Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. Others strongly resemble characters that sort of belong to ABC, though I seriously doubt anyone cares at this point. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.

Spoilers: general fifth season through "Unbearable"

Note: this is a sequel to "Rollercoaster", which really should be read first. It is an AU futurefic that includes a number of original characters.

Again, the characters in this story would most likely be using American Sign Language rather than Signed English, so the syntax as shown is not correct. Author's privilege.

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"Honestly, Grace, you don't have to do this," Sara said helplessly, wondering how she had so quickly lost control of the situation.

"I know," Gracie said cheerfully, steaming past Sara with a roller in her hands, her bright hair mostly hidden under an old bandanna. "I like painting."

Sara shook her head, but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She had declared her intention of repainting the loft bedroom before leaving, but hadn't quite realized what a project it was to attempt on one's own. She crouched down and went back to her careful strokes along the trim near the floor.

"How come you're doing this all by yourself?" Gracie asked, coating the roller with paint before attacking one wall with casual skill.

Sara shrugged, and dipped her brush. "Gil's in L.A., Ed's busy, Joey's too young though I might let him do the closet, and the smell of paint makes Kimmy sick." She glanced over at the housekeeper, whose eyes were brighter these days than they had been in a long time. "Not that I'm not grateful, but I thought your Saturdays were all booked."

Gracie shrugged shoulders enveloped in one of the smocks she wore for heavy cleaning. "Since I don't...have so many bills these days, I've cut back on my clients." She shot Sara a look that was half-rueful, half-amused. "So now I have to find some way to burn off the extra energy."

Sara laughed. They'd already settled on a loan so that Gracie could afford to move that summer; knowing the other woman as she did, however, Sara suspected that Gracie's offer to help her paint was motivated less by gratitude and more by friendship. And by the desire to be hanging out around Ed.

The thought both amused and pleased her, and Sara started laying bets with herself as to whether Ed would wander up and start helping paint before the day was over.

"Where's all your stuff?" Gracie asked, stretching a little to let the roller reach the top of the wall.

"The packed stuff is in the basement," Sara said, naming what was actually the ground floor. "I put the rest in the guest bedroom for the moment. Half the furniture's in Ed's room until this dries out, but we took the bed apart and put it downstairs too." She smoothed more paint on the wall, enjoying the physical precision of the act. It was as repetitive as some kinds of evidence processing, but carried no weight of legal expectations.

"So you're leaving in what, three weeks?" Grace asked. "And does the ceiling need another coat?"

"Nope, it's fine," Sara answered. "Three weeks, yeah. The agency's giving me a week to move, which should be plenty."

Gracie snorted. "Optimist."

Sara snickered back and sat down on the cloth-covered floor, stretching out her legs to get rid of the kinks. Work had made her used to crouching, but it still got to her after a while. "It's mostly books and junk. I don't have a lot of furniture, you know."

The furnishings of the loft had mostly been there when she'd arrived; Sara had added a couple of pieces from her apartment in Las Vegas, but three more years of use and wear had made most of it not worth taking along, and a large part of the rest, such as bookshelves, was not special enough to bother with. I can get replacements in Vegas and save the hassle of shipping it.

"This is true." Gracie wiped at a droplet of paint on her cheek, and mostly succeeded in smearing it.

Sara snagged a rag from a stack nearby and tossed it at Gracie. "Here." She watched to make sure the other woman got all the paint, then went back to her task. An ancient Red Sox cap protected her own hair.

"Well, we're going to miss you," Gracie said frankly, bending to refresh her roller before beginning again. "The kids most of all."

"I know," Sara answered, feeling a little guilty. "But we won't be that far away. And this was only supposed to be temporary to begin with."

Gracie laughed. "Life's what happens when you're making other plans," she quoted.

They painted in peace for a long while, following the light around the room; Sara went up on a ladder and decided she didn't have to repaint the window trim, and Gracie showed her a trick for corners, and eventually the intercom blared with Ed's voice telling them that lunch was served.

