Just Another Moment -- II-A (Sara)
By Midnight Caller
Disclaimer: Grissom and Sara and CSI all fall under the category of "Not mine." Atlantis Alliance and CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer have the privilege of owning them.
Summary: Part II-A. Unfortunately there is going to have to be a II-B as well, because while I'd still like to do Sara's POV of the TAIE and LTSB events, I'm really having difficulty moving this story beyond where I ended this particular chapter, and didn't get far enough to catch this up with the Grissom POVs. However, I really, really, just needed to post this and get it off my computer. So I apologize if the ending is a little...abrupt.
Rating: PG-13, for intimate-type situations and far too much interior monologue
Thanks to Eolivet and Meg.
*****
The memories leak into my dream, trembling droplets of mercury struggling to decide whether to remain in perfect circular form, or to return to the larger pool of silver waiting for them close by.
Dummies. He was throwing dummies off the roof. Okay, well, he was watching them fall to their inanimate deaths, but nevertheless, the sight of him so enthused over the experiment makes me chuckle. I watch him move around the bodies, snapping a photo as he exposits the scene to himself. He still looks good. I stifle the grin pulling at my lips.
"Norman fell..."
I smile and step forward. "Wouldn't you if you were married to Mrs. Roper?"
He stops, standing up straighter. "I don't even have to turn around..."
Our conversation pitifully tries to hide the charged exchange occurring between his eyes and mine, and I finally ask about Holly. He answers briefly, before swinging it back to me.
Two years dissolve into two minutes, and I'm lost in those eyes again, just like before.
"God, Sara...
...I have ten people working 'round the clock on this thing!"
His breathing is ragged, and he flails his arms around, the frustration building, building. It's what he always tells me not to do.
"You're too hard on yourself."
"I'm not mad at me! There's a dead body in there and that guy knows where it is!"
It's good to see him angry once in a while. It's good for him. I catch his eye and with a sly grin ask, "What's your pulse at now?"
He gives me a look, and then props his cap up on his forehead, a few curls sticking out beneath the bill.
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes, and I can't help but stare at him, the softness washing over as he lets his guard down for just a moment.
I don't know why, or how, but I'm suddenly reaching for him. His cheek is warm, my thumb rubbing over the stubble and skin.
He smiles at the touch, one of those embarrassed, closed-mouthed grins. My hand eventually falls from his back, lingering on his shoulder for a few seconds more. Our breaths float out into the chilled air like puffs of smoke.
He rubs his hands against the warmth of the thermos, and then pours us each a cup.
I close my eyes as the hot liquid washes down my throat, quickly spreading a fire across my chest as I curse to myself for drinking too fast. Coffee should be sipped.
I force open my tired lids, and stare at the blinking green cursor. Missing person #24567. White male. 47. Not what I want. I press return for the next record.
"Hey."
I look up to see him in the doorway, and I know what's coming. Too much work. Not enough sleep.
Sleep.
The mercury drips into the blackness, slower than before, oozing lazily toward a larger, silvery mass.
As Grissom leans over the table to speak, his mouth takes twice as long to form the letters, twice as long to make the words, and his voice reaches my ears long after leaving his lips. His head falls languidly to one side, and the entire room seems to be slowing down.
I don't want to leave this dream. I don't want to leave him. I don't want to be alone.
The light is nearly blinding when I finally open my eyes, suddenly remembering where I am.
Grissom's curtains float open again, and another streak of sunlight causes my pupils to constrict, and they virtually disappear into two tiny black specks in a sea of surrounding brown.
He moves beside me, shifting just slightly as his hand lets go of its grip on my back. I watch his face as he sighs, and a calmness I've never seen before coats his features, relieving all the stress, all the apprehension, all the uncertainty that always seems to haunt him like a waking nightmare.
I wonder if that happens to me when I sleep, when my hope stands alone in the darkness, a doomed crusader against my countless fears. I think I alone am responsible for losing that battle over and over. As I look beside me, gazing upon the living, breathing being who unknowingly sustains my faith in justice, in love, in all of my personal truths, I wonder why I can't just accept this moment, free myself from the firm grip I have on doubt and fear and acceptance of failure, and let the feelings engulf me the way they should, the way I've wanted them to for as long as I can remember.
