***DISCLAIMER AND NOTES:
I don't own these characters or this show and certainly make no profit from
my silly little stories! :o) And while I'm at it, props to my lovely
people at UtB who have made the world of fan fiction MUCH LESS SCARY!!***
He heard her coming. Her steps clicked and clacked on the slick linoleum floor. For a moment it was beautiful, the sound of her distinctive pace tapping out a familiar rhythm in the hallway. Hell, a lot of things sound beautiful when you are losing your hearing.
The grace of her cadence didn't last forever. He recalled the recent atmosphere between them. Images of bitten comments and awkward silences filled his mind. A memory of her face emerged, her eyes dark and confused, her lips in a frown. It had not always been this way.
She moved quickly, and he could sense her irritation through her speed. Her footsteps snapped to an abrupt halt in his doorway, and he looked up warily. She would not offer him something to eat or ask him a question with her lips lingering on the shadow of a smile. She would be angry. Or cold. He met her eyes and found that she was both. He felt very tired.
"Sara," he started to greet her mechanically, but she interrupted.
"Since when did you start dating suspects?" she barked. In the hallway a lab technician slowed his pace, eager for any new details.
Grissom's mouth dropped and his mind froze. His brain began to churn for answers, and a vision of Lady Heather materialized. His eyes flashed at a folder in her crossed arms. The case number confirmed his suspicion. What the hell, was she jealous?
"What are you doing with that folder?" he asked tersely.
"Researching a case for Lori on days," she retorted, jutting her chin forward, "You slept with her didn't you?"
Sara was direct, but this line of questioning was completely tactless. She was being judgmental. Grissom's eyes narrowed.
"I hardly see how this is relevant or appropriate," he bit between clenched teeth.
Sara wanted to yell. He could see it in the flash of her eyes and hear it in her sharp intake of air. But she didn't. She looked around and pushed the door quietly closed. Briefly, and ludicrously, he found himself grateful for that small act of consideration. Then he remembered her accusations and the heat returned to his face, anger changing the tendons in his neck into rigid cables beneath his skin.
She moved close to the desk, and pressed her hand on it, "Grissom, you slept with Lady Heather, a woman who is closely tied to individuals in at least two major cases I'm familiar with."
"Those cases are solved, and she is not a suspect" he barked, "Where are you getting this information?"
"I was asking questions about this case. Remember? I've been asking to meet with you for a week, but you're too busy to talk to anyone anymore." She continued, her voice trembling to control her rage, "I spoke to several people, all who had very interesting perspectives on both the case and your involvement with the dominatrix."
Information was like a vapor around this place. It traveled and changed form until it was barely recognizable. Outside his office, the hallway was empty. It was that slow hazy period just before night shift ended and the morning rush began. The building was like a graveyard. But his peaceful rest had been interrupted. His jaw knotted and his eyes returned to Sara.
Her face was red, her lips a hard line of bitterness. She crossed her arms again and stuck out her chin, daring him to explain. Grissom leaned forward in his chair, enraged by her audacity.
"Perhaps I was wrong to expect that you would be too professional to involve rumors in a case review," he said.
"Perhaps I was wrong to expect that you wouldn't sleep with a suspect!" Sara fired back. She stepped in closer, dropping her volume without sacrificing her aggressive stance. Her legs were pressed against his desk, "She was heavily involved in that investigation, Grissom. And you slept with her! After all that you preach about staying objective. Don't get involved. Don't assume. Let the evidence tell the story."
It was a battle he would not win. He dodged accusations of being robotic, and now faced heat from being too emotionally involved. He hated gray areas. It was spinning out of control. Getting so much bigger than it really was.
"It wasn't like that, Sara."
"No, you're not like that, Grissom!" she shouted. She looked over her shoulder, embarrassed by her outburst, and then she sighed and dropped her voice to a whisper, "At least you weren't."
Her last words pinched at his chest and that pang throbbed when he met her gaze. Gone was her contempt. In its place, her suffering stood unguarded. But it was a farce. If her attachment ran so deep, he doubted Hank would have slid next to her so easily. And if he had felt some emotional attachment to her, he would have said something about it. He let out a mirthless laugh, but when he looked at her, he knew that he was lying. Lying to himself.
