They were fighting again. Catherine could tell, though they were both acting normal enough to fool Greg, Nick, and even Warrick. Unlike the men, she caught the subtleties, though it had taken her a few days to figure it out. They hadn't arrived to work in the same car since Monday, according to Brass. Catherine's own eyes told her that Sara seemed mostly normal, but her usual bounciness was a little strained. Grissom was the weak link in the chain of evidence she uncovered; he looked as though someone had just killed his favorite spider. He'd been moping around the lab ever since they day they had come in separate cars.
Catherine sat in the trace lab mulling the situation over. The geeks obviously weren't happy. From what she could gather, it looked like Sara may have moved back to her apartment, or at least refused to let Grissom drive her anywhere. What worried her most, though, was the fact that they were talking. This wasn't some little squabble where Sara would give him the silent treatment until he apologized; this was something big enough to make Sara think that Grissom wouldn't come to his senses in a day or two. What kind of fight could they have had to make Sara – who had been so incredibly happy with Grissom – give up?
Sara stood in the locker room shower squeezing lemons over her head and trying not to let the scent remind her of times past. Decomps were never pleasant, but this one was made worse by the fact that she was forced to use advice given by Grissom. She didn't want to think about him any more than she had to, yet little things like him telling her to "use lemons" kept popping into her mind. Lost in her mental war, she jumped when she heard her name through the curtain.
"Sara?" It was Nick's voice, thankfully. He was the one she could deal with most easily.
"What?" she answered him, not putting her head out of the shower.
"You ok in there? You've been acting weird today, so I just wanted to, uh, check in with you . . . see if everything's going okay."
Her lips formed a voiceless curse. If even Nick was noticing it, she was doomed. What to say? "Yeah, everything's fine. You know how I get with decomps," she lied.
Nick wasn't convinced. "Last time we had one, you just threw up in the corner then bounced back to work. Tonight you've been . . . withdrawn? That's not really the word I'm looking for, but you know what I mean. You haven't been talking to anyone more than you have to, and honestly Sara, I didn't see you even flinch when we opened that trashcan. No puking, no covering your nose – so it can't be the decomp. Something else is on your mind and it's time for you to get out of the shower, get dressed, and spill everything over some pizza at my house." He flicked a finger against the curtain, realizing just in time that popping his head around it, though acceptable when speaking to Warrick, probably wouldn't go over too well with Sara. "Well?" he prompted her.
Her next question, said in a suspicious voice, made him laugh. "What kind of pizza?"
"Black olive, your favorite. Of course."
Sara sighed. "Ok. Give me ten minutes and I'll follow you home." Grissom didn't know what kind of pizza was her favorite. Why was she torturing herself over him, when she knew very well that he would never be the man who would remember those little, important things?
Grissom watched them leave from the shadows of his office. Sara didn't look upset. In fact, she looked radiant. She looked like she was having fun – she'd let her hair curl and the wind was blowing it in her face, making Nick laugh as he pressed a hand to either side of her head, trying to keep the mass under control. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Sara was happy without him. He'd really screwed it up this time; in fact, he was starting to doubt that there was even an "it" left to screw up. He didn't hear the door open behind him, nor did he hear Catherine cross the carpet to stand at the next window.
"Sucks, doesn't it?"
He flinched at the sound of her voice. "Oh. Cath, hi. I, uh, was concentrating . . . didn't hear you come in." He blinked. "What sucks?"
Catherine laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, I could kinda tell you didn't hear me, Gris," she noted sarcastically. "And what I was saying was, it sucks to think that someone is happier without you when you're miserable without them, doesn't it."
His eyes became expressionless. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just staring out the window."
"Oh, come ON," she said, rolling her eyes skyward. "You expect me to believe that you were just staring at nothing with that puppy-dog look on your face?" She shook her head. "Uh-uh, my dear Gil. You were watching Sara and Nick. There's nothing to be jealous of there, you know. They're close, but they'd never, uh, get together or anything. Sara loves you, and Nick respects the hell out of you."
She was startled by the starkness in his voice. "Sara doesn't love me, Catherine."
She took a step back, staring at him. "Tell me." He shook his head, but she persisted. "You're obviously not making it any better by sitting in your office in the dark, moping over the fact that Sara's not doing the same. Try actually doing something about your problems instead of wallowing in them."
"I'm not wallowing, and your advice is unwelcome."
"Ouch. You've definitely got a burr up your shirt." She stepped forward again, going nose-to-nose with her friend. "Are you listening? You're not making things any better by giving up. I don't know what happened with you two; I don't even know if it was your fault, but it looks to me like Sara thinks it is, and face it, Gil – she's been doing all the forgiving the past few weeks."
He didn't back up, only matched her glare with his nose almost touching hers. "I said that your advice is unwelcome."
"Do I look like I care what you're saying? Like it or not, you need to resolve this somehow, and you know I'm your best bet." She took his silence for assent, though she knew he meant no such thing. "Get in your car. We're going to your house, with a pit stop to pick up some salmon on the way."
