Disclaimer: Don't own them. I borrow! I bring back!

Rating: K+, to prove I'm capable.

Trigger/Content Warning: Just the usual heavies.

Author's note: I just found the undertones of that scene between Sara and Nora Cross really... tragic. She almost sounds resigned when she says, "Some say I was made for this job," and that really stuck with me. I'm projecting that empathy onto Grissom as a cipher, imagining that he can hold the weight of what that means, too.

Prophecy

2005

Gil Grissom did not need machismo to prove that he could be steady in the face of fire. He liked to think his fearlessness was a subtler kind - the steely resolve one could take upon maintaining focus in the face of abject tragedy and horror; staring unflinchingly into the eyes of a killer as they raged and threatened him with bodily harm. His fear responses were calculated and careful, such as buying a gun and going to the range to make sure he still had the skills to defend himself, or installing an alarm system in his condo after the incident with Paul Millander. Grissom responded to fear. He didn't react to it. He felt it, as he did many other impulses and emotions, in the same clinical detachment as he did much else in his life, and would either act upon it or do his best to ignore it.

Sara Sidle was different. Sara Sidle scared him, and he couldn't do anything with that, at all.

It was an altogether frustrating and irrational fear, unpredictable in nature. The way his heart rate would spike on anticipating seeing her, or hearing her unmistakable voice in the din of a crime scene as he worked. How his palms could become sweaty in his gloves as she moved closer to him - surely, she knew what she was doing.

She did something primal to him, and that was what he feared the most. All of his calculated care could be so quickly felled in the wake of one person. One woman.

He pondered this fear as he stood on her doorstep, and hesitated for a moment before knocking. If his heart could stop altogether it would surely be more pleasant than the aching thud in his ears. There was soft music coming from behind the door, but he could barely hear it. He knocked, and the music stopped, but the thudding remained.

Grissom considered his fear, was it hours - or moments - before, as he sat holding onto her for dear life as the torrent of grief washed over them both. Perhaps he was afraid, awe-inspired by her incredible capacity for feeling when weaker hearts would have easily calloused over after such a life.

"This was what you were going to talk to me about," Grissom stated. "Wasn't it?"

Sara was still hiding her face, trying to wipe her tears, but she nodded and he squeezed her hand to let her know she didn't have to say anything. He let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry I didn't make the time," he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

She was slowly calming from her outpouring of grief, her chest heaving with trying to breathe normally again. There were still so many questions he had to ask, most of them not appropriate for now, but some of them - he would pick his time while she was still trusting him to answer them. She flexed her fingers in his grasp, and he realised they'd both been gripping each other a little harder than he intended. He released her hand and she drew it back to fold over her stomach.

As he clasped his hands in front of himself again, he asked, "When did it start?"

Sara finally looked up, wiping the last tears from her cheek and sniffing. "What do you mean?"

Gil shifted, looking down to his hands and then across to some artwork she had hung on the wall, then back to her. "I think I remember seeing you change after the Debbie Marlon case," he tread carefully, fearful he would show his own hand where that particular case was concerned. He had been so absorbed in his own cycle of projection and grief, he hadn't understood what she would have been affected by, short of the vic's stark resemblance to her. Maybe it was that? The mortality reminder?

Something changed in her face, a look of incredulousness. "You really don't know, do you," she said, slowly.

"What is it, Sara?"

"The interrogation. Dr Lurie, Brass, and you…" she said, neutral tone, as though trying to prompt his memory. He didn't need reminding - he narrowed his eyes. "I saw it. All of it."

Grissom felt the coolness of the blood draining from his face. "Oh," he uttered, and swallowed, considering his words. They stared at each other for a while, searching each other for the right words to say. "I'm sorry you saw that."

"It's ok," Sara whispered, a little too quickly.

His brain was working overtime, catching up on this revelation, tracing back over the last couple of years. He would have to re-trace and re-categorise every interaction they had shared from that moment leading up to this one, finally understanding how heavy those moments had been, laden with meaning he had completely missed. He put aside his self-flagellation for a moment, determined to be there with her in that moment.

"You mentioned about… seeking validation," he started, dreading where the conversation was going, but knowing that they needed to say so much and if there was any time to say it, that time was now. "Is- was that, with-"

"You, us," she mumbled. "Yes." He saw her redden in shame and he reached out for her again, pausing halfway, realising it was more for his comfort than to comfort her. He couldn't help but ache for her shame, though, wishing he could simply vanish it with the declaration he wish he had the courage to give.

"Sara, my decisions about… about us, they're not about you," he tried, hoping above all hopes she could hear how earnestly and openly he spoke with her, and how that would never happen with anyone else. Grissom dug deep into himself for courage he prayed was still there, where she was concerned, and sighed. "And my actions are not because I don't feel… similarly."

Ecklie would be proud of his politicism. If he admitted the depth of his feelings for her, it could be just as painful to realise as if they were unrequited - that feeling of frustration and waste. He knew it well. But if he made light of his feelings, and therefore hers, he could equally hurt her by invalidating the harm already done. His head was spinning with the pressure to do right by her in this moment, and he was terrified he would blunder through it, much like he apparently had their entire relationship to date.

