TITLE: Pushing
AUTHOR: Anansay
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
~Pushing~
by Anansay
December 19, 2002
No matter how many times he pushed her away, she still seemed to come back for more. Was it a form of masochism on her part?
The touches, the glances, the little smiles, the brushes.
Then the walls would go up and the air would be cold and dead. There was nothing there. It was winter. It had come upon her so quickly, she didn't have time to bundle up, to put up her guards in defense of his apathy. He was always to quick for her. He'd had much more time to practice so to speak, and not much reason not to keep them down.
She on the other hand, whose feelings bubbled just below the surface, felt it very difficult to pull the shades down on her own feelings, her own reactions. They were so much a part who she was, that to deny them was to deny a part of herself and live a partial life, a part of her constantly yelling to be allowed to live and be.
He kept himself so well hidden, it was amazing that he could even utter coherent words to his fellow human inhabitants. He walked with deliberate shuffle, a non-descript sort of shamble of feet propelling body forward to its destination. His head forever lost in a sea of papers perpetually in his hands. His body language spoke of a ghostly being inhabiting the halls of their work place. He had never really changed from his younger days, apparently, when he mentioned being like a ghost in high school. His life was immersed in the non-communicative aspects of research and study. He chose to spend his time with beings whose communication was solely for the purpose of the survival of self or species. He seemed to have adapted an apathetic way of associating with the world, communicating only as much as was needed to acquire the necessary survival tools, such as a paycheck, in this society. It was a pity, really, to watch this man go about his living, giving only as much as was needed, asking for nothing, expecting nothing.
She watched him, from a distance. Forever hoping that one day… He might feel safe enough, or strong enough, to reach out and touch her, for real. Not in a sense of a mistake, like a brush. But in an obvious, matter of fact, deliberate attempt to create a bond with another human being.
So she waited.
And waited.
For three long years.
And then some.
The longer she waited, the more he seemed to retreat into himself. She watched from a distance, as he seemed to fade from sight, leaving behind only a dim reflection in her memory of what he used to be.
He spoke so little now, except to direct his team in accomplishing their common goal of deciphering their latest mystery. Beyond that, no words escaped his body. His office had become his refuge away from the world, that is, until he could get to his real sanctuary: his home. Where the doors could be locked, lights turned on dim, phone disconnected, and the outside world shut out like an alcatraz in his mind.
She only knew him as he was before. Before Las Vegas. When he was alive. When he laughed. When jokes were told, and played. When he didn't flinch at a touch initiated by another. When a touch was merely a touch, unless it meant something else. When he was able to distinguish between the two. When a hug was a hug and not a prelude to sex. When a kiss on the cheek, or even on the lips, was merely a intimate gesture between two friends with a very wide comfort range when in each other's company. Their familiarity and comfort with each other was a welcome digression from the stoic, austere attitude of society around them. Within their sphere of existence, there was freedom. To be. To live. To laugh. To cry. Without prejudice.
Now she walked alone in this world. He was there, beside her. But he was looking away, lost in his own private little realm. A place to which she was not allowed. It seemed a part of her soul had gone with him when he left for Vegas so many years ago. She thought she could recover it by joining him later and working with him. But she soon found that he intended to keep it to himself alone, this part of her soul.
Maybe that's why she stayed. She needed to have a soul in one piece, and being with him, even apart, meant a more wholeness for her, than anything else could offer.
And so she stayed, and watched him fade away. Sometimes he didn't even hear her approaching or talking to him. He just continued along his way, nose stuck in whatever case was open. She would have to touch his arm to get his attention, and then he would jump as though her hand were a smith's hot iron. It scared her, when he did that. He was getting too lost in his world. She longed to reach in and pull him out. But like a butterfly, when helped out of their cocoon, the squeezing of the body is skirted and the blood never gets to the wings. The butterfly dies with limp, wet, pieces of skin at their sides, unable to fly to feed or escape. He needed to find his own way out, so that he may live.
He would turn to look at her with a haunted, scared expression on his face. But only for a moment, before the walls shot up and his face regained it's normal detached expression. She would plow forth, extolling her latest findings, hoping to elicit something more than a grunt and further orders on which path to follow, as though her great mind could not have figured that one out for itself. It was a quasi-insult in her mind, how he couldn't see how his actions, his words, affected her and those around him.
