IX

The engine hummed in the small drive. Catherine had parked the vehicle, but had not shut it off. She was silent beside him. Outside, he could hear the buzz of traffic and of life, but inside the car, only quiet.

Catherine had been silent most of the ride. He'd been waiting for some words, had braced himself for more lectures and guilt trips, or even some sort of prattle about Lindsay or Vartann, or something to cut into the silence. Instead, she had remained quiet and he had stared out the window at the passing streets, his head pressed against the glass of the window, also silent. Now that they were parked, he chanced a glance at her. He could see the tension in her frame, the stiffness of her limbs, the white of her knuckles, the lines on her face that spoke of concern and disappointment, resignation, worry and care. He watched her chest rise with one deep breath. Her eyes closed and he knew she wanted to say something.

That she held back worried him. Catherine did not hold back, so what in her thoughts had her keeping quiet and not speaking her mind? Had he done this to her? What was so hard to say? Or was it that she was so tired of saying the same thing over and over, of circling the same conversation, of thinking her words were not getting through when she was one of the only things keeping him upright? He took a deep breath. "Catherine," he began.

Catherine looked over at him, her eyes unreadable. His eyes moved to her hands and he watched as the knuckles returned to their normal color. Her fingertips, long and slender with nails painted a lilac purple, drummed lightly on the wheel. He glanced back up to her face, to her pursed lips, waiting for him to speak. After another deep breath, he did. "I want you to be my emergency contact and have my power of attorney."

She nodded softly. "Gil, I didn't mean..."

"I know." He looked forward, through the windshield. His hands ran along his thighs and clutched just above his knees. "There are some things we'll have to go over."

Her right hand left the steering wheel and covered his left. She squeezed lightly. "We don't have to do this now."

Grissom shook his head and pulled his hand from hers. "I would rather we did," he whispered, knowing he had to do this while he had the strength. "I don't want any life saving measures taken. I'm going to sign a DNR."

"Gil..."

"And when I die, I would like to be cremated. I want my ashes mixed with Sara's and I want you to scatter them in the Pacific Ocean, half in the San Francisco Bay, where Sara and I met, and the other half in Costa Rica, in Drake Bay, where we were married."

"Gil..."

"I will see to it that both trips are paid for, flights, hotels, spending money... You can make a vacation of it with Lindsay or Vartann, if you choose..."

"Gil, you know I wouldn't be worried about any of that."

"Never-the-less, everything would be covered."

He chanced another glance in time to see Catherine nod. There were tears in her eyes. Her hand covered his again and this time, he did not move to remove it. "Will you," he began, his voice raspy and catching in his throat, 'do that for me?"

Catherine nodded again. "Of course I will." Her thumb brushed over his hand. He felt himself flinch as her digit caught on his wedding band. She gave a gentle squeeze. He closed his eyes. "We can go over everything in more detail later."

"Do you want me to come in with you?"

Grissom shook his head. "No. I'm just going to go to sleep."

"Okay."

Catherine's hand left his and he released the seatbelt. His other hand pulled on the door handle and opened the door, and he stepped out of the car. Closing the door, he ambled across his hot drive to his door. Fumbling with his set of keys, he turned open his condo door and slipped inside where his bed was waiting.

For awhile he stood in the doorway to his bedroom and stared at the empty, unmade bed. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into it, fall into a deep sleep and never wake up, but he had to go to the bathroom and he was hot and sticky and in need of a shower. Sighing, he moved past the bed and into the bathroom.

His hands peeled the clothing from his skin very slowly. His eyes watched his movements through the bathroom mirror. His limbs felt heavy as he tried to lift them in the removal of each piece of cloth. Cotton stuck to his back in places and as he pulled on the hem of his t-shirt, he felt the sting of material breaking away from where it was attached to skin. His body turned and he looked out of the side of his eyes, into the mirror to see what he could of his backside. Ugly blisters from too much time spent lying on his back littered his skin. Most of the blisters were whole, still filled with fluid, forming little white hills above the surface of his skin. In places, the blisters had popped and he could just barely make out fuzz from his cotton shirt in those open wounds. The result was hideous, the picture of the ugly back of an ugly, aging man.

Turning his body away so that he would not have to stare at the repulsive sight any longer, he faced the mirror again, staring forward. He could almost see Sara in the mirror behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and felt light tingling on each of his shoulders as he pictured her lips kissing the backs of each one. Her hands felt cool in the heat, but her chest, now pressed to him, felt warm.