He came back up with them afterwards, tying a rag around his head and waltzing with the long roller to make them laugh, and Sara watched him smile at Gracie and Gracie smile at him, and felt confident that at least her family--her precious, it-was-only-going-to-be-temporary family--would be in excellent hands.

xxxx

Grissom took a firm grip on his fraying temper, and began again. "Mom," he signed patiently, "it's all arranged. Jack packed most of your things, and the movers are coming tomorrow to take the furniture. We'll spend tonight and tomorrow at your sister's and get you settled in the next day."

But Rosalie was scarcely paying attention, her eyes darting from his hands to the bare walls of her familiar apartment. "But what if I don't like it?" she signed back agitatedly. "There might not be any other Deaf people there, I'd be all alone."

"There are Deaf people there, Mom." Grissom kept his expression calm; showing his frustration would only make things worse. "Several of the staff know ASL. You'll be fine." As her gaze moved away again, he reached out and gently caught her hands in his, redirecting her attention to his face. "You remember Flora? She used to live in the other wing."

At Rosalie's nod, uncertain as it was, Grissom released her. "She moved to Verde Ridge, Mom. You already know someone who lives there."

He'd lost track of how many times they'd had this conversation, or some variation thereof. Rosalie, upset by the fact of moving, was simply refusing to take it in.

Grissom turned his head as Susan emerged from Rosalie's bedroom, a small wheeled overnight bag tugged behind her. "All set," she said brightly, waving to get her older sister's attention. "Rosie, get your coat. Jack's grilling burgers for supper and I don't want to be late."

Rosalie threw up her hands, but went to fetch her jacket. Behind her back, Susan gave Grissom a tired smile.

"Are you sure you don't want to spend the night at our place, Gil? We'd love to have you."

He shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I'll stay here and finish up a few things."

"Well, be sure and eat something." She rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "And say hi to that pretty girl of yours."

Grissom smiled a little, and helped his mother into her coat before picking up the suitcase and escorting the ladies downstairs to Susan's car. The sun was low, but Grissom knew Susan would make it home before dusk; her night vision was poor enough now to keep her from driving in the dark. He kissed Rosalie goodnight and waved as they drove away, and then turned to go back inside.

Despite the fact that it was nearly empty, Rosalie's apartment seemed cramped to him, thick with an oppressive melancholy. Grissom had managed to find her a good place to go, but the victory was Pyrrhic.

I'm just glad she's not refusing outright. That would land them in more trouble and heartache than Grissom thought he could bear; they would have to have Rosalie legally declared incompetent to complete the move, and the mere thought made Grissom's head hurt.

He finished labeling the furniture hastily, trying not to think about it too much. Half the items were going into storage, and it was an unacknowledged but bitter truth that they would not be taken out again until Rosalie's death. She was never going to be well enough to have her own apartment again.

Finally Grissom locked her door and headed down the hall to the guest room. His stomach roiled, and he felt vaguely sick, too stressed to eat. Instead, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to summon some calm.

Gradually his breathing slowed, and he slipped into an uneasy half-doze, feeling a migraine threatening on the edge of his consciousness--not quite close enough to make him take a pill, but hovering nonetheless.

The whole thing was taking so much longer than it should. Rosalie's energy had waned over the past few years, and the stress of packing and moving drained her quickly. She had to make decisions about what to take with her and what to put in storage, but half the time she couldn't make up her mind, and often she changed it. Jack, whose ASL had never advanced beyond the basics, usually referred her to Grissom or Susan when Rosalie asked about some knickknack or painting; Susan, Grissom had noticed, often put on an absent-minded air, soothing Rosalie out of the idea of looking for something already packed.

Grissom, appalled by the temptation to lie to her and tell her that what she was looking for was going someplace it wasn't, usually managed to distract her with another question, but he still often found himself opening up a carefully taped box to dig through newspaper and soy peanuts for some small treasure.

It hurt. It hurt badly, the three of them working around Rosalie's distress and confusion to try to get things done. Part of the confusion was due to stress, Grissom knew that; once back in a comfortable routine, she would be clearer again.

He sighed, letting his consciousness drift where it willed--which was, inevitably, back to Sara.

Sara.