Can anyone's heart truly attach itself to one being, one individual in six billion? Does his heart fluctuate, or remain as steady as the beat that drives the blood through his veins? He's opened up to me at brief intervals, and during those moments he gives so much that I can hardly believe it's genuine. I want to believe, but one moment I think I know him, and then he's nothing but a passing stranger. It's only natural that his heart is fickle. It's hard enough to expect intense and focused dedication from one person, much less two. After all, as much as I want them to, I can't even be sure my own feelings will forever remain where they are right now - completely and utterly consumed by the essence of that one in six billion.
It's happened before; fear infiltrates hope, a stealthy assassin waiting for that brief opportunity when one single pang of regret or one droplet of doubt seeps into the mix. Just a single strike, that's all it takes, and before you know it you're running for your life to get as far away as possible, even though you've left most of your heart behind in the process.
My chest aches at the thought.
I shut my eyes, feeling his warmth for just another moment longer, and then I slowly back away, gently lifting the covers and slipping out onto the floor.
He's still asleep when I tiptoe out of the room, and I swear I can still hear his breaths as I quietly shut the door and walk back to my car.
Despite the other feet sharing the hallway with me, all I can hear is the echo of my shoes, claps of thunder ricocheting across an expansive linoleum landscape. It's like I'm trapped in one of my slow-moving dreams, only I can't figure out if I'm about to fall asleep, or if I'm close to waking. All day my mind has been in this strange stasis, going through the motions as it sorts through the massive amount of input, separating the vital work information from the distracting yearnings of my heart.
Work is slow, only encouraging the exploration of all those forgotten cells my brain has tried so hard to hide from me. As I sort through the thousandth casefile, I try to only gloss over the gray matter, memories and smells and long-forgotten sights popping into my consciousness like flickering frames on a strip of film. I try and resist the strong urge to dip farther into some of the touches, the sights, those alluring smells.
The various faces flow in and out of one another like bubbles of oil surfacing in a puddle of water. Blonde hair and brown eyes, black hair and green eyes, hazel eyes and tan skin; they all regard me as if I never left, never ran away, never hesitated, never doubted, never said things I didn't mean, never caused hurt and pain, never thought it wouldn't last. They are memories without memory, always forgiving, ceaselessly trusting, eternally happy, forever in love.
As soon as I start to remember too much of a caress or an errant glance, the fear that chased me away suddenly intrudes without notice, and I almost have to physically shake away the memory. I know the panic is stalking me, waiting for me to slip up, open myself too much, say too much, care too much. And yet, this shadow that follows me around seems to be afraid when I'm in his presence. When I stand close enough to hear his breathing, it's not fear that makes my heart race and my skin blush. When our fingers collide, or our eyes lock, it's not doubt that sets the nerves in my stomach into overdrive, and it's not the haunted flashes of old memories that coats the palms of my hands with a thin layer of moisture every time I think about touching him.
I catch his eyes in the breakroom, glancing over the rims of his glasses as he pretends to complete a crossword. Remembering the night before, a smirk escapes out onto my lips, and I know behind the pages of that book of puzzles is an expression similar to my own.
As I walk away, a strange, comforting warmth flowing through me, I'm astounded with how quickly I fluctuate, how easy it is to go from doubting myself, my faith, and my hope in people, to falling into the deep, soothing pool of naïveté, believing that there is no end to falling in love, no stopping the rush of adrenaline, the nervous laughter, the awkward shifting of feet, the exhilaration of that first embrace, of that original, unspoiled meeting of lips, breaths, and tongues.
When I pass Greg in the lab, he waggles his eyebrows in reference to my "movie dates," and I almost have to laugh at the absurdity of his implications. Hank is... not Grissom. That's the simplest way I can categorize our relationship. I laugh at his corny jokes, he gets my wry sense of humor, and he's one of the only people I know who can even begin to understand what I go through every day at work, what I see, how I deal. But he's not Grissom. Whatever that means.
And yet, as much as I distance myself from Hank, I fear what would happen if Grissom found out about him. Would he think I have given up, that I've moved on, that I got tired of waiting for whatever's holding him back to be stripped away? Would he think that I consider him nothing more than a cheap, reliable source of warmth and physical contact for those nights I don't want to be alone? Or am I afraid that's how I treat him?
Those very questions run through my mind as I lie here next to him again, wearing his clothes, sliding my hands against his sheets, resting my head atop the pulsating lifeline responsible for the warmth I enjoy as I press up against him. At least temporarily, the questions are answered, one by one, every time I feel his hand on my back, in my hair, warm against my skin.
It never is enough to convince me... but that's my own fault. Morning comes and I wake before he does, and before I know it I'm out the door, running... just running. By the time I get to the car, out of breath, my cheeks flushed, I've managed to convince myself he doesn't care, never cared, and never will.