In a daze, he finished stripping, climbing into the shower and letting cool water flow over him. His eyes closing again, he could feel Sara's hands moving gently over his back, washing each wound carefully. She handed him the luffa and with a smirk, whispered that it was his job to do hers.

Tears rolling down his eyes, he abruptly turned off the shower and stepped out.

He stopped only to relieve himself before he slipped beneath the cool sheets and stared at the wall.

Hands tucked beneath his head, he gazed at a chip in the paint, a small, uneven marking of white on a wall of fawn. He reached out and held up his thumb before him, watching the marking disappear from his sight. His thumb flicked upward and the mark was visible again. His arm dropped to the bed, hand landing flat on the empty space of mattress and his shoulders fell as he turned his gaze down to his hand.

He could see Sara before him, her back to him as she sat on the bed, her shoulders and torso bare, beautiful, smooth skin he would reach out to touch. He could see her head turned, a soft, sultry smile open in an invitation. He could see her beaming, laughing, fuming...crying. His lungs hurt. He felt empty. Sara crying. He could see her body tremble as tears swept over her. He could see her head tucked down, her frame curled, her arms wrapped around her. A tear slipped from his eye as though it was the most anguishing thing to see Sara cry, and it was. His eyes closed and he gathered her pillow to him.

He woke with his arms empty, facing the wall on his side. He hadn't remembered falling asleep and he wondered how long he'd been down. His back felt cool. He shifted and blinked as he slowly let the remnants of sleep drift off. "Is it me?" she asked, her voice so soft and so quiet.

He rolled over and faced her, looking at her form curled away from him. His hand lifted and landed softly on her shoulder and he sighed as she recoiled from his touch. He wanted to gather her in his arms and reassure her or apologize, do something to end the gnawing feeling of guilt that had come of his actions, but he only stared at her back. How could she question it? She was a scientist. How could she question it? It wasn't rational, nor was it reasonable. It wasn't Sara, but then again, emotion often made one blind to reason. He didn't know how to respond to her when she wasn't thinking reasonably. "Sara...no. You know better than that."

He shuffled towards her, but she shuffled away. He could see her shoulders shaking as barely concealed sobs racked her body. "Honey?"

"You've been gone for over six weeks." Her voice was low and quiet and filled with insecurity. "You come back and you won't touch me. You won't let me touch you. You keep easing away."

"We touch."

"No we don't. Not really. Not anymore. We hugged when you got back and you've given me a few light kisses everyday, but you've slipped away from every other contact. You won't let me touch you, not a brush, nor a caress." Her voice stopped short and he watched her choking on her words as she wept. "You used to hold my hand, play with my fingers, guide me by the small of my back, massage my feet as we read, graze your fingers down my arm..."

He reached for her again, only to watch her shrug away and he didn't understand it. Wasn't she saying she wanted to be touched, that she wanted him to touch her?

"You're pulling away."

Grissom rolled onto his back, his hands linked beneath his head. He sighed. He had been pulling away. He had been guiltily pulling away. He felt guilty every time she touched him and every time he backed away from the touch. How could he explain this? Something had happened on his last trip and it scared him. Every time she touched him, all he could see was what he stood to lose. The fear and the anxiety he felt had inhibited other biological functions. Every time Sara touched him, he felt those anxieties take over. Her touch burned him. It was seared into him and it hurt. He thought of what he'd done, the mistakes he'd made, how close he'd come to destroying everything. He was so, so sorry, for everything she did not know, and he wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her, to cling to her, but he couldn't. Guiltily, he'd withdrawn.

In his mind, he'd rationalized that he didn't need to tell her. She didn't need to know. He'd risked his health by taking a stupid chance with deadly insect and had narrowly escaped being killed by that insect when his curiosity and poor judgment got the better of him. He'd been warned well in advance and yet, had moved in too closely in studying the venomous arthropod, frozen and watching on as it sprung forward at him. It was a stupid mistake. He wasn't going to disturb the insect, only get a slightly better look, but still, he of all people should have known better. Curiosity had definitely got the better of him. The insect had reacted to his curiosity, to his proximity. The bite and the paralysis that had followed scared the hell out of him. Luckily, he hadn't been too far out in the bush and had been in the company of quick thinking men who had the mindset to begin life-saving first aid measures before rushing him to a hospital. The narrow miss had left him thinking. It made him think of what he would have lost, what he could have caused Sara to lose and he'd thought against telling Sara. He'd wanted to shelter her, hadn't wanted to scare her. If he were honest with himself, he would have acknowledged that he didn't know how to tell her, that a part of him still didn't know how to share things very personal to him, including how he almost risked his life with her, that he still didn't know how to form certain sentences when it came to her. He had to tell her. His silence led to other avenues of thinking, ones he never wanted Sara to have to experience.