He was quickly becoming the silent leader who sat upon his throne, dictating to his subordinates their next actions. He was becoming distant and aloof, unreachable. She no longer felt welcome or comfortable approaching him, for any reason. She kept to the lab, the breakroom, the latest crime scene. Anywhere, not to have to see him and deal with him.
His slow death was dragging that part of her soul down with him. For her own sake, she needed him alive and well and an eager part of their community. So she tried again. Like the child, believing in their parents, she tried again to reach him, the scars on her soul still not healed from the last times he'd pushed her away, singeing her with his abruptness. Still she ventured forth, into the abyss known as Grissom to try and goad him out. Again. She took a deep breath and steeled herself against the inevitable onslaught.
A knock on his office yielded no response. So she walked in, heedless of his sense of privacy. He had invaded hers too many times to count. She found him sitting at his desk, an apple in one hand, a pen in the other, a puzzle held between the two. His gaze focused intently on some clue, his mind working fervently through the mass of disjointed bits of information floating around his cranium, and wont to emerging sporadically, giving those around him a peek into his world.
For all intents and purposes, it appeared as though he were choosing to ignore at this particular time. The quite audible closing of the door ought to have alerted him to her presence. Yet, he did not move. Did not show any signs that he was aware of her presence.
She watched as he worked this latest puzzle, putting down his apple every few minutes as another clue made itself known to him, and the pen jotting down the letters. He would smile to himself, pleased at his latest discovery, moot though it were in this environment.
She moved slightly in the door, blocking the light coming in from the window and causing the shadow to fall on his desk, darkening his work space. He glanced up, and quickly jumped back in his chair, his apple flying out of his hand, pen going the other way, and paper going upwards. She retrieved the apple and pen from their places on the floor and quietly handed them to him, meeting his eyes.
Shock. Surprise. Fear. His eyes, for a split moment, were wide open for her perusal, before the shutters slammed shut. Again. She dropped herself into the guest's chair and stared at him, unblinking, expressionless. Watching him overtly now. It took his mind awhile to wrap itself around this latest development in her out of character behavior. He watched her in return, waiting for her to speak. She did not volunteer to go first. So he spoke.
"Sara, is there something I can do for you?" His voice emerged as a cheap imitation of his former smooth, velvety textured timbre. It was dead.
"Yes, there is.", she started. "You can give me back my soul."
Grissom stared at her as though she had just spoken some ancient latin dialect. His brow furrowed and his mouth pursed. For sure, he must have thought her finally over the edge. This job, by its description, demanded a lot from its workers. Perhaps she had given everything she had, and was now running on empty. But one look at her firm expression threw that idea right out the window.
"Excuse me?", he volunteered.
Sara took a deep breath and decided to plunge forward, regardless of the consequences she knew would be forthcoming. Even though her choice of words were cryptic, she decided to speak from what soul she had left. She was its voice, her voice, from ancient times demanding resolution.
"You have part of my soul. In Frisco, you left with part of it. Remember Frisco, Grissom? We had fun there. You were alive there.", she paused. "Now you're dead. You jump whenever someone talks to you. You bury yourself in your books, papers, cases and bugs. You're dying. So before you die, I want my soul back. Let me live in peace, and I'll let you die in peace."
Grissom stared at her, trying to comprehend what her obscure words meant. Her soul? He removed his glasses, staring at them while he twirled them around in his hands. His glasses offered a safe route to let his thinking run free. His hands were busy, his eyes were busy, people usually left him alone when he did this. He replaced the glasses and turned to her, eyes beginning to blaze.
"What the devil are you talking about, Sara?", he asked abruptly, not trying to hide his frustration.
"Riddles, Grissom. Or don't you recognize your own evasion practice when it's used on you."
Grissom shook his head, pleading with eyes that Sara would just speak her mind and get it over with.
"Grissom. I know you. Or, I thought I knew. I thought we were friends. Now, I don't know. You're pulling away from me. I don't know what to do. All I know is, when you left Frisco to come here, you took a piece of me with you, and now that I'm here, you still have it. I can't leave if you still have it. And if you're not going to use it, I'd like it back, please."
"Leave?"
