She was back in Georgia, back in the basement of that house, back smelling
her own coppery blood, feeling it drip down her face and congeal as she
waited desperately for someone to come. She had never told Grissom that
the most frightening parts of the nightmarish encounter with Barnes were
those moments after he had cut her face, waiting for someone to get her,
listening to the footsteps of all the people searching the house, not
having the strength to call for help. She had never told him this because
he had made the fear go away, it hadn't seemed important to tell him at the
time, she had been so happy to get the hell out of there, to see him again.
She should have told him, it would have explained why she hated to be left
alone during the first few months after, especially at night.
She was going to tell him as soon as she woke up from this nightmare.
Barnes was leaning over her now with a piece of plastic piping, cackling gleefully as he swung it into her back. The whole experience was happening backwards, it didn't make any sense.
Oh, look. There's the hammer- "Sara."
The hammer was talking? What the hell? The hammer hadn't talked before. "Sara!"
Grissom's voice. Scope barked. "Scope's not alive yet," she told herself.
"Excuse me?" Grissom asked as the brunette muttered something about the dog. When he didn't receive a response, he prodded her gently with a finger. "Sara, wake up."
"Not this time, Barnes," she mumbled, throwing out a fist in response to his poke. Unlike the night before, Grissom did not miss the fist, it connected firmly with his right eye.
"Ow, shit!" he swore loudly, reaching up to touch the quickly swelling and very tender area. "Damn it, Sidle!"
Still caught in her dream, convinced she had punched Gary Barnes, Sara smiled. Then the floor dipped away from her, she rolled slightly with it as the walls of the basement faded in and out, finally disappearing into the bright light of their bedroom.
Sara blinked twice, her eyes adjusting to the brightness. She propped herself up slightly, seeing that both Grissom and the dog had left the bed and the room at some point, and Grissom had turned on the lights. "Gris?" she called, puzzled. He hardly ever got up in the middle of the day anymore.
"In the kitchen," he snapped. What the hell was he so angry about? Migraine, she decided, even though it seemed odd that he would get a migraine at-she checked the clock-2 in the afternoon.
Sara rose, grabbing one of Grissom's dress shirts to pull over her tank top. It wasn't cold in the apartment, but it wasn't exactly warm, either. She padded to the kitchen, where her husband sat with a forensics textbook, holding a bag of ice to his right eye. He squinted at the book, his glasses still lying on the nightstand by the bed, trying to read with one eye.
The book could be explained. He had been asked by a colleague to edit it, and Grissom was taking painstaking care with his editing, frequently asking her if things made sense or if they were too complicated. He had had the book for weeks now, sometimes having enough time to edit between cases, sometimes not.
The ice, however. . .she couldn't think of any reason he would have ice on his eye. "Hey, babe," she said softly, and Grissom turned with a fierce look. "What's with the ice?" Sara asked, gesturing to her own eye.
"You hit me," he growled, turning back to the book.
"I what?" she asked, not believing what he said.
He swiveled sharply towards her, pulling the bag of ice away from his face. A dark bruise was forming around his eye. "No more boxing," he ordered.
"Oh, my god. I was dreaming," she explained hastily. "I must've thought you were Barnes and I lashed out. I'm so sorry, Grissom."
Sara reached out to touch his face, gently tracing the bruise. Grissom backed away from her touch. "You should be lucky I'm not having you arrested for spousal abuse," he groused, but she could see in his eyes that his anger was lifting.
She chuckled softly, replying with a small smile and, "I'd turn myself in if I didn't know it was an accident."
He was sucker-punched sometimes by how much he loved her, needed her. She was ten feet away but it felt like it was ten miles; just the act of her leaving the room made the kitchen feel small, oppressive, as if the walls were coming closer and closer to him. Whenever he had doubts or when they fought, he thought of these moments when she was so close but so far, and he remembered all over again why he had told Catherine nearly three years ago that he couldn't imagine waking up without Sara.
The object of his thoughts was getting dressed for work, and he rose, replacing the ice in the freezer, putting it next to a sample of blood, and traced her footsteps to the bedroom.
She was lacing a thick leather belt through the belt loops on her hip- huggers, the hem of her black T-shirt with the words "I HATE Georgia" written in red tucked under her chin as she slipped the belt to the proper notch. Her belly was exposed, and while he couldn't see it, he knew she had a six-pack hiding under a thin layer of baby fat. He wanted to reach out and touch her smooth skin, but he didn't want to disturb this moment.
