"Greg's gone?" Sara asked, her eyes lingering on the door as Grissom shut it.
"Yes," he replied, his tone a little clipped. He'd obviously spent some time regrouping outside; he looked calmer, a small apologetic smile curling the corner of his mouth as he turned toward her. Yet, she could tell from the vicelike grip he had on the bag that his composure was just a front.
She watched him closely while he approached, waiting with narrowed eyes for him to volunteer an explanation for his reaction earlier. When none came she heaved a sigh, her eyes lowering to his chest as he gently took the second bud out of her ear before slowly winding the cord round the iPod.
What had Greg possibly done that had rattled him like that?
Instinctively she knew that his apparent hostility toward Greg wasn't borne out of jealousy, even if the young CSI had a crush on her. She also knew that Grissom wasn't mad at her for returning Greg's affection. After her initial shock at finding a stranger in her room she had felt a connection with Greg, a deep friendship almost akin to brotherly love. Well, she thought with bitterness as her brother's face popped into her mind, close to the definition of brotherly love one might find in a dictionary anyway.
She doubted too that it was Greg's visiting outside hours that had caused the tension. So, it only left the gift, the iPod. But why?
"You're mad at him," she said at last, meeting his eye. "Why?"
He paused, a frown furrowing his brow while he processed her words. Lifting his shoulder in reply, he reached across and brushed his thumb over a teardrop caught in the corner of her eye.
"Don't," she said, turning her face away from his touch, but he kept his hand there nevertheless. Damn tears! she thought, blinking. Why couldn't she keep a lid on her emotion? She felt so overwhelmed, so touched and moved all of the time. This Sara she didn't remember seemed to have so much love and affection in her life, and friends, a boyfriend, people who cared dearly about her and wanted to make her happy. She'd never really had any of thatbefore in her life, and it left her…disconcerted.
Grissom's long sigh drew her out of her thoughts. "You're mad," he stated quietly, slowly drawing his hand back from her face.
She brought her gaze back to his and nodded. "Greg's my friend," she said. "He came to see me; he gave me the pod."
"The pod?" Grissom repeated, frowning in puzzlement. Sara's eyes flicked down to his hand. "Oh, the iPod," he amended, dropping her gaze.
She knew the iPod held the key. If the iPod was the new Walkman she'd have to have been listening to it when she went running with Hank the day of the accident. She always listened to music when she ran. Maybe that's why he'd reacted the way he had. Maybe he didn't want her to have it, in case it brought back memories of the accident. But surely that had to be a good thing, right? Wouldn't she be able to remember the last eight years of her life then?
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to keep it," he said quietly after a moment, validating her thoughts.
"Why not?" she challenged, determined to find out the truth.
He looked up from the iPod in his hand and shrugged. "I'm not sure it's recommended…in your condition," he said hesitantly.
Sara's gaze narrowed suspiciously. "Please, stop trying to protect me."
"I can't help it, Sara," he smiled sadly after a short pause. "I'm sorry."
"I want to keep the iPod," she said resolutely. "I love music. I miss it."
Pain filled Grissom's features and he brought his hand back to her face, cupping her cheek. She could see the dilemma in his eyes; either he told her the truth about the iPod, or he let her have it. "Okay," he said with a soft smile, "You can keep it. But you have to promise me that you won't listen to it for too long at a time."
Sara's heart sank. He wasn't ready to tell her, and frustratingly she would have to wait until he was. They watched each other silently for a moment and then Sara said, "Don't be mad at Greg, please. He meant well."
Grissom's eyes narrowed while he deciphered her words and then he shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping. "You always take his side," he said, looking back over his shoulder to sit on the chair Greg had vacated. He reached down to his leg and rubbed it.
"You okay?" she asked. "Is it your leg?"
"Don't worry about me," he replied easily. "I'm fine. I've just been on my feet too long. I went into town before I came. I had a few errands to run."
"You shaved."
His face lit up and he winked, and Sara knew that somewhere in that wink was a story she didn't recall. Her smile wavered, her eyes dropping to her lap as they lapsed into silence.
"You'll have to apologise," she said after a moment, looking up.
His brow shot up and he refocused his thoughts on her. "I have," he said. A strange smile suddenly appeared on his lips as he added, "And I have just the thing." He picked up the bag from the floor, placed it on the edge of the bed and unzipped it, removing a small potted plant. He took a moment to straighten the leaves, his smile broadening as he thrust it out to her in peace offering. "I'm sorry."
Sara frowned in puzzlement, her eyes flicking to the plant and then back to his. He'd obviously misunderstood her words. "Not to me. Greg," she said, laughing.
"Oh." Glancing at the plant in his hand Grissom lifted a shoulder, then sighed and gave her a reluctant nod. "You don't like it?" he asked after a moment, watching her expectantly.