Oh, he missed her. Missed her more than those three years of emptiness, more than Christmas, more even than his last trip to Los Angeles. It was partly stress, he knew, but that didn't change the fact that he kept thinking of things to tell her, except she wasn't there; that his bed was empty and cold; that three weeks in California--two, now--seemed to stretch out unbearably.

And even then it'll be another week or so before we actually see each other. Rosalie would move, and Grissom would stay for at least six or seven days to make sure she was settling in properly, and then he had to go back to Vegas and catch up on the things that needed doing so he could resume his job, albeit in a slightly altered capacity. Assuming no major case interfered, Sara would join him in Vegas soon after that, and they could start their life together.

Grissom's heartbeat eased a little as he dwelled on the thought. He still had the fantasy of letting her into his home, to change it as she saw fit, to fill its empty corners with her vital presence. And now it looked as though it were actually going to be fulfilled.

He missed her smile, her mind, her kiss; he missed her hands on him, and the smell of her hair, and the haven of her body. Not just the lovemaking, though that was better than he'd thought such things could be; he missed the sheer animal comfort of having someone nearby, of having a living body to curl around and to warm him while he slept.

And there was still the contents of that small box. Grissom didn't know when he was going to ask Sara to marry him--all he knew was that the time just hadn't come before he'd had to leave her. I might put it off for a while. I'll take her any way I can get her. Maybe it would be better to wait until things settle down.

If she does say yes, I don't want her to have any doubts.

In the back of his mind, Grissom knew he should get up and eat something, and if not that then at least take off his shoes and pants and crawl under the covers so he could sleep comfortably. But he didn't want to move; he wanted to stay in this half-awake state, where Sara's face and voice were closer--

His cellphone rang, jarring him out of his daze. Grissom sat up, blinking, and reached for it, too dizzy to look at the display. "Hello?"

"Gil," came Sara's voice, real this time, warm with love. Grissom closed his eyes in relief, and lay back down.

x

He sounded so tired.

Sara's heart went out to Grissom as he wearily described his day with Rosalie, skimming most of the details but leaving enough in that she could tell how difficult it had been for him. The whole thing was taking a toll on his spirit; this was the man who could work double shifts without losing his laser focus, but now he seemed exhausted after a day of doing little more than packing boxes.

She wanted badly to be able to hold him, to wrap her arms around him and let him rest his head on her collarbone in the place that seemed made for its weight, but all she could do at the moment was listen and make encouraging noises.

It had become a ritual, these evening phone calls; well, night for Sara, after the kids had gone to bed and there would be no small voice piping up to interrupt the conversation. Sara craved the contact as much as she suspected Grissom did. For getting along fine without him for three years, you sure do miss him now.

But that was a given. She had never really managed to uproot Grissom from her heart; now that he was back in her life, far surpassing her half-smothered daydreams, she missed him all the more when he was gone.

"Sara," he said, their exchange of news finished, "may I ask you something?"

The tone of his voice and the fact that he was asking told her that it was no light request. But I'm not sure I have any real secrets from him at this point anyway. "Sure."

"Uh...what happened to your...your mother?"

Sara blinked at her own ceiling, not expecting the question, but the sense of invasion that might once have accompanied it was absent. She stretched a little and tucked her pillow more firmly under her head. "She died, oh, about eight years after she killed my father."

"Oh." Grissom sounded a little startled. Knowing he had to be curious, she smiled faintly and continued.

"She was in prison for six years, but got released early for good behavior. She had lung cancer; she probably had it before she got out. She was still smoking practically up to the day she died." Sara shrugged against the pillow. "I only saw her once after she got paroled."

"Was that your choice?" Grissom asked softly.

"Pretty much, yeah." Sara pursed her lips thoughtfully. Living with her brother, and having to hash out some of their issues from the past, had drained a lot of her resentment towards both her parents; for the most part, they were firmly in the past as well, where they belonged. She still had bleak moments of wondering whether their actions would forever skew her future, but such times were rarer than they had been.

"Hm," Grissom said, the noise he often used to let her know he was listening. She let her mouth turn up.