"Is it me?" she asked again.

He rolled back on to his side and watched her body tremble. How could she think he didn't desire her as fervently as ever? He knew there was nothing rational in her questioning, or in her tears, that it came from years of various abuses and insecurities. He knew that she'd fought to be rational, but had lost the battle to past experiences with other men and to blind emotion. He eased his body against hers, holding her tight to him when she wanted to squirm away and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I love you, Sara."

Sara shook and sobbed harder.

"It's biology, honey. Maybe it's fear, or anxiety, but I promise you, it is not you, nor is it any indication of the state of our relationship. I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?" she asked, her voice as venomous as the arthropod and tinged with skepticism.

"Of losing everything."

She turned and faced him. Her eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears. "What?"

Grissom swallowed. Slowly he went through the process of telling her. After she decked him, and made him promise not to keep something like that from her again, she laughed. She was still laughing when they made love later that morning. He fell into a second slumber pressed tightly to her, the entire length of their bodies touching.

He could see the trace of tears in her eyes from all he'd told her. His hands moved along her arms. Her hands moved up to press against his chest. "Gil, what?"

He shrugged. "There was blood in my stool."

Her leg slipped between his as she drew closer. "Okay, what does that mean? It could mean lots of things, couldn't it? I mean blood in the stool isn't all that uncommon."

Recurring and combined with his other symptoms, it was. "Honey, it happened more than once."

"Oh." She grew silent. Her hands slid up his chest and cupped his cheeks. "What does this mean?" she asked softly. "Another infection?" Her lips kissed his chin. "We'll make a doctor's appointment and figure it out."

"Honey," he began, his voice soft and the words slow, "I've been to Dr. Cochrane."

Sara was silent. Her wide eyes still red with the remainders of the tears not yet dry. He felt her move closer as though she was trying to be absorbed into him. He lifted one hand and combed her hair away from her face. He kissed her and kept his head close to hers. "Dr. Cochrane did a colonoscopy. He found a couple of polyps and removed them."

Sara's eyes closed. "Cancerous?"

"The results on that one aren't in yet."

"Gil..." Her arms wrapped around him. Her head fell into his shoulder. He held her trembling body and reveled in her breaths on his neck.

Waking, he reached for her and sighed as he felt the other side of the bed empty. His hand patted the empty spot and ran over the cool sheet. His head lifted and he looked around. Standing, he moved to the door and wandered about the quiet house, stopping only when he heard the clicking of a mouse coming from his office. He sighed again. She was still working, still hiding from him. He felt as though he was losing her. He wanted to go to her, to grasp her arm and pull her to him, but he was afraid if he did, he'd enter the room to see her quickly shrinking a screen. He returned to bed, grasping her pillow to his chest, hoping it would force her to wake him when she finally joined him.

He stared down at the floor in shock, his eyes on the normally durable laptop smashed by the force of his chuck. The laptop was split in two, the screen separated from the keyboard. There was a crack in the screen, a line running across, the color light along the edge of the fissure. Several keys of the keyboard were splayed over the floor and there was a second where he wondered if they spelled out anything before him. Jerk came to mind. So did stupid, brute, brutal, wild, hostile, hypocrite and a host of other words that only needed one of each letter to spell out how he felt at the moment. If he risked a glance up at Sara before looking back to the letters, he might also see hurt.

The rise and fall of his chest was heavy. His breaths were long and labored, but gradually slowing. His hands trembled. They felt hot. The tips of his fingers tingled. It felt as though there was a flood of heat moving through his forearms and collecting in his hands. His head ached.

He glanced down at his hands, and then back at the floor, his eyes wandering over scattered letters and staring again.