Sara's face scrunched up as she struggled with what she wanted to say next. The words fought to stay inside, stay hidden. But she needed to say it. "I need my life. And it's not here with you. I'm not going to sit by and watch you cave in on yourself. You either open up, or give me back what's mine. Quit toying with me. As soon as I get close, you clam up. You know what that's called out there", she motioned with her arm outside his office, more broadly, the outside world. "it's called teasing. You're teasing me, Gil and I hate it. I'm living on a roller coaster, and I hate it. Some days are really good, and some are really bad. I hate that. I want to leave. But I need to know that I have my soul, that you are truly done with me and you're not gonna tease me anymore. Do something, or do nothing. No more of this in between shit!"
At Grissom's look of utter confusion, or was that a shield to hide his understanding, Sara felt her insides quiver in anxiety as the next words flew from her lips. "Don't you get it?! We had something in Frisco! I KNOW we did! I come here, get a few flirtatious looks and remarks and then whammo! You clam up! Do something! Or get out of my way!" She sprung up then, and started pacing the room, fighting the urge to grab the door and run. She had run away too many times. She would only leave with what was rightfully hers. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, her breath wheezing from her flared nostrils, eyes bright and flashing.
He watched her pace, his heart a flurry of activity in his chest, the sound pounding in his ears. He was beginning to see the picture she tried so desperately to paint, without actually coming out and saying it. She needed to know. To know what those comments, those looks, those brushes and touches, what they all meant. He thought he could continue the game forever. He never thought about the emotional consequences for her. He had been used to keeping himself behind shades, but she felt everything so acutely, especially her feelings for him. He knew of what she spoke in Frisco. That was why he had left. But he couldn't stay away from her for long. So at the first hint, he had called her to him. And she had come. On a moment's notice. She had dropped her life in Frisco and had come back to him, no questions asked. He had never considered the implications of such a combination of moves. Now she was here, demanding an explanation. Or she was gone. Just like that. Just like him. The student becoming the teacher. Oh god… What had he done? Inadvertently passed on what he knew would destroy her. And he thought he was protecting her… Oh god…
His glasses came off again, being twirled in his hands as his eyes closed. He felt the rush of emotions rise to the surface at this painful revelation. His instinct was to push them down. Again. Another voice popped up and quietly suggested that perhaps feeling them wasn't such a bad idea. He considered it. And during this brief consideration, the feelings took his reigns and brought him on a ride. He saw the last three years through a brief moment in time. Since I met you. Little break throughs, little teasers. I have you. I need you. I want you. Why? These words seemed to slip by his defenses before he could restrain them. They needed to be let out.
Do something, she had asked. No, she had demanded. Do what? Say what? Words would be meaningless at this juncture. Actions speak louder than words. He needed to show her. Fear gripped his body, nailing him to his chair.
She turned around then, glaring at him. He felt her eyes hot on his head. He couldn't meet her eyes. Not yet. Time was not a luxury he had, the voice quietly whispered. The imprinting was becoming permanent in her. He needed to stop it. Maybe let her go. Let her find someone who could give her what she needed. That thought was like a bucket of ice water on his soul: frigid, glacial pain. The coldness closed in on him. Alone. Utterly alone. Forever. No one was like Sara. No one knew him like Sara. No one accepted him like Sara. No one kept at him like Sara. No one was like Sara. She was unique in every way. And she was here, demanding reciprocal action.
He stood up then, and turned the face her. Her hands were crossed in front her as she leaned back, adopting a pose of strength and determination. He recognized that pose, when she felt very strongly about something and would not back down. Her eyes flashed at him, daring him to do what she felt he could not do. Her eyebrow was raised, a further determinant of her meaning.
"Sara…", it was so easy to say the name. The words did not follow. Only silence, long and drawn out. Pained silence as she waited, her foot tapping the floor. Her jaw clenched, the nerve jumping on the side. She took one last deep straggling breath before turning on her heels and heading for the door. She grabbed the door handle and turned to him, eyes glimmering.
"I have my answer, Grissom. Thank you." It was the coldest words she could ever have uttered his way. The ice worked its way around his heart, chilling it. Pieces began chipping away, flake by tiny flake.