"When I get unpacked I'll show you a picture of her if you like, though you've probably seen one on the bookcase in the living room."

"I wondered about that." His tone held the mild satisfaction of a small mystery solved.

"Yeah, Ed figured the kids should have some image of their grandparents on that side as well as Jenny's parents." She rubbed her eyes. "Before you ask, they don't know the details yet, only that they're dead."

"That's probably wise," Grissom agreed. His voice was fading a little, and Sara frowned.

"Gil, did you eat anything?"

"Uh, no," he admitted.

"Do I have to crawl through the phone and force something down your throat?" she threatened, grinning, and he chuckled.

"I wish you could. Honestly, Sara, I'm too tired. I just want to sleep."

"Well, all right," she said, with an exaggerated sigh. "As long as you promise to eat breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am." Grissom laughed again. She heard a rustle of fabric.

"I should let you go," she said reluctantly.

"Not yet." More rustling. "Would you mind..."

He trailed off. Sara sat up a little. "What?"

"Would you talk to me? Until I fall asleep?"

He sounded so tired, and so shy, that Sara's heart ached sharply. "Of course."

A sigh. "Thank you."

Further rustling reached her ears, and she assumed he was getting under the covers. "What do you want me to talk about?" she asked, feeling slightly at a loss.

"Whatever you like," Grissom said. "Tell me about the kids."

"Okay." Sara took a breath, picturing him in the impersonal room she'd stayed in at Christmas, and pitched her voice to a soothing level. "Kimmy came home yesterday with an A on her book report..."

It didn't take long before his low snuffle came through the phone, letting Sara know that he'd succumbed to sleep. She smiled at her ceiling, bittersweet emotion making her eyes prickle. "Love you, Gil," she said softly, and shut the phone.

xxxx

"What do you think? Should we just set things up ahead of time?" Grissom asked, appreciating the heat of the coffee cup wrapped in his hands.

Susan, on the other side of the well-scrubbed kitchen table, sighed tiredly. "I don't know, Gil. She'll probably want to rearrange everything if we do that."

"You're right." Grissom echoed the sigh. Rosalie was still asleep in Susan's guest room, and he'd driven over to his aunt's house a little early so they could talk. And to keep his promise to Sara--the remains of a noble breakfast covered the table between them. Jack, as taciturn as ever, had eaten and vanished into his den to read the paper before they left.

"Set up the furniture," Susan suggested. "I'll keep her busy for the day, and Jack can give you a hand. Then we'll take her over tomorrow and let her have the fun of putting everything where she wants it."

"It'll take days," Grissom pointed out.

Susan shrugged, giving him a wry smile that was tinged with a little puckish humor. "What else is retirement good for, Gil dear? I don't have anything that can't be put off for a bit, and it'll keep her busy while she settles in."

Grissom nodded, then set down his cup to cover her hand with his own. "I really appreciate your help with this," he told her quietly. "I honestly don't know what I'd have done without you."

Susan turned her hand over to squeeze his. "You're family. I know how hard this is for you, Gil dear. You're a good boy to do so much for her."

"I feel much better knowing you're close by," he admitted.

She giggled, a sweet sound, and let him go to pour them both more coffee. "Rosie and I have been looking after each other for over seventy years now. This is business as usual."

Grissom drove Jack and himself to Rosalie's old apartment with more energy than he'd had the night before, though in much the same grim state of mind. But for a change things went smoothly--the movers turned up on time, and he and Jack slipped into an almost-wordless rapport at the new place, figuring out where each piece would best fit without needing to discuss it. They ate the enormous lunch that Rosalie had packed for them, and then Grissom dropped Jack back at his house before heading out to stock the small refrigerator and pantry with foodstuffs. Rosalie would eat most of her meals in the dining room of the nursing home, but having snacks on hand as well as coffee to offer guests would be good.

He finished up the day by plugging in the TTY and other assistance devices, and setting up Rosalie's little computer so that she would have communication options the moment she stepped inside. Then he went back to Susan and Jack's for a shower, and to take them all out for dinner.