"I'm no different than I've always been," he said, finding it hard to continue to look at her. She wanted the old routine. He wanted something he was afraid to think about.
"Are you?" she challenged, "Then I guess I didn't know you to begin with."
Her words stung like the business end of a wasp. He felt defensive, insecure. What did she mean? What the hell did she want? The truth? So she could waltz on to someone else? Her expression was an enigma and Grissom was good at reading evidence, not people.
"Apparently not," he said.
Sara's mouth went soft and her eyes brimmed instantly. He felt his gut twist and his mouth go dry. She believed in him like a prized college professor. He saw the hero-worship quivering in her eyes. But he wasn't a hero. Never had been. Never wanted to be.
Sara turned to leave. A part of him wanted her to go, but something stronger within him wanted her to stay.
"Sara," he said, but she did not turn back. Her back was to the desk, her hands still pressed against it as if it held her up. He saw her shoulders lift in a deep breath. He wasn't saying anything. She was going to walk out.
His hand automatically reached for arm. He watched himself doing it, watched his fingers brush her sleeve, heard his voice say, "Sara, wait."
She turned back to him with tear-stained cheeks and nodded her head, "I know. I know I have no right to bring this up. I'm in a subordinate position," she said.
"You aren't really subordinate to anyone," he said with the smallest hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
She stopped and watched him silently, trying to read him. He struggled to see himself through her eyes. Supervisor? Teacher? Friend? It ended there. Or did it? After all, that was the unasked question, the silent tension always burning beneath the surface of their conversations. Lately those questions had been gone. Replaced by distance. Replaced by Hank.
He continued, "Sara, despite your past confidence in me, I'm not the perfect embodiment of a crime scene investigator. No one is. I'm still human like everyone else."
He looked at his hand, still resting on the table just centimeters from her sleeve. He pushed the pad of his finger against the cool desk as he finished, "I am no superhero role model. I still make mistakes."
"Mistakes?" she asked and her tremulous voice held a thousand questions.
He looked at her and something between them crackled. Something he had almost forgotten returned to her eyes. The same unspoken questions danced between their eyes. Old doors opened within him and when her hands fidgeted nervously on his desk, he felt his stomach tighten in undeniable anticipation.
"Mistakes," he said again more firmly, his gaze never wavering from her, "A mistake in judgment, yes. But I did not let a moment of weakness jeopardize that case, Sara."
Would she accept that? Did she even care? Her warm eyes were sweet and vulnerable. She searched him for meaning, but did not pry for more information. She was hesitant and he was grateful. Hesitant was not final. It could be changed.
Grissom noticed a smudge below her cheekbone. A smear of fingerprint dust. Sara was never afraid to get her hands dirty.
As quick as you please, his hand moved again of its own will. Two fingers touched her cheek and brushed it away. Her face registered shock and her eyes closed. She inhaled slowly. Wiping away that smudge took an eternity. His fingers retreated and he lifted them to show her the offending dirt. Her eyes opened, but only grazed past his fingers to settle curiously on his eyes.
Sara had the look that people have at airports. As if a thousand words are all jumbled together, but they can say nothing. They can only close their eyes and wince and then bravely smile when their loved one walks through that gate and out of their life..or back into it. Sara smiled then, completing the circle of the emotion.
"Thanks," she said, touching her cheek with her own hand. An old memory taunted Grissom as she dropped her hand and walked to the door. He could still smell drywall dust and crisp evening air. He could still feel her fingers against his face. He wasn't crazy. And maybe he wasn't just a teacher.
She put her hand on the doorknob. Without turning around, her shoulders tensed and she spoke again.
"I'm sorry." she said, shaking her head, seeming uncertain about what to apologize for.
"Me too," he said, wanting to say more, lost for where to begin.
She did turn then. Then she flashed a true Sara Sidle grin and his own lips curved to match her expression.
"I'll see you around," she said.
"Yeah," he sighed.
He watched her leave and noticed that her steps were lighter and slower. Something told him that maybe things would be back to normal. When she was almost out of sight, Sara reached and touched her face again where his fingers had been. Grissom watched the action and touched his smiling lips thoughtfully. Maybe this time things would be a step ahead of normal.
