Title: Semblance of Disorder
Author: nutmeg
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to CBS, Atlantic-Alliance, and Anthony Zuicker, as does the episode that inspired this story. In other words, lalalalalaaaanotmine.
Feedback: I would really love to know what you think of this! I welcome both positive comments and constructive criticism. Feel free to either leave a review here or email me at nutmeg_nine@yahoo.com. Thanks for reading!
Spoilers: Definitely some spoilers for "Lady Heather's Box." Vague references to Season 1 as well.
Summary: "He didn't know himself, and she hadn't known him either." LHB post-ep, vignette. Touches on both G/LH and GSR.
Notes: Maybe it's because I just can't bring myself to hate Grissom, but for some reason, I just had to try and figure out what might have been going through his head during LHB. So that's how this story started. I haven't read any of the discussions about this episode yet, so I might have missed the target completely. But I really tried to make this make sense! I hope you all enjoy the story.
My sincerest thanks go out to so many people, especially everyone at UtB for making it such a wonderful community. Special thanks to Adina for her always-insightful take on the show, Molly for her recent encouragement, MC for her forever-incredible friendship and support, and Dev, who somehow convinced me I could do this. And for everyone I didn't mention, only because that would have turned this into the longest notes section ever. I love you guys.
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It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be effortless, and he was supposed to be able to say stop and mean it and then just ... walk away. And she would know what he needed and she would give it, perhaps out of her own need to give way to something gentle for once.
But it hadn't been simple. It hadn't been effortless, and he hadn't known when to stop. She'd given him the option, and he hadn't been able to take it, hadn't wanted to take it. And as his lips touched the mouth of a woman who claimed to know him, something that was supposed to be easy had already begun to swirl down into another failure instead. He'd fallen prey to his own ineptitude again. In the end, he'd hurt her. He hadn't been able not to hurt her.
He felt sure now, sitting in the midnight chill, of what he'd suspected for years: that he was incapable of love, of even the trappings of love. He would always fall victim to himself, and so would his unlucky lover, whoever she might be.
What was supposed to have been a reckless-but-casual encounter, a tasting of the fears he held so close and the life he hadn't led in so long, a desperate sort of reaching … it had instead become exactly what he'd feared. It had been an exercise in truth, and the truth was that he didn't know himself, and she hadn't known him either. They'd just been two imperfect beings, struggling for something normal hidden in attraction's rush, in its indecency, in its lack of logic.
But the imperfect world and their imperfect hearts had eventually collided and destructed. It had taken less than 48 hours. And now he knew - he knew with a resigned certainty that he'd never be right again, that he hadn't ever been right. He hadn't ever known how to love or be loved, and he knew now that that would never change.
He had his proof, the evidence taking the form of a twin ache in his gut. Fresh, deep wounds of one pain overlapped the old, never-quite-healed scars of another.
Once - a lifetime ago - on one long night in a damp, dark town, he'd foolishly allowed himself to hope again. In a too-brief twelve hours, two sets of bent shoulders had somehow found a respite from their respective burdens. The temporary loss of that aching weight from his body and mind had made him believe that maybe he wasn't broken after all, that maybe his last chance hadn't been as final as he'd once imagined. He'd thought he'd seen her shoulders lift a little bit, too. He still thought they might have. In the breathy spaces between greasy diner food and cold beer and slight accidental touches, in the gradually warming silence between the looks and the words and the smiles that had slowly grown from timid to tender … he'd allowed himself to believe that he might not always be broken. He'd allowed himself to believe that someday, he would be able to love without breaking someone in return. Someone like this. Someday, he wouldn't hurt himself, and he wouldn't hurt her either.
And he'd held that so-important, so-fragile wish so carefully and so delicately and so deep inside himself that when he'd heard her voice that day - and then heard his own ask her for help - he couldn't imagine that she would say what she had.
Yes. She'd said yes. Yes, she'd help him. And later, yes, she'd stay. She'd stay and together, they'd rid their small piece of the world from violence and fear, like something out of the comic books he'd read as a kid. They'd fight crime. They'd be superheroes in coveralls and latex gloves. At the time, the thought had made him smile.
And when he'd gone to her new apartment, flooded then by cardboard boxes and trash bags, something had felt so painfully right about it all that he'd really believed, really truly believed that maybe, some day when he was finally whole, she'd say yes again.
He'd never gotten the chance to ask, of course. Instead, he hadn't said anything, not even the word that might have let him live his precious illusion for just a bit longer.
He hadn't said stop. He hadn't said stop, and neither had she, and neither had the one who'd straightened his shoulders for one perfect day a decade ago. He couldn't blame her, and he wouldn't, though some selfish part of him wanted to.
The fault was his. He knew this. He knew that he'd never shown her what she'd done for him, and he'd never trusted her, or maybe himself, enough to release the delicate hold he'd had on that perfect, beautiful image of hope. And now he knew that by holding it so carefully, so deeply hidden, she'd never been able to see it at all. Could it really be that she'd never known?
These days, her shoulders were even more weighed down than before. The extra burden was apparent, its source easy to trace and target. And now he found himself on the outside of another door, at the end of another mistake, wondering how long he'd sit here, alone in the dark and the cold.
Because he'd never known when to stop.
FIN.