(tbc...)
Disclaimer: Grissom and Sara and CSI all fall under the category of "Not mine." Atlantis Alliance and CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer have the privilege of owning them.
Summary: Part II-A. Unfortunately there is going to have to be a II-B as well, because while I'd still like to do Sara's POV of the TAIE and LTSB events, I'm really having difficulty moving this story beyond where I ended this particular chapter, and didn't get far enough to catch this up with the Grissom POVs. However, I really, really, just needed to post this and get it off my computer. So I apologize if the ending is a little...abrupt.
Rating: PG-13, for intimate-type situations and far too much interior monologue
Thanks to Eolivet and Meg.
*****
The memories leak into my dream, trembling droplets of mercury struggling to decide whether to remain in perfect circular form, or to return to the larger pool of silver waiting for them close by.
Dummies. He was throwing dummies off the roof. Okay, well, he was watching them fall to their inanimate deaths, but nevertheless, the sight of him so enthused over the experiment makes me chuckle. I watch him move around the bodies, snapping a photo as he exposits the scene to himself. He still looks good. I stifle the grin pulling at my lips.
"Norman fell..."
I smile and step forward. "Wouldn't you if you were married to Mrs. Roper?"
He stops, standing up straighter. "I don't even have to turn around..."
Our conversation pitifully tries to hide the charged exchange occurring between his eyes and mine, and I finally ask about Holly. He answers briefly, before swinging it back to me.
Two years dissolve into two minutes, and I'm lost in those eyes again, just like before.
"God, Sara...
...I have ten people working 'round the clock on this thing!"
His breathing is ragged, and he flails his arms around, the frustration building, building. It's what he always tells me not to do.
"You're too hard on yourself."
"I'm not mad at me! There's a dead body in there and that guy knows where it is!"
It's good to see him angry once in a while. It's good for him. I catch his eye and with a sly grin ask, "What's your pulse at now?"
He gives me a look, and then props his cap up on his forehead, a few curls sticking out beneath the bill.
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes, and I can't help but stare at him, the softness washing over as he lets his guard down for just a moment.
I don't know why, or how, but I'm suddenly reaching for him. His cheek is warm, my thumb rubbing over the stubble and skin.
He smiles at the touch, one of those embarrassed, closed-mouthed grins. My hand eventually falls from his back, lingering on his shoulder for a few seconds more. Our breaths float out into the chilled air like puffs of smoke.
He rubs his hands against the warmth of the thermos, and then pours us each a cup.
I close my eyes as the hot liquid washes down my throat, quickly spreading a fire across my chest as I curse to myself for drinking too fast. Coffee should be sipped.
I force open my tired lids, and stare at the blinking green cursor. Missing person #24567. White male. 47. Not what I want. I press return for the next record.
"Hey."
I look up to see him in the doorway, and I know what's coming. Too much work. Not enough sleep.
Sleep.
The mercury drips into the blackness, slower than before, oozing lazily toward a larger, silvery mass.
As Grissom leans over the table to speak, his mouth takes twice as long to form the letters, twice as long to make the words, and his voice reaches my ears long after leaving his lips. His head falls languidly to one side, and the entire room seems to be slowing down.
I don't want to leave this dream. I don't want to leave him. I don't want to be alone.
The light is nearly blinding when I finally open my eyes, suddenly remembering where I am.
Grissom's curtains float open again, and another streak of sunlight causes my pupils to constrict, and they virtually disappear into two tiny black specks in a sea of surrounding brown.
He moves beside me, shifting just slightly as his hand lets go of its grip on my back. I watch his face as he sighs, and a calmness I've never seen before coats his features, relieving all the stress, all the apprehension, all the uncertainty that always seems to haunt him like a waking nightmare.
I wonder if that happens to me when I sleep, when my hope stands alone in the darkness, a doomed crusader against my countless fears. I think I alone am responsible for losing that battle over and over. As I look beside me, gazing upon the living, breathing being who unknowingly sustains my faith in justice, in love, in all of my personal truths, I wonder why I can't just accept this moment, free myself from the firm grip I have on doubt and fear and acceptance of failure, and let the feelings engulf me the way they should, the way I've wanted them to for as long as I can remember.
Can anyone's heart truly attach itself to one being, one individual in six billion? Does his heart fluctuate, or remain as steady as the beat that drives the blood through his veins? He's opened up to me at brief intervals, and during those moments he gives so much that I can hardly believe it's genuine. I want to believe, but one moment I think I know him, and then he's nothing but a passing stranger. It's only natural that his heart is fickle. It's hard enough to expect intense and focused dedication from one person, much less two. After all, as much as I want them to, I can't even be sure my own feelings will forever remain where they are right now - completely and utterly consumed by the essence of that one in six billion.