He heard her coming. Her steps clicked and clacked on the slick linoleum floor. For a moment it was beautiful, the sound of her distinctive pace tapping out a familiar rhythm in the hallway. Hell, a lot of things sound beautiful when you are losing your hearing.
The grace of her cadence didn't last forever. He recalled the recent atmosphere between them. Images of bitten comments and awkward silences filled his mind. A memory of her face emerged, her eyes dark and confused, her lips in a frown. It had not always been this way.
She moved quickly, and he could sense her irritation through her speed. Her footsteps snapped to an abrupt halt in his doorway, and he looked up warily. She would not offer him something to eat or ask him a question with her lips lingering on the shadow of a smile. She would be angry. Or cold. He met her eyes and found that she was both. He felt very tired.
"Sara," he started to greet her mechanically, but she interrupted.
"Since when did you start dating suspects?" she barked. In the hallway a lab technician slowed his pace, eager for any new details.
Grissom's mouth dropped and his mind froze. His brain began to churn for answers, and a vision of Lady Heather materialized. His eyes flashed at a folder in her crossed arms. The case number confirmed his suspicion. What the hell, was she jealous?
"What are you doing with that folder?" he asked tersely.
"Researching a case for Lori on days," she retorted, jutting her chin forward, "You slept with her didn't you?"
Sara was direct, but this line of questioning was completely tactless. She was being judgmental. Grissom's eyes narrowed.
"I hardly see how this is relevant or appropriate," he bit between clenched teeth.
Sara wanted to yell. He could see it in the flash of her eyes and hear it in her sharp intake of air. But she didn't. She looked around and pushed the door quietly closed. Briefly, and ludicrously, he found himself grateful for that small act of consideration. Then he remembered her accusations and the heat returned to his face, anger changing the tendons in his neck into rigid cables beneath his skin.
She moved close to the desk, and pressed her hand on it, "Grissom, you slept with Lady Heather, a woman who is closely tied to individuals in at least two major cases I'm familiar with."
"Those cases are solved, and she is not a suspect" he barked, "Where are you getting this information?"
"I was asking questions about this case. Remember? I've been asking to meet with you for a week, but you're too busy to talk to anyone anymore." She continued, her voice trembling to control her rage, "I spoke to several people, all who had very interesting perspectives on both the case and your involvement with the dominatrix."
Information was like a vapor around this place. It traveled and changed form until it was barely recognizable. Outside his office, the hallway was empty. It was that slow hazy period just before night shift ended and the morning rush began. The building was like a graveyard. But his peaceful rest had been interrupted. His jaw knotted and his eyes returned to Sara.
Her face was red, her lips a hard line of bitterness. She crossed her arms again and stuck out her chin, daring him to explain. Grissom leaned forward in his chair, enraged by her audacity.
"Perhaps I was wrong to expect that you would be too professional to involve rumors in a case review," he said.
"Perhaps I was wrong to expect that you wouldn't sleep with a suspect!" Sara fired back. She stepped in closer, dropping her volume without sacrificing her aggressive stance. Her legs were pressed against his desk, "She was heavily involved in that investigation, Grissom. And you slept with her! After all that you preach about staying objective. Don't get involved. Don't assume. Let the evidence tell the story."
It was a battle he would not win. He dodged accusations of being robotic, and now faced heat from being too emotionally involved. He hated gray areas. It was spinning out of control. Getting so much bigger than it really was.
"It wasn't like that, Sara."
"No, you're not like that, Grissom!" she shouted. She looked over her shoulder, embarrassed by her outburst, and then she sighed and dropped her voice to a whisper, "At least you weren't."
Her last words pinched at his chest and that pang throbbed when he met her gaze. Gone was her contempt. In its place, her suffering stood unguarded. But it was a farce. If her attachment ran so deep, he doubted Hank would have slid next to her so easily. And if he had felt some emotional attachment to her, he would have said something about it. He let out a mirthless laugh, but when he looked at her, he knew that he was lying. Lying to himself.