"Gris, you want to hand me the brush?" Sara asked, raising her head and pulling the shirt down, not turning to face him.
He was slightly startled by her request, he hadn't realized she knew he was there, so he handed her the hairbrush without comment. "You're beautiful," he murmured as he reached her side. "I'm crazy for you."
"I should be saying that to you," she laughed, combing her hair. "After what I did to you earlier. . ."
She was avoiding his compliments. For someone who took so much pleasure in being right, and perfect, at least at work, Sara couldn't take a compliment about herself. She was uncomfortable with the attention, with the idea that she too was beautiful. "I mean it," he said with conviction. "When I told you that I've only been interested in beauty since I met you, I meant it."
"Good," she said, raising her eyebrows slightly to say That's enough. Sara put the hairbrush down on the dresser, checked her part in the small mirror next to the brush, straightening it. She knew he was slightly hurt by her refusal to accept a compliment, but it wasn't in her nature.
Turning back to him, she ran the back of her hand down his cheek, leaned in and kissed him softly, and said, "I appreciate it, I do, I just don't know what to do or say when you tell me things like that."
"You could say thank you," he suggested glibly, winking at her before closing the distance between their lips.
"Walk into a door?" Catherine asked, voice dripping with sarcasm, when she saw Grissom's black eye.
He gestured towards his wife, who was reading a file on the couch. Sara looked up and they shared a glance. "Sara can tell you everything you need to know," Grissom replied, giving the brunette a half-smile.
She rolled her eyes and mouthed, "Bastard," then turned to Catherine to explain, "I accidentally punched him while I was dreaming. Thought he was Gary Barnes."
"Oh, I totally see the resemblance," Catherine teased, watching gleefully as Sara's face tightened.
"Hey, Grissom, what'd you do. . .?" Nick started, as he walked into the room.
". . .Walk into a door?" Warrick finished, coming in just behind his friend. The duo chuckled as Grissom replied, "Heard it already."
"Let me guess," Warrick said slowly, a smile on his face. "Smackdown at the Grissom-Sidle residence."
"Sara, did you just get tired of the bugs?" Nick asked with faux-sympathy. "You should have her arrested for spousal abuse, Gris."
Sara's jaw set as she gave the pair a good view of both of her middle fingers. "Oh, sorry. Muscle spasm," she snapped at Grissom's disapproving look. "Oh, Nick? Warrick? Next time we're in the ring together, I'm gonna make sure you look worse than him," she added to her occasional sparring partners, pointing at Grissom.
"Sara. . ."
She was going to tell him as soon as she woke up from this nightmare.
Barnes was leaning over her now with a piece of plastic piping, cackling gleefully as he swung it into her back. The whole experience was happening backwards, it didn't make any sense.
Oh, look. There's the hammer- "Sara."
The hammer was talking? What the hell? The hammer hadn't talked before. "Sara!"
Grissom's voice. Scope barked. "Scope's not alive yet," she told herself.
"Excuse me?" Grissom asked as the brunette muttered something about the dog. When he didn't receive a response, he prodded her gently with a finger. "Sara, wake up."
"Not this time, Barnes," she mumbled, throwing out a fist in response to his poke. Unlike the night before, Grissom did not miss the fist, it connected firmly with his right eye.
"Ow, shit!" he swore loudly, reaching up to touch the quickly swelling and very tender area. "Damn it, Sidle!"
Still caught in her dream, convinced she had punched Gary Barnes, Sara smiled. Then the floor dipped away from her, she rolled slightly with it as the walls of the basement faded in and out, finally disappearing into the bright light of their bedroom.
Sara blinked twice, her eyes adjusting to the brightness. She propped herself up slightly, seeing that both Grissom and the dog had left the bed and the room at some point, and Grissom had turned on the lights. "Gris?" she called, puzzled. He hardly ever got up in the middle of the day anymore.
"In the kitchen," he snapped. What the hell was he so angry about? Migraine, she decided, even though it seemed odd that he would get a migraine at-she checked the clock-2 in the afternoon.
Sara rose, grabbing one of Grissom's dress shirts to pull over her tank top. It wasn't cold in the apartment, but it wasn't exactly warm, either. She padded to the kitchen, where her husband sat with a forensics textbook, holding a bag of ice to his right eye. He squinted at the book, his glasses still lying on the nightstand by the bed, trying to read with one eye.
