Sweat dripped into her eyes, burning, mixing with tears to run down her
face. There was nothing like a punching bag to release the pain, and she
realized as she punched it again that for once her body didn't hurt. Her
knee wasn't sore, the phantom ache in her scar that had been troubling her
since she'd walked into the interrogation room had disappeared as she took
out her anger on the bag. Her body would be sore and tight tomorrow, but
right now she felt like light, like a perfect machine.
This was her diversion. This was her escape. Physical exercise, preferably alone, was the only thing that worked to get her mind off the job. But, as she burned away the emotions of the day, Sara's mind cleared, and on more than one occasion, she'd solved a case while beating up the bag.
Boxing was her favorite 'alone' diversion. In the months prior to this Barnes debacle, she'd picked up the sport. . .but it wasn't the only thing she did. She'd been known to pound the pavement, literally, jogging for hours until she was near collapse. After a particularly tough case, she'd gone to the shooting range and emptied five clips into a cardboard target. Target practice was the only thing she could do for months after Barnes had attacked her, and she still wasn't allowed to run, the impact on her injured knee was too high. Boxing was the latest addition to the list of okayed sports. . .and up until very recently, she hadn't been able to bob and weave like she wanted to.
Of course, boxing wasn't her favorite physical diversion, but her favorite required Grissom. . . and she was so angry she didn't want to see him.
The best thing about boxing or jogging was that no one could tell if you were crying through the sweat. This had come in handy a dozen times when she was so frustrated or upset she had to cry, but didn't want anyone to know.
Like today. With each blow her fists delivered, she chanted, "Damn him." Punch. "Damn you, Barnes." Punch. "Damn you, Phillips." Punch. "Damn you, Grissom."
Barnes was damned for being the sick, evil son-of-a-bitch he was, for cutting her up and for taking away what she had deemed normal. Phillips was damned for being the weak little brother who delivered her to evil. And Grissom. . .Grissom was damned for making her feel weak, like a victim. Grissom was damned for being Grissom. Grissom was damned because he had shown a weakness, because his façade had cracked, because when he did this he left her feeling less confident. She damned Grissom because she loved him, depended on him, needed him, and she hated being anything less than self-sufficient.
"Sara." Speaking of the devil. . .His voice cut through her inner monologue, but she refused to stop, hitting the bag harder, hitting it with such force that she had to move out of the way as it swung back at her.
Grissom watched her with concern. It was her style to push herself to the limit, to try to push herself past the limit, to the point of collapse. If she slowed down, she hadn't tried hard enough. . .but she had never tried slowing down. She did everything at a hundred-and-ten percent, she didn't know how not to. She had been extremely resentful of her injuries, they had slowed her down, and now she was doing double the work to make up for it.
"Sara," he tried again. She stopped, turned, breathing hard, hair plastered to her face, glared at him, and started working the bag again.
Damn her, she was so stubborn. But, he noted with interest, the blows were coming slower and slower, her shoulders were shaking more and more, she was near collapse. He wondered when she had eaten last.
One missed swing at the bag planted her firmly on the mat, and he had his arms around her sweaty waist before she could get up and start again. "Sara, no."
"Get off of me, let me go, let me go," she chanted, struggling to get free. "Barnes, let me go, let me go, please. Grissom, let me go."
She was hitting him now, not very hard, twisting and turning to get out of his grasp. Grissom registered briefly that she had called him Barnes.
"Get off, get off, damn it, let me go!" She turned in his arms to look him in the eye, and the pleading look in her eyes nearly broke his heart. "Grissom, please," she begged, her voice breaking on the plea.
"No," he said. "You have to stop, Sara. Don't kill yourself trying to kill him and what he did to you. You have to let it go."
"How can I let it go when I'm reminded every day?" she asked; her breaking voice and red eyes told him she was on the verge of tears. "How can I let it go when every time I look in a mirror, I see what he did to me? You always have an answer, Grissom, so tell me how to let it go when the evidence is in plain sight."
Grissom became keenly aware of her taut muscles under his hands. She had really come back from her injuries, in fact, she had gone beyond the level of fitness she had been at before Barnes.