Sara wasn't looking at him, so he reached out to take her hand again. "It's not because you're not… enough for me," he told her, and hated that she seemed to cringe at his words. "You are… beyond, what I could ever want or need. And it's not that I don't trust you."

"Then what is it, Grissom?" Her question was without heat - just tired, resigned, and it bruised him.

"I don't trust myself," he admitted. "I don't trust myself not to hurt you, and put both of our careers in jeopardy." He suddenly felt heavy for admitting it, hanging his head and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to lose you. And I don't want to be the reason I lose you." After a beat, he looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek before he admitted, "It's not your fault our relationship has been complicated."

Sara blinked, trying to process the raw honesty with which he had just addressed her, the deep feeling in his words. Who are you and what did you do with Gil Grissom, she thought, shell-shocked. They were moving between tentative silences, loaded with unspoken words and unshared feelings, and they moved into another pocket of wordless feeling as Sara tried to gather the courage to speak. Her voice was raspy when she finally managed, "So, what do we do? What do you want?"

Grissom looked up at her, searching her features for some outward measure of her strength in that moment. He squeezed her hand and adjusted his grip on her hand to be more sure, more of her hand covered with his, feeling the body heat passing between them. "I want you to be happy, Sara," he told her. "I mean that. I can't… I can't be everything to you right now. But I'd like to be something to you, and I want you to be happy."

Sara felt the grief rising in her again, clutching at her heart in a vicelike grip, and she looked away as she tried to blink them back. Still, they splashed down her face easily, and she pulled her hand back from his to brush them away. He gave her space to cry, pained but willing to bear it for her to be released whatever had been holding her in its teeth for months. "I miss you," he said, softly. "I miss seeing you being you. I miss seeing you happy, if that's what you were, when you first came to Vegas."

She nodded, still trying to hide her face. "I don't know how to be that person again, Griss," she whispered, still weeping. "So much has happened. I keep thinking, maybe my mom was my destiny, too. Maybe whatever evil lived in her mind is in my mind, too. Maybe I'm just this magnet for pain and violence and destruction…"

"No. Honey, no," he protested, reaching to grasp her furthest hand and tugging them both so he could clasp them between his between them both. "No. That's not true." Her words suddenly formed a dark picture, dawning in his mind, and he came to the cold realisation of her inner narrative. Grissom swallowed, unsure he could voice it.

"Is that what this is? You think that your feelings for me are evidence that you're becoming your mother?"

She slowly turned her head back to his. He continued, fitting the pieces together out loud. "And the cases are just reflecting that believe back to you…" he said. "Sara, you know that this job is a window, not a mirror."

"It's really hard to see that," she struggled to speak around her tears and uneven breaths. "When everything reminds you of how you became so messed up that no-one lo-"

"Stop," he pleaded. "No. Please, Sara. That's not true." Grissom swallowed the aching grief in his own throat, and repeated, "That's not true."

When she calmed down again, he saw her struggling to keep her eyes open - she would have been exhausted. So was he, if he was honest, but she was worth it. Sure enough, the first thing she said after her tears were dried was, "I'm tired."

"Okay," he said, taking his cue to leave. "Have you eaten anything today? Can I get you anything?"

She shook her head. "I've got some leftovers in the fridge, I'll be ok."

"You're sure?" Gil insisted, and she nodded. He stood, slowly, stiffly, his muscles aching from the tension and relief of the last few hours. He watched her unfold herself just as unsteadily, and had to reach out a hand to brace her as she swayed on her feet.

"Are you going to be okay?" He asked. "If I go?"

"I'm a big girl, Grissom," Sara looked at him, some of her fire still there, much to his relief. "I can handle these demons. Been doing it for a while."

He slid his hand down her arm so he could take her hand and squeeze it again. "You're not alone, now."

They both shuffled towards her front door, where Sara stood and shoved her hands in her pockets, shifting her weight between her feet as she stared at the floor. "Thanks for coming over, Griss."

"Anytime," he said, and then added, "I mean it, Sara. I know I haven't been easy to talk to, but I am here for you."

"What's going to happen now?" he saw how she tried to push her shoulders back, level her chin as though she were ready to take on the brutal reality of whatever happened next.

"I'll handle it," he said, forcing a small smile at the corner of his mouth. She returned the smile, awkwardly.

"You going to write a report for Ecklie?"

He laughed, "You think I'd give him the satisfaction? I write reports for nobody," he quipped, putting an exaggerated old-west twang on his words. Sara smiled, wider, the hint of a laugh in her throat.

Grissom squared his shoulders. "Sara, I'm not good at this, but-" he opened his palms, a gesture of defencelessness, and stepped closer to her. Understanding, she stepped into his space and let her chin rest on his shoulder, just as his arms raised to encircle her. She couldn't remember the last time they had hugged. Had they ever? But his body was warm, and while he seemed uncertain on how close he could hold her, or where his elbows should go, he held on tight. She breathed in the comforting, salty scent of the skin at his neck as he held her, after a moment gathering the courage to raise her hands to grip his back. With one last squeeze, he loosened his grip and stepped back, dithering for a moment, before turning awkwardly and leaving.

Polishing off Part Two right now, but please let me know what you think :)