It's happened before; fear infiltrates hope, a stealthy assassin waiting for that brief opportunity when one single pang of regret or one droplet of doubt seeps into the mix. Just a single strike, that's all it takes, and before you know it you're running for your life to get as far away as possible, even though you've left most of your heart behind in the process.
My chest aches at the thought.
I shut my eyes, feeling his warmth for just another moment longer, and then I slowly back away, gently lifting the covers and slipping out onto the floor.
He's still asleep when I tiptoe out of the room, and I swear I can still hear his breaths as I quietly shut the door and walk back to my car.
Despite the other feet sharing the hallway with me, all I can hear is the echo of my shoes, claps of thunder ricocheting across an expansive linoleum landscape. It's like I'm trapped in one of my slow-moving dreams, only I can't figure out if I'm about to fall asleep, or if I'm close to waking. All day my mind has been in this strange stasis, going through the motions as it sorts through the massive amount of input, separating the vital work information from the distracting yearnings of my heart.
Work is slow, only encouraging the exploration of all those forgotten cells my brain has tried so hard to hide from me. As I sort through the thousandth casefile, I try to only gloss over the gray matter, memories and smells and long-forgotten sights popping into my consciousness like flickering frames on a strip of film. I try and resist the strong urge to dip farther into some of the touches, the sights, those alluring smells.
The various faces flow in and out of one another like bubbles of oil surfacing in a puddle of water. Blonde hair and brown eyes, black hair and green eyes, hazel eyes and tan skin; they all regard me as if I never left, never ran away, never hesitated, never doubted, never said things I didn't mean, never caused hurt and pain, never thought it wouldn't last. They are memories without memory, always forgiving, ceaselessly trusting, eternally happy, forever in love.
As soon as I start to remember too much of a caress or an errant glance, the fear that chased me away suddenly intrudes without notice, and I almost have to physically shake away the memory. I know the panic is stalking me, waiting for me to slip up, open myself too much, say too much, care too much. And yet, this shadow that follows me around seems to be afraid when I'm in his presence. When I stand close enough to hear his breathing, it's not fear that makes my heart race and my skin blush. When our fingers collide, or our eyes lock, it's not doubt that sets the nerves in my stomach into overdrive, and it's not the haunted flashes of old memories that coats the palms of my hands with a thin layer of moisture every time I think about touching him.
I catch his eyes in the breakroom, glancing over the rims of his glasses as he pretends to complete a crossword. Remembering the night before, a smirk escapes out onto my lips, and I know behind the pages of that book of puzzles is an expression similar to my own.
As I walk away, a strange, comforting warmth flowing through me, I'm astounded with how quickly I fluctuate, how easy it is to go from doubting myself, my faith, and my hope in people, to falling into the deep, soothing pool of naïveté, believing that there is no end to falling in love, no stopping the rush of adrenaline, the nervous laughter, the awkward shifting of feet, the exhilaration of that first embrace, of that original, unspoiled meeting of lips, breaths, and tongues.
When I pass Greg in the lab, he waggles his eyebrows in reference to my "movie dates," and I almost have to laugh at the absurdity of his implications. Hank is... not Grissom. That's the simplest way I can categorize our relationship. I laugh at his corny jokes, he gets my wry sense of humor, and he's one of the only people I know who can even begin to understand what I go through every day at work, what I see, how I deal. But he's not Grissom. Whatever that means.
And yet, as much as I distance myself from Hank, I fear what would happen if Grissom found out about him. Would he think I have given up, that I've moved on, that I got tired of waiting for whatever's holding him back to be stripped away? Would he think that I consider him nothing more than a cheap, reliable source of warmth and physical contact for those nights I don't want to be alone? Or am I afraid that's how I treat him?
Those very questions run through my mind as I lie here next to him again, wearing his clothes, sliding my hands against his sheets, resting my head atop the pulsating lifeline responsible for the warmth I enjoy as I press up against him. At least temporarily, the questions are answered, one by one, every time I feel his hand on my back, in my hair, warm against my skin.
It never is enough to convince me... but that's my own fault. Morning comes and I wake before he does, and before I know it I'm out the door, running... just running. By the time I get to the car, out of breath, my cheeks flushed, I've managed to convince myself he doesn't care, never cared, and never will.
(tbc...)