And then she was gone. His office door left open, a testament to her quiet departure. The air in his office was tight around him, choking him. The emptiness pulled at him, rending his soul. He couldn't breathe, his chest was tight, his throat was constricting. The office was closing in around him, pushing him down, further and further into his own abysmal damnation. He had to get out of there, had to leave. Fresh air, light, open spaces. He took off out of office nearly running down the hall, feeling the everything closing in on him. The voices were far away. The hallway seemed to go on without end. It took him forever to reach the doors, and he flung them open with such force, they hit the wall beside them with a deafening crack. He flinched but kept on going, into the middle of the parking lot. He was running now. His legs wouldn't stop. He needed to get away. The pain was following him, catching up with him. His legs pumped harder and harder. Then the screech came.
He turned his head just in time to see the big black hunk of metal bearing down on him at full speed, the deafening honking stealing his reflexes from him a moment. Then he heard the screech of metal as the brakes were applied, and he watched in horror as the vehicle began twisting in its bid to stop in time. He didn't move. He didn't feel like getting out of the way.
The vehicle did stop, before hitting him. He did not move, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He stood stock still, looking at the vehicle that had almost sent him to meet his maker. He didn't notice the driver until she got out of the car and came up to him and punched him in the chest. Sara.
"What the HELL are you doing?", she demanded. "Are you nuts?!" She spun away from his, her hand running through her hair roughly. She turned on him again, nostrils flared, glaring at him. He could see her mouth moving, but no sound was coming out. For a moment he thought his hearing had gone out, but then he realized that she wasn't speaking, just trying to find the right words. She clamped her mouth, and simply glared at him.
She saw the fear in his eyes. And the pain. And the confusion. And the loneliness. She saw it all. Right here in the middle of the parking lot. After almost hitting him. Her heart couldn't beat any more faster. She wanted to hit him, to beat him, to scream at him, to call him every name she knew. She wanted to hurt him, just like he had hurt her, in there, and now out here. Her body shook with the effort required to keep the controls on. He looked so lost, she realized suddenly. He wasn't doing anything, or saying anything. He was just looking at her, begging. With who? Her? Himself?
He looked away, his eyes still moving. His mind tried to grab hold of thoughts, tried to make a coherent pattern emerge. He was getting lost, lost in the feelings of the moment. Lost in his own sense of mortality, in his love for Sara, in his fear of being known, of being rejected.
"I'm sorry, Sara. I wasn't looking…", he said hesitantly, his voice shaking.
"You weren't looking?! Where the hell were you going in such a rush?!"
"I – I don't know." The words had come out before he could stop them. His eyes were still avoiding hers.
She looked at him hard. His body language bespoke a man in the midst of some emotional conflict. His slumped shoulders, avoiding gaze, hands clasped loosely in front of him, wanting to shield, yet too weak for any real attempt. His breathing was still fast and shallow. If he didn't slow down soon, he would pass out from lack of oxygen. She saw the pulsing in his neck, fast and furious; his blood pressure rising in times of stress. She felt drawn to him, in this state. Her hand extended toward him in an unconscious gesture of support and comfort. He jerked away slightly, a fear response. She dropped her hand.
"Gil… " She bent down to look into his eyes. He moved his head away. "Hey! Look at me!" She demanded softly.
His head moved from side to side, as though looking for some answer on the ground. Finally he brought his head up and looked into her eyes. She was taken aback by what greeted her. Torment. He was afraid.
As though her awareness had taken flight from her body and hovered slightly above them, she saw their situation from a new perspective. His body language was of a man leaning toward a woman, leaning into a woman, trying to get near her. As close as possible without drawing attention to that fact. She saw, as she felt, the energy surrounding them, that of two people caught in a whirlwind of unspoken feelings. These surrounding them and tainting their view of the world. They needed to be dealt with and placed into their proper place. In this way the haunting, disturbing aura could be dispelled and they could go on with their lives, instead of being caught in this microcosm of their own creation.
Like someone caught in a nightmare, thrashing about, sometimes it took drastic measures to bring them back to reality. A slap in the face so to speak. Sara saw this in Grissom, standing there in the parking lot, unmoving, unseeing, yet feeling everything so acutely. He was caught in his own terror of self-inflicted isolation.
All at once, a switch seemed to flip inside her, a sudden radical change in thought, in belief, in feeling, in intention, in her entire being. She needed him. He needed her. She was overwhelmed with urgency to reach him now, here, like this.
