was fulfilled. Something broke loose in her – that part she had to lock up when the dreams came, the sorrow she didn't dare express, and the vulnerability she'd packed away years ago when her father died – and it burst forth right there in his arms. Tears came unbidden and soon she was sobbing.
Grissom had no idea why she was crying but chose to let her be, figuring she had a lot of unshed tears. He held her close and made soothing noises in his chest; eventually, her breathing slowed and she was quiet.
It's a curious thing – comfort works both ways. He would have been surprised to think holding someone else could soothe his own soul. The other evening on their way to dinner with his mom, he'd been right when he told her he was too much alone. Touching was not a part of his life, except through rubber gloves. Peace like the heat from a cozy fire spread through him and he closed his eyes.
Safe. Together. They slept.
>>>>>
Grissom, Anna and Sara went down to give their statements the next day, all of them surprised at how difficult it was to recount what had happened that night. Afterwards, Detective Kramer released them so they could go back to their lives – Anna to packing and moving; Grissom and Sara to life in Las Vegas and work at their own lab.
Sara stared out the window of the SUV as Grissom drove to their hotel so they could pack and check out. Neither knew quite what to say – about the night before or their cases or the prospect of re-entering their normal world.
Once they had gathered up their things, each sat on the edge of their respective beds wondering what to do next. They had survived something horrible and given one another comfort in the aftermath. How could they go back to what they were before? They couldn't and neither of them really wanted to, but they were afraid of the future. What they were to one another had never been agreed upon…no assumptions could be made.
Damaged people are reluctant to take risks, especially with a cherished idea or possibility. Every old loss is poised to exponentially swell the pain of a new one. As overwhelming as that might be if it happened, the fear of it is terrifying, so the wounded hang back – always on the precipice.
Usually.
There was a soft knock on the connecting door between rooms. Knowing who it was, Sara got up to answer it.
Grissom stood there looking tentative, "May I come in?"
She stepped back to let him in. He turned to face her.
"Sara…" He looked first at the floor, briefly at her, then at the photograph his mom had given her still propped on the dresser. "What are we doing?"
She looked at him, following his gaze to the photograph and waiting until he met her eyes again. "I don't know…but we're doing something, aren't we?"
He smiled a little at that. "I think…yes."
Sara smiled in return, "We could try to go back to the way it was…"
"Is that what you want, Sara?"
"No, I don't want that," she said firmly.
Letting out a breath, he said, "Good."
"So, what are we doing, Grissom?"
He studied the floor, then took her hand and searched her eyes. "Seeing what happens?" he said as he pulled her forward a bit. Sara came the rest of the way on her own. They stood very much as they had the previous evening: him holding her in a one-armed embrace, she with her head on his shoulder and her arms around his waist.
She sighed into his neck and whispered in his ear, "Good."
>>>>>
It was late afternoon when they neared Las Vegas. Grissom detoured to the southeast toward Henderson, saying only, "There's something I need to take care of…I won't be long."
Sara recognized the Kirkwood home, sad looking in its current state of neglect. Grissom glanced over at the house and took a deep breath. "Wait here."
He got out of the Denali, went up the walk and rang the bell. After a few moments, Michael Kirkwood answered the door. They stood there awhile – Grissom talking, Kirkwood listening. Then they shook hands and Grissom returned to the car.
Starting the engine, he paused for a moment and took her hand. "Let's go home."
Before she could speak, he answered the question in her eyes, "Any place you are."
EPILOGUE
Even before they started living together, they slept together, always. When the dreams came he stroked her hair and murmured that everything would be all right until she relaxed and surrendered to sleep once again. He had dark nights of the soul, too; nights when he dreamed of Jennings and James and what almost was, or some new horror at work. She'd wake with his side of the bed cold and empty, and she would find him sitting alone in the dark. Then she'd take his hand, lead him back to bed andslip inbehind him, whispering the same words of comfort in his ear until sleep took him.A new state entered their lives: rest. Whatever else they might be or become, they were for one another, a place to rest.
FIN
Author's Note Regarding the Ladybug Photograph Mentioned in WBTR: Steve Szabo was an amazing man, a gifted artist, and one of my mentors at The Corcoran School of Art. He was kind to me at a time when I was becoming an artist of the heart and it forever changed the direction my life was to take. He supported me in the process I wanted to follow with my own pictures and he shared his art and expertise with all of us in the Class of '90.
The photograph I mentioned is real, though it is slightly different than I describe it. If you have the opportunity, look at a copy of his book, "The Eastern Shore," as the ladybug image is part of that body of work. It is out of print now, but you do occasionally run up on one at a used book store...take my advice: pounce on it. Steve personally watched every print in that book come off the press.
The vagaries of this site prevent me from providing you with a clickable link to Steve's work, however, here is a way to get there:
Go to (note dashes in between words) masters-of-fine-art-photography dot com. Click on ENTER, then click on OPEN THE BOOK. You will see what looks to be a book open on the screen. Click on MASTERS OF FINE ART PHOTOGRAPHY. When the new screen appears, click on STEVE SZABO. This will take you to a very nice portfolio of his work from "The Eastern Shore."
As wonderful as it is to be able to see fine photographic images online, please understand that nothing can replace the experience of seeing a fine photograph in person, particularly large format ones like these. I hope you enjoy the subtle tones and composition in Steve's imagery. I am beyond sad that he was taken so early.