"I love it. Thank you," she said but she knew from the slight pursing of his face and the questions in his eyes that that wasn't the answer he was expecting. She realised then that the plant too held a symbolism she hadn't acknowledged. Her heart filled with sadness. Letting an inward sigh of frustration she added hesitantly, "African violet, my favourite."
"I know," he said quietly, his blue eyes staring at her intently. He flashed a sad smile, then shook himself out of his thoughts and leaned over, soft lips brushing against hers as he whispered, "I'm sorry, and I'll apologise to Greg."
Sara strained forward, her lips meeting his for a more forceful, more intimate kiss than his gentle stroke of lips. Her heart began a little drumming dance, dissipating her lingering melancholy.
When he pulled back his lips twitched with a smile. "Are you trying to get me into trouble?"
"Trouble?" she repeated, a brow arching.
He screwed his face at her, but his eyes twinkled with mirth, and she laughed. A wide pleasurable smile on his lips he gazed at her for a long moment before leaning over for another kiss. Gasping in surprise, Sara closed her eyes at the surge of love and desire that coursed through her. Was it all in her mind? Or did she really feel the tingling in the pit of her stomach? His kiss, this time, was everything the previous one wasn't. Tentative and gentle a first, it soon became passionate and hungry, and when breathless he pulled back he looked almost...surprised.
Sara blinked, tears she was fighting hard to control prickling the back of her eyes. She was happy, yet there was a lingering sadness in her heart. What if she wasn't enough for him anymore? She watched him for answers and he stared back at her, the soft smile never leaving his lips. "Don't you even think it," his eyes were telling her. "Don't you ever doubt it. None of this can ever change the way I feel about you."
"I thought it'd brighten the place up a little, you know?" he said suddenly nodding toward the plant on the bed. "I got a couple more things too." He reached into the bag again, took out an old faded T-shirt and unfolding it pulled the picture of the two of them in San Francisco.
Her face instantly lit up with a bright smile of recognition and she stared, stunned and wide-eyed, at the picture he was holding toward her for a long moment before looking up from it with surprise.
Looking pleased with himself, he gave her a soft loving smile and a shrug. "I had a copy of it made," he said, visibly pre-empting her next question. "I'm afraid your original took quite a battering. It's…it's carried me through the worst…" His words faltered and he shook his head, his smile becoming uneasy and pinched. He shrugged again. "It's sitting by my bedside at Catherine's."
She nodded. "You're not home?"
He shook his head softly. "Catherine insisted and it's easier that way. I can help her out a little with Lindsey while she covers for me at work." A frown of puzzlement formed at the mention of Lindsey and Sara averted her eyes back to the picture. "And Hank seems to like it there," he added quietly.
"How is he?" she asked, looking up.
"Hank? He's good. A little sad. Missing you."
"Bring him in."
A smile broke across his face. "You're really intent on getting me into trouble, aren't you?" He glanced down at the picture, adding, "I had it framed this morning."
Sara followed his gaze. The picture had been taken on his last day in San Francisco back in 1998 and she'd kept the only copy. It was the only real memory she had of him, of the two of them together until two weeks ago. Eight years of a shared life, eight years of common memories and she had no recollections of them. How could she not remember any of it? Why wasn't any of this triggering her memory?
"What is it, Sara?" he asked. Soft fingers moved under her chin, gently coaxing her head up and round. "Sara, honey? You don't like it?"
How could she ask him without revealing her amnesia for a more recent photograph? One where she would be able to see what she looked like now.
Suddenly looking very guilty he pinched his lips uneasily and ran a shaky hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I know what you're thinking. I…I found it in the shoebox you keep in the back of the closet in your apartment."
Sara frowned at the mention of an apartment and looked down to the ring on her finger. Weren't they living together?
"I wasn't prying," he continued earnestly, and she refocused on him, "I was just looking for an address for your mother."
And he had found one among her things? Sara pondered his words for a moment. Was it possible that she'd been in contact with her mother in the last eight years? And what about Matthew, her brother. Had she been in touch with him too?
"Talking about your mother," he added, breaking the lengthy silence, "She should be arriving late afternoon."
Sara's face closed off and she sighed, turning away. Her mother's presence at her bedside made Sara very tense and edgy and every time the older woman had visited her at St Mary's she would pretend to be tired and sleepy. Yet, both Grissom and Jim seemed to trust her and hold her in high esteem. There was an undeniable bond between the three of them that Sara didn't understand and which left her very uneasy.
"I know how you feel about her," he went on as if reading her thoughts, "but I think it's time you gave her a chance to make amends. She wants to be there for you. She wants to help you."