"I'm no different than I've always been," he said, finding it hard to continue to look at her. She wanted the old routine. He wanted something he was afraid to think about.
"Are you?" she challenged, "Then I guess I didn't know you to begin with."
Her words stung like the business end of a wasp. He felt defensive, insecure. What did she mean? What the hell did she want? The truth? So she could waltz on to someone else? Her expression was an enigma and Grissom was good at reading evidence, not people.
"Apparently not," he said.
Sara's mouth went soft and her eyes brimmed instantly. He felt his gut twist and his mouth go dry. She believed in him like a prized college professor. He saw the hero-worship quivering in her eyes. But he wasn't a hero. Never had been. Never wanted to be.
Sara turned to leave. A part of him wanted her to go, but something stronger within him wanted her to stay.
"Sara," he said, but she did not turn back. Her back was to the desk, her hands still pressed against it as if it held her up. He saw her shoulders lift in a deep breath. He wasn't saying anything. She was going to walk out.
His hand automatically reached for arm. He watched himself doing it, watched his fingers brush her sleeve, heard his voice say, "Sara, wait."
She turned back to him with tear-stained cheeks and nodded her head, "I know. I know I have no right to bring this up. I'm in a subordinate position," she said.
"You aren't really subordinate to anyone," he said with the smallest hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
She stopped and watched him silently, trying to read him. He struggled to see himself through her eyes. Supervisor? Teacher? Friend? It ended there. Or did it? After all, that was the unasked question, the silent tension always burning beneath the surface of their conversations. Lately those questions had been gone. Replaced by distance. Replaced by Hank.
He continued, "Sara, despite your past confidence in me, I'm not the perfect embodiment of a crime scene investigator. No one is. I'm still human like everyone else."
He looked at his hand, still resting on the table just centimeters from her sleeve. He pushed the pad of his finger against the cool desk as he finished, "I am no superhero role model. I still make mistakes."
"Mistakes?" she asked and her tremulous voice held a thousand questions.
He looked at her and something between them crackled. Something he had almost forgotten returned to her eyes. The same unspoken questions danced between their eyes. Old doors opened within him and when her hands fidgeted nervously on his desk, he felt his stomach tighten in undeniable anticipation.
"Mistakes," he said again more firmly, his gaze never wavering from her, "A mistake in judgment, yes. But I did not let a moment of weakness jeopardize that case, Sara."
Would she accept that? Did she even care? Her warm eyes were sweet and vulnerable. She searched him for meaning, but did not pry for more information. She was hesitant and he was grateful. Hesitant was not final. It could be changed.
Grissom noticed a smudge below her cheekbone. A smear of fingerprint dust. Sara was never afraid to get her hands dirty.
As quick as you please, his hand moved again of its own will. Two fingers touched her cheek and brushed it away. Her face registered shock and her eyes closed. She inhaled slowly. Wiping away that smudge took an eternity. His fingers retreated and he lifted them to show her the offending dirt. Her eyes opened, but only grazed past his fingers to settle curiously on his eyes.
Sara had the look that people have at airports. As if a thousand words are all jumbled together, but they can say nothing. They can only close their eyes and wince and then bravely smile when their loved one walks through that gate and out of their life..or back into it. Sara smiled then, completing the circle of the emotion.
"Thanks," she said, touching her cheek with her own hand. An old memory taunted Grissom as she dropped her hand and walked to the door. He could still smell drywall dust and crisp evening air. He could still feel her fingers against his face. He wasn't crazy. And maybe he wasn't just a teacher.
She put her hand on the doorknob. Without turning around, her shoulders tensed and she spoke again.
"I'm sorry." she said, shaking her head, seeming uncertain about what to apologize for.
"Me too," he said, wanting to say more, lost for where to begin.
She did turn then. Then she flashed a true Sara Sidle grin and his own lips curved to match her expression.
"I'll see you around," she said.
"Yeah," he sighed.
He watched her leave and noticed that her steps were lighter and slower. Something told him that maybe things would be back to normal. When she was almost out of sight, Sara reached and touched her face again where his fingers had been. Grissom watched the action and touched his smiling lips thoughtfully. Maybe this time things would be a step ahead of normal.