"Sara, look at yourself," he commanded, turning her around towards a mirror- lined wall, kept his hands on her shoulders just in case she decided to duck out. . .even though he was pretty sure she was too tired to struggle anymore. "You want to talk about evidence in plain sight? Show me. What evidence?"
"These scars," she said, pointing at her face and at the appendectomy scar on her belly. "My knee."
"So?" he questioned.
"So, Barnes gave those to me."
"Barnes did an appendectomy? I don't think so," Grissom challenged. Sara, come on, get the point.
"Well, no, but he caused me to have one. And he did cut my face, and he did do the damage to my knee."
"Okay, what else?"
Sara stared at her image for a long time. "That's it," she said finally.
"That's it? You're not letting yourself move on over two pieces of evidence? Come on, I taught you better than that. You can't convict someone on two pieces of evidence."
"What do you want me to say, Gris?" Sara had grown exasperated with his questioning, wishing he would get to the point and leave her alone.
"I want you to take another look." He steered her back to the mirror. "What's positive?"
"I am not making a list of the good and the bad, Grissom." "I'm not asking you to. Look at yourself. What's good?"
"You are not a therapist, Grissom. Stop acting like one."
"You're right, I'm not," he smiled. "I'm your husband, which means I care. And I'm your boss, which means you do what I tell you. . .at least at work," he added quickly at her glare. "Please, just do it."
"Fine," she sighed, looking herself over again. What good had come out of her predicament? Grissom, for starters, even though he was acting like an ass. She had better muscle tone than she had in years. She could empathize with victims more now, which would help her do her job. . .Grissom wouldn't like a more empathetic Sara, he already thought she was bad enough.
"Well?" he asked. "You can trust me, I'm not going to laugh or criticize your answer."
"I know I can trust you," Sara replied. "I guess what's good is that I slowed down a lot, learned my limits. I'm more in shape, even though I couldn't do very much physical activity. I understand where I stand, what I should do or say."
"Anything else?"
"I got you," she said, a smile crossed her face for the first time in hours. "That's good."
"I certainly think so," he said, kissing her neck. Grissom's nose wrinkled in mock-disgust. "Sweetheart, you smell."
"Oh, thanks," she teased. "Did you just call me 'sweetheart'? Where did that come from?"
"It slipped," he shrugged. "Not one for terms of endearment?"
Sara shook her head. "Not from you, Mr. Scientist."
"Yeah, well, Mr. Scientist thinks Mrs. Scientist ought to go take a shower so her colleagues can work with her tonight."
She shot him a withering look. "I am not that bad."
"People never smell as bad to themselves as they do to others, keep that in mind."
"Telling your wife she smells puts you on the couch tonight, keep that in mind," she riposted with a small smile.
With one eyebrow raised, he replied, "As your boss, I'm telling you to go shower. Don't argue with me."
"Fine," she shot back with a grin.
--------
"You are God, anyone ever tell you that?" Sara moaned as Grissom massaged her right foot.
Grissom shrugged. "Occasionally." She was stretched out on the couch, tendrils of wet hair falling in her face, brown eyes shut as he kneaded her arch between his thumbs. He sat facing her, her legs in his lap. The foot massage was her reward for showering; she had tricked him into it. . .but he didn't mind.
"That feels incredible," she moaned again, as the tension flowed from her body. "You're the only person who could ever get near my feet, you know? Generally speaking, it tickles like a feather up your nose, but this? Not tickling at all."
"Well," Grissom said, reaching for her ribs, "I can remedy that."
Sara shrieked and squirmed under his unrelenting hands. "Grissom, stop! Baby, please!"
"Who's using terms of endearment now?" he asked as he found himself hovering over her on the couch. Grissom leaned in to kiss her laughing mouth, reveling in the moment.
"Oh, God. Will you two get a room?" Catherine's voice cut through the atmosphere, causing the pair to separate.
"What are they up to now?" Nick asked from the doorway. Catherine flung a hand over his eyes, as if he were a young child whose parent was guarding him from the sight. "Hey!"