Sara's head whipped round, her eyes darkened and narrowed, and lifting a small shoulder at what he'd just said, he picked up the plant and photograph before turning away to place them on the table. The CSI Barbie doll caught his eye and before she could voice her thoughts on her mother, he said, "What's this?" Picking up the doll he studied it and turned it round in his hand.
Typical diversion tactics, she thought. "It's me," she replied, watching his face closely. The look of pain that flashed across his eyes gave her pause. The doll reminded him of the old Sara. The one he knew and loved, the one she didn't remember and most probably would never be again. All thoughts of her mother went out of her mind. "Greg brought it me," she added cheerfully, wanting to dissipate his sorrow. "It's a gift from the lab. Lodges made it. Press the chest."
Blinking, Grissom refocused his frown onto her.
Thinking he hadn't understood what she'd said Sara took a breath and repeated slowly, "Press her chest."
Despite his lingering sadness Grissom burst out laughing. "You want me to press your chest?" He put his index finger between the doll's breasts. "Like this?"
Sara giggled at the look on his face as he pressed down and the labrats' voices, loud and cheerful, filled the silence. The smile immediately dropped off his face as he heard the first of the messages and tears filled his eyes.
"Can you read me what it says on the card?" she asked afterwards.
Refusing to meet her eye, Grissom nodded. Then he set the doll down next to the plant and picked up the card before pulling his glasses out of his shirt pocket and slipping them on. He blinked and shook his head and began to read the messages out loud to Sara. By the last message his voice was choked up with emotion, his eyes brimming with tears, and he removed his glasses, giving his eyes a rough wipe with the back of his hand.
It suddenly struck her. He wasn't only just mourning his loss; he was mourning her loss for her. "It's okay for you to be sad," she said. "But I'm not." She paused, giving him time to register her words. "I'm still here."
Grissom looked up to the ceiling and blinked, then nodded his head. He tried a smile.
"Gilbert, it's not your fault I'm like this," she continued slowly. "What's happened happened, you know? We can't change it."
He tilted his head to the side, watching her with a look akin to pride, and then nodded again. "But we can make it better, right?" he said, smiling through his tears.
"We will," she said with determination. "This isn't the future. This isn't our future." Grissom frowned and Sara wasn't sure he was getting what she was saying. Still she made herself carry on and say what she needed to tell him. He would get it; she knew he would get it. "I'm going to work very hard at getting better."
"I know, sweetheart," he said. His hand rose to her face and he gently pushed her hair out of her eyes, keeping his hand there. "I know you will." He lowered his hand, taking hers and giving it a strong reassuring squeeze.
She concentrated all her senses on squeezing back. She knew she couldn't squeeze yet but she could tense her fingers and she hoped he would feel it. Suddenly, his eyes widened as they shot down to their entwined hands and then back up to her face. Words weren't necessary to convey his joy. The wonderment in his eyes, the quaver in his smile as he stared at her told her all she needed to know about how he felt.
She lowered her gaze first. "Is it for me?" she asked with a nod to the bed.
Grissom slowly followed her eyes to the T-shirt, and he smiled. "Yes, it is. I brought you a few change of clothes too."
Sara strained and leaned forward, slowly lifting her head and back off the pillow. "Help me get this thing off," she said.
"Oh, I don't know," he said quickly. She peered up at him from the corner of her eyes and stared at him with narrowed eyes. "You're sure?" he said.
"Do you need to ask?"
"I guess not," he replied in a resigned tone.
Grissom perched on the edge of the bed and helped Sara forward, more or less holding her in a sitting position. With his good hand, he pulled the ties on the neck and back of her hospital gown, undoing the knots. He reached for the T-shirt, opening it out with a shake, which is when Sara realised that it was far too big to be one of hers. Did she usually wear his clothes in bed? She liked the thought that she might, and that he had been thoughtful enough to remember.
She looked up, meeting his eye and smiled.
"Why stop a habit of a lifetime, huh?" he asked softly, winking at her. "Besides, I thought it would cover all the tubes and everything."
Gently, reverently, he began undressing her. Sara was surprised at the fact that she wasn't shy about uncovering in front of him despite the scars, dressings and bruises on her body, which was strange really as in the past she'd always been self-conscious when undressing in front of men. He had the T-shirt over her head and in one arm, when Sara noticed the door to the room open and the speech-language therapist walk in. Pausing at the door the latter caught Sara's eye and frowned. Sara's smile was wide and amused and she began to giggle, causing the therapist's face to relax into a smile.
"I know, Sara," Grissom said in a chuckle, unaware of his audience, "I'm making a meal out of this." He pulled the hospital gown off her other arm and stretched the neck of the T-shirt. "I've only just got to-"
Stealth-like the therapist closed the door and moved to the end of the bed. She cleared her throat, her voice serious and matron-like as she said, "Can I help you?"