The book could be explained. He had been asked by a colleague to edit it, and Grissom was taking painstaking care with his editing, frequently asking her if things made sense or if they were too complicated. He had had the book for weeks now, sometimes having enough time to edit between cases, sometimes not.
The ice, however. . .she couldn't think of any reason he would have ice on his eye. "Hey, babe," she said softly, and Grissom turned with a fierce look. "What's with the ice?" Sara asked, gesturing to her own eye.
"You hit me," he growled, turning back to the book.
"I what?" she asked, not believing what he said.
He swiveled sharply towards her, pulling the bag of ice away from his face. A dark bruise was forming around his eye. "No more boxing," he ordered.
"Oh, my god. I was dreaming," she explained hastily. "I must've thought you were Barnes and I lashed out. I'm so sorry, Grissom."
Sara reached out to touch his face, gently tracing the bruise. Grissom backed away from her touch. "You should be lucky I'm not having you arrested for spousal abuse," he groused, but she could see in his eyes that his anger was lifting.
She chuckled softly, replying with a small smile and, "I'd turn myself in if I didn't know it was an accident."
He was sucker-punched sometimes by how much he loved her, needed her. She was ten feet away but it felt like it was ten miles; just the act of her leaving the room made the kitchen feel small, oppressive, as if the walls were coming closer and closer to him. Whenever he had doubts or when they fought, he thought of these moments when she was so close but so far, and he remembered all over again why he had told Catherine nearly three years ago that he couldn't imagine waking up without Sara.
The object of his thoughts was getting dressed for work, and he rose, replacing the ice in the freezer, putting it next to a sample of blood, and traced her footsteps to the bedroom.
She was lacing a thick leather belt through the belt loops on her hip- huggers, the hem of her black T-shirt with the words "I HATE Georgia" written in red tucked under her chin as she slipped the belt to the proper notch. Her belly was exposed, and while he couldn't see it, he knew she had a six-pack hiding under a thin layer of baby fat. He wanted to reach out and touch her smooth skin, but he didn't want to disturb this moment.
"Gris, you want to hand me the brush?" Sara asked, raising her head and pulling the shirt down, not turning to face him.
He was slightly startled by her request, he hadn't realized she knew he was there, so he handed her the hairbrush without comment. "You're beautiful," he murmured as he reached her side. "I'm crazy for you."
"I should be saying that to you," she laughed, combing her hair. "After what I did to you earlier. . ."
She was avoiding his compliments. For someone who took so much pleasure in being right, and perfect, at least at work, Sara couldn't take a compliment about herself. She was uncomfortable with the attention, with the idea that she too was beautiful. "I mean it," he said with conviction. "When I told you that I've only been interested in beauty since I met you, I meant it."
"Good," she said, raising her eyebrows slightly to say That's enough. Sara put the hairbrush down on the dresser, checked her part in the small mirror next to the brush, straightening it. She knew he was slightly hurt by her refusal to accept a compliment, but it wasn't in her nature.
Turning back to him, she ran the back of her hand down his cheek, leaned in and kissed him softly, and said, "I appreciate it, I do, I just don't know what to do or say when you tell me things like that."
"You could say thank you," he suggested glibly, winking at her before closing the distance between their lips.
"Walk into a door?" Catherine asked, voice dripping with sarcasm, when she saw Grissom's black eye.
He gestured towards his wife, who was reading a file on the couch. Sara looked up and they shared a glance. "Sara can tell you everything you need to know," Grissom replied, giving the brunette a half-smile.
She rolled her eyes and mouthed, "Bastard," then turned to Catherine to explain, "I accidentally punched him while I was dreaming. Thought he was Gary Barnes."
"Oh, I totally see the resemblance," Catherine teased, watching gleefully as Sara's face tightened.
"Hey, Grissom, what'd you do. . .?" Nick started, as he walked into the room.
". . .Walk into a door?" Warrick finished, coming in just behind his friend. The duo chuckled as Grissom replied, "Heard it already."
"Let me guess," Warrick said slowly, a smile on his face. "Smackdown at the Grissom-Sidle residence."
"Sara, did you just get tired of the bugs?" Nick asked with faux-sympathy. "You should have her arrested for spousal abuse, Gris."
Sara's jaw set as she gave the pair a good view of both of her middle fingers. "Oh, sorry. Muscle spasm," she snapped at Grissom's disapproving look. "Oh, Nick? Warrick? Next time we're in the ring together, I'm gonna make sure you look worse than him," she added to her occasional sparring partners, pointing at Grissom.
"Sara. . ."