"Don't look, Nicky. God knows I don't want to. I thought you two had a rule about that kind of thing."
Grissom got off of the couch, with a "We do," leaving Sara spread out and still laughing. She moved into a sitting position, and reached for her socks, but one was missing. "Gris, my sock?"
Her husband looked up from his perusal of the fridge with a quizzical expression. "Your sock?"
"Check your pockets," Nick suggested, his eyes still covered by Catherine's hand.
Grissom did, finding Sara's sock in his coat pocket. He tossed it to her, she thanked him with a grin, and as she slipped it over her foot, she said, "I think you can move your hand now, Catherine."
"You're fully clothed?" Nick asked, faking disappointment.
Grissom glared. "That's my wife you're talking about, Nicky."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, consenting adults," Catherine griped. "Doesn't mean we want to see anything."
"PDA's are so wrong," Nick added.
Grissom looked from Nick to Catherine to Sara, clearly puzzled by the acronym. Sara just smiled at him, amused by his lack of understanding. "PDA's?" he asked.
"Public displays of affection," Sara explained. "Generally frowned upon by the under-twelve set."
"And the over-twenty set," Catherine added. "Gross."
Grissom stepped back from himself and the conversation for just a moment, watched Sara bantering with Nick, laughing, smiling. She was back to herself. And in that moment, as she turned to him with brown eyes shining, he realized she had taught him more than he had ever taught her.
All his life, Grissom had chased death. Starting with the dissections of dead animals as a child, continuing through high school and college to now, his life revolved around what death left behind. He was perpetually following death. And Sara had joined him, not only chasing death, but justice as well. She had added revenge to her list after the Barnes ordeal.
He hated that she was chasing all of these negative things, had requested just hours ago that she let it go, but he had not realized the most important thing. Sara, just now, had let it go. And Sara had never chased death, anger, justice, revenge.
All of her responses to crimes, and her response to Barnes, and the way she did her job.these things were not negative like he had feared. Her enthusiasm and drive were not because of what he thought she chased, but because of what she did chase, had always chased.
Oh, no, Sara had never chased death or justice, revenge and anger. He didn't, either. No time.
They were too busy to chase these things.
They were too busy chasing life.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------
Well, well, the end. Hope you enjoyed it!
This was her diversion. This was her escape. Physical exercise, preferably alone, was the only thing that worked to get her mind off the job. But, as she burned away the emotions of the day, Sara's mind cleared, and on more than one occasion, she'd solved a case while beating up the bag.
Boxing was her favorite 'alone' diversion. In the months prior to this Barnes debacle, she'd picked up the sport. . .but it wasn't the only thing she did. She'd been known to pound the pavement, literally, jogging for hours until she was near collapse. After a particularly tough case, she'd gone to the shooting range and emptied five clips into a cardboard target. Target practice was the only thing she could do for months after Barnes had attacked her, and she still wasn't allowed to run, the impact on her injured knee was too high. Boxing was the latest addition to the list of okayed sports. . .and up until very recently, she hadn't been able to bob and weave like she wanted to.
Of course, boxing wasn't her favorite physical diversion, but her favorite required Grissom. . . and she was so angry she didn't want to see him.
The best thing about boxing or jogging was that no one could tell if you were crying through the sweat. This had come in handy a dozen times when she was so frustrated or upset she had to cry, but didn't want anyone to know.
Like today. With each blow her fists delivered, she chanted, "Damn him." Punch. "Damn you, Barnes." Punch. "Damn you, Phillips." Punch. "Damn you, Grissom."
Barnes was damned for being the sick, evil son-of-a-bitch he was, for cutting her up and for taking away what she had deemed normal. Phillips was damned for being the weak little brother who delivered her to evil. And Grissom. . .Grissom was damned for making her feel weak, like a victim. Grissom was damned for being Grissom. Grissom was damned because he had shown a weakness, because his façade had cracked, because when he did this he left her feeling less confident. She damned Grissom because she loved him, depended on him, needed him, and she hated being anything less than self-sufficient.
