Title: Fog
Author: Blaze
Rating/Spoilers: PG, and maybe a small one for PNN. So small.
Summary: I hate these. . .Sigh. Two Geeks and a beach. Prequel to Lullaby.
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
Author's Notes: I don't get this fic at all. It wasn't supposed to exist, yet here it is. I know some of it seems really bare-bones, that's entirely intentional. I must thank Devanie, for pushing me to post even when I didn't want to and for liking this for some reason that is completely incomprehensible to me. Thank you. G
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Beach cliches called for pristine white sand, turquoise waters (warm, can't have a cliché beach without warm water), a view that went unblemished for miles, sunny skies, and, her favorite, gently lapping waves.
This was not a beach that fell under any of those cliches. Beige rocks make beige sand, these waters off this coast had never been warm enough to be turquoise, and between the fog and the bright red bridge that hovered protectively to her right, the view was hardly clear. And, well, the surf colliding against the cliffs didn't exactly fit her description: the words 'gentle' and 'lapping' applied to a lake a hell of a lot better than they did to the Pacific.
Once upon a time, she'd idolized this city, succumbing to popular pressure to love it the way it demanded to be loved, but now. . . She sighed. She couldn't not love it, but it would never be the same love she had had before, not after this week, not after this case.
It seemed unfair somehow, almost cruel, that she was standing here-alive, so alive-mourning the loss of paradise, when she ought to be mourning the deaths that had brought her back here in the first place.
A chill, bone-deep, settled over her as another wave met the beach, and she thought again that this was San Francisco, fog and water, each constants but both constantly changing. Every wave that met the beach had it's own moment in the ever evolving coastline, and the fog. . .well, the fog was only explainable to a point.
She cracked a small smile at the thought. Sure, it was simple in concept: Warm Central Valley air runs into the cool air that drifts off the ocean and the bay and condenses. But that didn't begin to explain the quirks, how sixty degrees could possibly feel like thirty as soon as the fog rolled in, how the world could disappear up to the very top of the highest point, how something so utterly miserable could be so celebrated.
A man and his dog jogged past, keeping slightly clear of the gradually rising water; the only two she'd seen in the last fifteen minutes. She'd been alone most of the afternoon, since she'd walked away from the hotel and ended up here, and she was still wondering when the hell Grissom would show up. He always did.
You left the hotel to get away from him. You left the hotel because you didn't want to see that look in his eyes again. You left the hotel because he stopped speaking, and even if he did say anything, it was designed to cut right into you, hurt you, put you down. He isn't interested in how you are, what you're feeling, what this is doing to you, oh no, he doesn't want to listen. So why are you still expecting him to be here?
Because. . . Sara frowned. Why was she expecting him to be here? Especially after last night, when he'd gazed at her with glazed and hurting eyes, and said, "Gotta be careful with those paramedics, don't you?"
So he was drunk. Unlike him, yes, but drunk. And she couldn't fault him for it because she'd been drinking too much, too. And he was just talking about the case, not. . .
Well, that's the biggest load of crap I think I've ever heard. Grissom was talking about Hank. No other paramedic in the country, no other wounding life- saver, Hank. And, sure, it came up because your suspect is a paramedic, but he was talking about Hank.
Okay, he was talking about Hank. He was pissed off and drunk and hurt and emotionally involved and he brought up Hank. But he'll be here. I don't know why, but he will be.
A freighter crept towards the Golden Gate. A tangle of seaweed and driftwood floated ashore. The man and his dog ran back. Someone, probably a tourist, yelled something inaudible from the walkway on the bridge.
Grissom was going to show up because he always did. Because behind that hated look in his eye, he still had some concern for her. Because he knew she'd be here, she always was. Because. . . He'd sent her a plant when words wouldn't work, he leaned in too close too many times, because. . .
He was already there.
Standing just behind her, quite quiet, not making a move or a sound. She had the feeling that he had thought about his approach, knew the sand would keep his secret. He had something in his hands, something dark, but she couldn't tell what it was.
"Why are you here?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, she hadn't used it in days.
"I don't know." He fell silent for a moment. "It's freezing, Sara."
"I know."