Eating out was one of Rosalie's pleasures in life, despite her skill as a cook, and she brightened out of her worried state at the prospect. Grissom chose an upscale steakhouse, knowing that Jack appreciated a good New York strip, and--he admitted silently to himself--knowing that meat in general was about to become rarer in his own life. It wasn't that Sara would make him give it up, but Grissom didn't think he'd be bringing a lot of beef home, either.

Steak or Sara. Grissom shook his head, amused at himself, as he held the door of the restaurant for his relations. As though there were actually a choice.

xxxx

Sara stared at the open e-mail window on her laptop screen, halfheartedly trying to compose a letter to Greg, but the words didn't want to come.

What do I tell him? That Gil and I have been seeing each other for the past seven months? Or that hey, I'm coming back to Vegas, but I can't tell you why?

She and Grissom hadn't discussed telling their friends about their relationship, and knowing that he hadn't revealed why he'd taken a leave of absence, she was hesitant to spill the beans without talking to him first. He may just want to tell them when he sees them. I don't want to screw things up.

And it would require a lot of explanation. Sara sighed and leaned an elbow on the small desk in Ed's guest room. There would be exclamations, and questions, and probably some hurt at the deception, and…

I don't want to deal with it. Not without Gil. She closed the window with the tap of a key. Sorry, Greg, it'll just have to be a surprise.

However, that didn't mean she couldn't talk to him. Sara glanced at the computer's clock, and reached for her cellphone; Greg was most likely awake and coherent.

"Sara!" came his happy greeting when he answered, and the sound made her smile; as annoying as he could be at times, Greg was generally a mood-lifter.

They chatted easily about evidence collection, the intransigence of lawyers, and Greg's steady girlfriend for a while, just sharing news; Sara made him tell her about the latest sally in his practical joke war with Hodges, which took some doing, as Hodges had triumphed on the last round.

But her giggles faded when Greg switched topics abruptly. "Grissom's coming back."

"I thought his leave of absence was for six months," Sara said cautiously. "Shouldn't he have been back by now?"

"He pushed it for two more months. I dunno--" Greg sounded more puzzled than worried. "He was back here a few weeks ago but I missed him--he was only in town overnight, according to Catherine."

"Well, maybe he finished whatever he needed to do," Sara suggested, half amused at knowing what Grissom was really up to, and half sad at the deception she was practicing on her friend.

"Maybe. She said he looked really good, so I guess that's something."

"D'you miss him?" Sara asked. She didn't know how their relationship had developed after she'd gone, though she knew Greg still respected Grissom deeply.

"Yeah, sure. The place isn't the same without the Bugman lurking around some corner. Warrick said Days had to call someone in to deal with an insect timeline last month, and it was weird."

Sara had to laugh. "Well, I guess things will be back to normal soon out there."

"What's normal?" Greg asked comically. "So, you seeing anyone yet?"

He loved to tease her about her dateless state, and she usually let him, but suddenly a small imp rose up inside her, and she decided to tease him back. "Yes, actually."

"No way! Who is he? Is he good enough for you or do Nick and I have to come out there and kick his ass?"

"He's a good guy," Sara said, amused by his enthusiasm. "And I can damn well kick his ass myself if I need to."

"Come on, Sara, names! Details!" She could see him in her mind's eye, bouncing a little with impatience.

"Nope, no names yet. He's a scientist--"

"Of course," Greg interjected. "And smart, right?"

"Very." She snickered. "Sweet, funny, and he doesn't get grossed out by what I do."

"Is he rich?"
"Greg!" she scolded. "What are you, my grandmother?"

"Okay, okay. I want photos, you know. Documented proof."

"Not yet," she repeated, still mischievous. "But I'll tell you what--the next time we see each other, I'll introduce you to him."

"Yeah, sometime in the next decade, huh, Sara? You've been gone too long."

"You could always come visit here," she pointed out, knowing perfectly well that he never had the vacation time to spare.

"Maybe next Christmas. Damn, I hate to go, but I have to get ready for work."

"Sure. E-mail me."

They said goodbye, and Sara closed her phone, grinning. Oh, Greggo. Are we going to have a surprise for you.

See Chapter 27