"Sara." Speaking of the devil. . .His voice cut through her inner monologue, but she refused to stop, hitting the bag harder, hitting it with such force that she had to move out of the way as it swung back at her.
Grissom watched her with concern. It was her style to push herself to the limit, to try to push herself past the limit, to the point of collapse. If she slowed down, she hadn't tried hard enough. . .but she had never tried slowing down. She did everything at a hundred-and-ten percent, she didn't know how not to. She had been extremely resentful of her injuries, they had slowed her down, and now she was doing double the work to make up for it.
"Sara," he tried again. She stopped, turned, breathing hard, hair plastered to her face, glared at him, and started working the bag again.
Damn her, she was so stubborn. But, he noted with interest, the blows were coming slower and slower, her shoulders were shaking more and more, she was near collapse. He wondered when she had eaten last.
One missed swing at the bag planted her firmly on the mat, and he had his arms around her sweaty waist before she could get up and start again. "Sara, no."
"Get off of me, let me go, let me go," she chanted, struggling to get free. "Barnes, let me go, let me go, please. Grissom, let me go."
She was hitting him now, not very hard, twisting and turning to get out of his grasp. Grissom registered briefly that she had called him Barnes.
"Get off, get off, damn it, let me go!" She turned in his arms to look him in the eye, and the pleading look in her eyes nearly broke his heart. "Grissom, please," she begged, her voice breaking on the plea.
"No," he said. "You have to stop, Sara. Don't kill yourself trying to kill him and what he did to you. You have to let it go."
"How can I let it go when I'm reminded every day?" she asked; her breaking voice and red eyes told him she was on the verge of tears. "How can I let it go when every time I look in a mirror, I see what he did to me? You always have an answer, Grissom, so tell me how to let it go when the evidence is in plain sight."
Grissom became keenly aware of her taut muscles under his hands. She had really come back from her injuries, in fact, she had gone beyond the level of fitness she had been at before Barnes.
"Sara, look at yourself," he commanded, turning her around towards a mirror- lined wall, kept his hands on her shoulders just in case she decided to duck out. . .even though he was pretty sure she was too tired to struggle anymore. "You want to talk about evidence in plain sight? Show me. What evidence?"
"These scars," she said, pointing at her face and at the appendectomy scar on her belly. "My knee."
"So?" he questioned.
"So, Barnes gave those to me."
"Barnes did an appendectomy? I don't think so," Grissom challenged. Sara, come on, get the point.
"Well, no, but he caused me to have one. And he did cut my face, and he did do the damage to my knee."
"Okay, what else?"
Sara stared at her image for a long time. "That's it," she said finally.
"That's it? You're not letting yourself move on over two pieces of evidence? Come on, I taught you better than that. You can't convict someone on two pieces of evidence."
"What do you want me to say, Gris?" Sara had grown exasperated with his questioning, wishing he would get to the point and leave her alone.
"I want you to take another look." He steered her back to the mirror. "What's positive?"
"I am not making a list of the good and the bad, Grissom." "I'm not asking you to. Look at yourself. What's good?"
"You are not a therapist, Grissom. Stop acting like one."
"You're right, I'm not," he smiled. "I'm your husband, which means I care. And I'm your boss, which means you do what I tell you. . .at least at work," he added quickly at her glare. "Please, just do it."
"Fine," she sighed, looking herself over again. What good had come out of her predicament? Grissom, for starters, even though he was acting like an ass. She had better muscle tone than she had in years. She could empathize with victims more now, which would help her do her job. . .Grissom wouldn't like a more empathetic Sara, he already thought she was bad enough.
"Well?" he asked. "You can trust me, I'm not going to laugh or criticize your answer."
"I know I can trust you," Sara replied. "I guess what's good is that I slowed down a lot, learned my limits. I'm more in shape, even though I couldn't do very much physical activity. I understand where I stand, what I should do or say."
"Anything else?"
"I got you," she said, a smile crossed her face for the first time in hours. "That's good."
"I certainly think so," he said, kissing her neck. Grissom's nose wrinkled in mock-disgust. "Sweetheart, you smell."