Chancing a glance up at Sara, he was surprised to find her absolutely still before him. She stared back at him and he shivered. He'd expected shock or hurt, but her eyes were cold. He expected her to kneel down and try to piece her laptop back together, to see if it would still work, to see if it could be salvaged, but she only turned from him and began to walk away.

"Sara, wait," he called out, striding after her and stepping on one of the keys. "Ouch! Damn it!" he yelled, lifting his foot and rubbing his sole and heel. Looking up ahead again, he watched Sara's disappearing form. She hadn't stopped. She hadn't turned to look back. She just kept moving away, her pace steady. Even her movements felt cold.

"Sara," he called again and rushed after her, the pads of his feet landing on a few more keys, but no longer bothering him. The ache in his heart far outweighed the ache in his foot. He moved past the debris and into his bedroom. Sara was sitting on the bed. Her hands were also trembling.

Gazing down at her, he felt himself pause. The weight of his actions plunged through him, leaving him aching. "Sara, I'm sorry."

Her eyes rose to his. "You asshole. Do you know what I lost?"

It wasn't any work. Sara had all of her work backed up several times over.

A tear slipped from her eyes and he moved, kneeling before her. Tentatively, his hands lifted and fell to her knees. "I'm sorry."

Sara shook her head. "No, you're not, not really," she whispered.

He wanted to deny it, but he said nothing. Her statement wasn't entirely inaccurate. He was sorry he'd hurt her, sorry, perhaps also, for breaking an expensive piece of equipment, but he was not sorry for separating her from it. That damn laptop had become an obsession. Every morning, all morning, when she should have been sleeping, she'd stayed up, tapping on its keys, ignoring his pleas for her to come to bed and to get some rest, or to even speak to him. He was losing her, before he should. And when he got up to try to draw her back to him, what did he find her doing? She wasn't working, nor was she wasn't researching. Every time he went to find her, he found her playing solitaire, over and over again, trying to beat her time, as though it was a compulsion. Her behavior had become so manic recently, and he feared for her. "It wasn't healthy, Sara. You've become obsessed…"

"What?" Sara glared up at him. "Are you saying I'm turning into my mother?"

He winced. He didn't mean that. He didn't. He was again dealing with an irrational Sara and he was not quite sure what to say or do. "No, Sara."

Sara let out a humorless laugh. "Maybe I am. Maybe this is some kind of psychotic break." She lifted her legs and curled onto the bed, away from him.

The behavior was disturbing to him. He'd expected yelling. He'd been spoiling for a fight. He'd wanted her to get mad and maybe, finally, tell him what was on her mind. He'd even expected her to be unreasonable, irrational. He didn't expect her to shut down like this. Not Sara. Not his Sara.

He reached out to touch her. She swatted away his hand. "Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me."

His hand withdrew quickly. He stared at her curled form and dropped his forehead to the mattress. "Sara, you're not your mother." He glanced back up at her. Sara's form did not move. Apart from the slow, slight quiver of her back muscles as she breathed, she did not move at all.

"Schizophrenia is genetic." He watched the twitch of her back muscles as she spoke. "Mental illness is hereditary."

Letting himself think for a moment, he watched her. He knew what this was about and it wasn't about becoming her mother. It was about coping. Rising on his knees, he pushed himself up, leaning his elbows on the mattress. "That isn't what this is, Sara. This is fear and impotence, not mental illness."

Pushing off his elbows, he moved slowly, carefully, onto the bed. He reached out to touch her still form, but hesitated, his hand above her arm. It fell to his side and he dropped his head forward. "I'm scared too," he whispered.

Slowly Sara's face turned to his. "Why would you be scared?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm losing you to these nightmares again, honey. I lost you to them once. I can't lose you to them again."

"I can't sleep," she whispered, turning over to face him and he took the opportunity to capture her in his embrace. Pushing back the hair from her forehead he brushed soft kisses over her skin. "I know," he whispered against her skin.

"I'm scared."

He nodded and held her tighter. "Quit, honey. Come and do research with me, like we had planned."

"I can't," she whispered. "Not yet."

He nodded again. She couldn't. He knew it more than anyone. She had to see this through, just as he had to see through his time remaining at the lab before. Maybe if she solved this last one, the case wouldn't haunt her anymore. She might still decide to stay at the lab after, but she would still be able to sleep again. "Rest with me, Sara. Let me chase those dreams away."

Sara nodded and curled further into him.