She reached in and placed her lips on his, pushing against him, flattening their lips against each other's. She felt him back away, pull away, resist. But she brought her hand up to the back of his head and held him to her, while she devoured his mouth with hers. Her body came next, pressing itself against his, bringing him into her circle, enveloping him with her aura, pushing against his defenses, crumbling them at his feet. She felt him shake as his will battled. Her other hand went around his waist, holding him there. She felt his hands tentatively on her arms, debating whether to push her way or grab her. His fingers cautiously touched her, staying just far enough away to keep it safe.
He allowed the kiss to linger as is, his fingers just barely touching her, yet his body pressed tightly against hers as she held him there. He held it there for a moment before the his final vestiges of defenses fell away and he plunged into his passion fully and wholly, his arms wrapping themselves around her, accepting her and given himself to her completely. His mouth opened to hers and their tongues met and mingled, sending sparks of electricity through their bodies, igniting and fanning the flame of their desire.
It welled up in him, the misery of fighting to keep everything in. The years spent in fear of opening up, of being rejected, of being hurt. It unfurled inside him, radiating outward; his body tensed with the intensity. He held her to him in a desperation born out of this act of final release.
He had been drowning, his world caving in on him, pulling and pushing him down, choking the life out of him. And now a hand was offered. A hand that promised safety and freedom, understanding and comfort. No demands, no expectations. He grabbed hold of that hand, wrapping himself around it, holding it close to his heart, never wanting to let go.
His muscles tensed as he held her to him, deepening the kiss, bodies pressed against each other, as though endeavoring to mesh their individual spirits into one. His throat constricted as he fought to keep from crumbling in her arms. She moved against him, sending shards of desire through him. He groaned into her mouth, the sound becoming a shaky whimper. His eyes began to sting and he crushed his lips against hers one last time before breaking away and burying his head in her neck, holding onto her as though for dear life.
His hands clenched her jacket at her back as his body began to shake. She felt a wetness on her skin as his tears spilled over. She sighed in his arms, holding him ever tighter, her hands running along his back, comforting him. She took his release and accepted it, welcomed it as a necessary step to his becoming a whole person once again.
He pulled away from her after a while, head down, eyes averted, hands reaching up to wipe at his face, first with skin and then with the sleeve of his shirt. Such an innocent gesture, she thought, a simple wiping of tears on his shirt, like a child might. His arms fell to his side then. He stood there, waiting, for something. Sensing he was unused to initiating anything with regards to his true feelings, she began again.
"We need to talk, Gil.", she stated quietly.
His head bobbed slightly.
"Come back to my place." Like a teacher directing her student in the art of living, she took his hand and drew him to her car, opening the door for him. He got in and settled himself.
She got in on the other side and started the engine. She turned to look at him. He was sitting, hands in lap, face downward. He was lost in his own feelings, trying to make sense of them, trying to understand them, trying to incorporate them into his sense of being.
She reached out and placed her hand on his, squeezing in reassurance. He raised his head and caught her eye. His face was drawn, pale and white. His eyes, shutters gone now, told a story of walls, barriers, defenses and pretensions. Of lies told to cover the more painful truths hidden behind those walls. Of days spent hiding and of nights spent dreaming, feeling, wanting, needing and being alone. Of nights spent doubled over in agony as the pain of his walls crushed him in their desire to quell any sentiment whatsoever.
She saw all this and her heart reached out to him, caressing him, drawing him to her. His eyes, red rimmed, bore into her soul, reaching, questing for that tendril of humanity she offered him. Her hand reached up and cupped his face, letting him know it was okay, okay to feel. She felt the muscles begin to quiver beneath her touch, saw his eyes well up again, before he looked down to hide his tears. She let go, allowing him his modicum of privacy in the cramped personal space of her car.
She pulled out of the parking lot and headed to her place, bringing him with her. As she drove and here eyes scanned around, the world seemed to have been painted over with brighter colors. The air felt cleaner, the sky was bluer, more people had smiles on their faces. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes a moment, basking in the gently rolling waves of contentment washing over her.
Things were going to be alright, she thought. Her soul was whole again. There were no more gaps, no more gaping holes or raw edges. He was with her, he had let her in, completely.
She looked down when she felt his hand on her thigh. He was gently touching her, connecting with her. She looked over in his eyes. He was smiling, a tiny smile that pulled on the corners of lips. His eyes were shining as well, with gratitude this time.
No words were said. No words existed to qualify their experience. No words could encompass all that there was between them.
They were going to be okay.