"Oh, thanks," she teased. "Did you just call me 'sweetheart'? Where did that come from?"
"It slipped," he shrugged. "Not one for terms of endearment?"
Sara shook her head. "Not from you, Mr. Scientist."
"Yeah, well, Mr. Scientist thinks Mrs. Scientist ought to go take a shower so her colleagues can work with her tonight."
She shot him a withering look. "I am not that bad."
"People never smell as bad to themselves as they do to others, keep that in mind."
"Telling your wife she smells puts you on the couch tonight, keep that in mind," she riposted with a small smile.
With one eyebrow raised, he replied, "As your boss, I'm telling you to go shower. Don't argue with me."
"Fine," she shot back with a grin.
--------
"You are God, anyone ever tell you that?" Sara moaned as Grissom massaged her right foot.
Grissom shrugged. "Occasionally." She was stretched out on the couch, tendrils of wet hair falling in her face, brown eyes shut as he kneaded her arch between his thumbs. He sat facing her, her legs in his lap. The foot massage was her reward for showering; she had tricked him into it. . .but he didn't mind.
"That feels incredible," she moaned again, as the tension flowed from her body. "You're the only person who could ever get near my feet, you know? Generally speaking, it tickles like a feather up your nose, but this? Not tickling at all."
"Well," Grissom said, reaching for her ribs, "I can remedy that."
Sara shrieked and squirmed under his unrelenting hands. "Grissom, stop! Baby, please!"
"Who's using terms of endearment now?" he asked as he found himself hovering over her on the couch. Grissom leaned in to kiss her laughing mouth, reveling in the moment.
"Oh, God. Will you two get a room?" Catherine's voice cut through the atmosphere, causing the pair to separate.
"What are they up to now?" Nick asked from the doorway. Catherine flung a hand over his eyes, as if he were a young child whose parent was guarding him from the sight. "Hey!"
"Don't look, Nicky. God knows I don't want to. I thought you two had a rule about that kind of thing."
Grissom got off of the couch, with a "We do," leaving Sara spread out and still laughing. She moved into a sitting position, and reached for her socks, but one was missing. "Gris, my sock?"
Her husband looked up from his perusal of the fridge with a quizzical expression. "Your sock?"
"Check your pockets," Nick suggested, his eyes still covered by Catherine's hand.
Grissom did, finding Sara's sock in his coat pocket. He tossed it to her, she thanked him with a grin, and as she slipped it over her foot, she said, "I think you can move your hand now, Catherine."
"You're fully clothed?" Nick asked, faking disappointment.
Grissom glared. "That's my wife you're talking about, Nicky."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, consenting adults," Catherine griped. "Doesn't mean we want to see anything."
"PDA's are so wrong," Nick added.
Grissom looked from Nick to Catherine to Sara, clearly puzzled by the acronym. Sara just smiled at him, amused by his lack of understanding. "PDA's?" he asked.
"Public displays of affection," Sara explained. "Generally frowned upon by the under-twelve set."
"And the over-twenty set," Catherine added. "Gross."
Grissom stepped back from himself and the conversation for just a moment, watched Sara bantering with Nick, laughing, smiling. She was back to herself. And in that moment, as she turned to him with brown eyes shining, he realized she had taught him more than he had ever taught her.
All his life, Grissom had chased death. Starting with the dissections of dead animals as a child, continuing through high school and college to now, his life revolved around what death left behind. He was perpetually following death. And Sara had joined him, not only chasing death, but justice as well. She had added revenge to her list after the Barnes ordeal.
He hated that she was chasing all of these negative things, had requested just hours ago that she let it go, but he had not realized the most important thing. Sara, just now, had let it go. And Sara had never chased death, anger, justice, revenge.
All of her responses to crimes, and her response to Barnes, and the way she did her job.these things were not negative like he had feared. Her enthusiasm and drive were not because of what he thought she chased, but because of what she did chase, had always chased.
Oh, no, Sara had never chased death or justice, revenge and anger. He didn't, either. No time.
They were too busy to chase these things.
They were too busy chasing life.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------
Well, well, the end. Hope you enjoyed it!