Author: Blaze
Rating/Spoilers: PG, and maybe a small one for PNN. So small.
Summary: I hate these. . .Sigh. Two Geeks and a beach. Prequel to Lullaby.
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
Author's Notes: I don't get this fic at all. It wasn't supposed to exist, yet here it is. I know some of it seems really bare-bones, that's entirely intentional. I must thank Devanie, for pushing me to post even when I didn't want to and for liking this for some reason that is completely incomprehensible to me. Thank you. G
--------------------------------------------
Beach cliches called for pristine white sand, turquoise waters (warm, can't have a cliché beach without warm water), a view that went unblemished for miles, sunny skies, and, her favorite, gently lapping waves.
This was not a beach that fell under any of those cliches. Beige rocks make beige sand, these waters off this coast had never been warm enough to be turquoise, and between the fog and the bright red bridge that hovered protectively to her right, the view was hardly clear. And, well, the surf colliding against the cliffs didn't exactly fit her description: the words 'gentle' and 'lapping' applied to a lake a hell of a lot better than they did to the Pacific.
Once upon a time, she'd idolized this city, succumbing to popular pressure to love it the way it demanded to be loved, but now. . . She sighed. She couldn't not love it, but it would never be the same love she had had before, not after this week, not after this case.
It seemed unfair somehow, almost cruel, that she was standing here-alive, so alive-mourning the loss of paradise, when she ought to be mourning the deaths that had brought her back here in the first place.
A chill, bone-deep, settled over her as another wave met the beach, and she thought again that this was San Francisco, fog and water, each constants but both constantly changing. Every wave that met the beach had it's own moment in the ever evolving coastline, and the fog. . .well, the fog was only explainable to a point.
She cracked a small smile at the thought. Sure, it was simple in concept: Warm Central Valley air runs into the cool air that drifts off the ocean and the bay and condenses. But that didn't begin to explain the quirks, how sixty degrees could possibly feel like thirty as soon as the fog rolled in, how the world could disappear up to the very top of the highest point, how something so utterly miserable could be so celebrated.
A man and his dog jogged past, keeping slightly clear of the gradually rising water; the only two she'd seen in the last fifteen minutes. She'd been alone most of the afternoon, since she'd walked away from the hotel and ended up here, and she was still wondering when the hell Grissom would show up. He always did.
You left the hotel to get away from him. You left the hotel because you didn't want to see that look in his eyes again. You left the hotel because he stopped speaking, and even if he did say anything, it was designed to cut right into you, hurt you, put you down. He isn't interested in how you are, what you're feeling, what this is doing to you, oh no, he doesn't want to listen. So why are you still expecting him to be here?
Because. . . Sara frowned. Why was she expecting him to be here? Especially after last night, when he'd gazed at her with glazed and hurting eyes, and said, "Gotta be careful with those paramedics, don't you?"
So he was drunk. Unlike him, yes, but drunk. And she couldn't fault him for it because she'd been drinking too much, too. And he was just talking about the case, not. . .
Well, that's the biggest load of crap I think I've ever heard. Grissom was talking about Hank. No other paramedic in the country, no other wounding life- saver, Hank. And, sure, it came up because your suspect is a paramedic, but he was talking about Hank.
Okay, he was talking about Hank. He was pissed off and drunk and hurt and emotionally involved and he brought up Hank. But he'll be here. I don't know why, but he will be.
A freighter crept towards the Golden Gate. A tangle of seaweed and driftwood floated ashore. The man and his dog ran back. Someone, probably a tourist, yelled something inaudible from the walkway on the bridge.
Grissom was going to show up because he always did. Because behind that hated look in his eye, he still had some concern for her. Because he knew she'd be here, she always was. Because. . . He'd sent her a plant when words wouldn't work, he leaned in too close too many times, because. . .
He was already there.
Standing just behind her, quite quiet, not making a move or a sound. She had the feeling that he had thought about his approach, knew the sand would keep his secret. He had something in his hands, something dark, but she couldn't tell what it was.
"Why are you here?" Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, she hadn't used it in days.
"I don't know." He fell silent for a moment. "It's freezing, Sara."
"I know."