TITLE: Pilgrimage of the Heart
AUTHOR: Anansay
SUMMARY: Sara wakes up to something very different in her home.
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Never will. Still broke. :)
~*~
Pilgrimage of the Heart
By Anansay
November 21, 2003
The sun was just too bright for her liking. It pierced through her lids with a vicious spade of light, shattering whatever sleep remained. With cautious creaking of lids, her eyes opened one by one only to squint and shut back closed. She groaned and tried to pull the covers up but they were pinned by her body. In a bid for survival, she rolled around, tossing pillows this way and that, trying to cower from the onslaught of the day.
And that's when it hit her.
Her body hurt. It ached. In all the wrong places. As she tried to remember the previous day, there had been no crime scene that required an inordinate amount of physicality. But she still ached. When she moved her legs, her thighs moaned in protest. And her center of womanly wiles burned with a long forgotten sensation of rawness and chaffing. She touched herself and cringed when she felt the burning of her skin.
Now her mind wracked furiously for any memory of what might have happened the previous night. Her head ached. Her mouth required immediate liquid salvation. And the muscles of her abdomen fought every move she tried to make as she pulled herself to a sitting position.
The movement, the light, the lack of memories all conspired to hit her full force and she grabbed a pillow and buried her face in it, moaning and berating herself for her uncharacteristic behaviour of the previous night, even though no memory had yet to surface confirming her theories. And then something else hit her.
She pulled the pillow away and stared at it hard, as though it held the pieces. It held one: a scent. A particular drowning scent of virility, one that had never failed to incite her heart into rebellion on a nightly basis. One whose eyes of crystalline blue could melt her stony resolve to crumbling matter at her feet. One whose velvet voice paved the way for her body to follow, slipping and sliding into that void of never-ending sensual oblivion.
Grissom.
She flung her body back onto her bed, eyes closed and moaning as her head contested the sudden movement. An arm flung up to cover her eyes and hopefully discard what the evidence was telling her. And then the next thought brought her up cold again.
He was gone.
The smell was still there but fading. Not strong. He wasn't in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or even her living room. He was gone. He'd come, joined with her, left his undeniable scent and then vanished from her like particles on a wind.
Caving in to the demands of her body finally, she lay herself back down in gentle movements, greeting the bareness of the ceiling as a mirror image of her self: bare and alone. Bare of clothes and any concealing vestments on her soul.
Her mind fought the fog, seeking evidentiary images confirming or denying her suspicions. Only vague feelings and perceptions greeted her retrospection. Nothing concrete. Nothing definite. Nothing to draw a line between fantasy and reality.
It was as though a dream of hers, one of many, had actually come to visit her outside the world of fantasy, leaving behind its signature trademark of fleeting images and nothing more.
She rolled herself out of bed, holding her head like some precious relic of yore, and stumbled to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror both shocked and dismayed her. Bags beneath eyes and drawn skin bespoke a night of partaking in amber liquids usually reserved for special occasions. She smacked her tongue, her face distorting into a mask of self-deprecation at the stale drought that had sprung up in her mouth overnight.
Too many clues led to an undeniable conclusion: she'd gotten plastered last night. Definitely. The only variable left that needed confirmation was if she was alone in her inebriation, or if the scant clues led to a certainty she'd rather not face, ever.
A desperate search for pain killers and something to settle her stomach brought her into her living room, where she stopped in her tracks, eyes growing as wide as they could under the weight of her cement-laden head. Her clothes of yesterday were strewn about her apartment as though her body might have been on fire and needed immediate quenching. She moaned as that one thought led to another less desirable one, but not entirely. Closing her eyes, she allowed her hands to guide her through her home and into her kitchen. Some crackers and a glass of water ought to help, she thought. She was vaguely aware of stepping on her silk undies and pushed the thought to the back of her mind, unable to completely process the implications of such a discovery.
The gods apparently had a sense of decency as her living blinds were shut tight against the outside world and she could relax in relative comfort on her couch, head back and eyes closed. Her bed called to her but her kitchen stove had revealed an appalling time of four in the afternoon. Heaving a big sigh and stealing herself from another onslaught of agony, she dragged herself into her bathroom and plunked her weary body beneath a tepid spray of water, gasping back the utterance of shock as her body tensed and then relaxed, sleep being washed away as well as the remnants of her hangover. She held herself upright against the wall and let nature take its course under the water, before struggling to cleanse herself both physically and emotionally.
She fought the urge to hide out at work, knowing the origin of her adversity was probably hiding out in his office. But staying in her apartment, was becoming a chore and a bit.
Grissom, for his part, was faring no better as he welcomed the dull gloominess of his office to temper the pounding in his temples. Paperwork was definitely out of the question as the words swam before his eyes and he had to close them before they summoned the nausea once again. He kept the stack in front of him and pen in hand in case some curious pair of eyes should happen to peak in, he'd have a ready made excuse for shooing them out.
Unlike his accomplice in crime, Grissom's mind remembered every detail of last night and he fought to keep the images from haunting him with relentless redundancy. There was no way around it: he'd let go. He'd thrown caution to the wind and jumped head first into a maelstrom of emotional chaos. And now he needed to deal with the aftermath. After a five long hours, nothing had come to him as way of explanation for his decidedly atypical lechery. He was no closer to an explanation or a solution. In just under two hours, she'd be walking into the building and into his unsound sphere of existence.
The callousness of the entire situation was not lost on him. The fact the he'd merely gotten up, gotten dressed and ducked out her front door like a robber in the night - or midmorning as the case was - had him cowering beneath a rather thin layer of personal putrefaction. The cad that he had become because of her only caused him to feel even more miserable.
Sara peered around the corner and spied the object of her disquiet sitting nonchalantly doing paperwork in his office, like nothing untoward had even happened in the past twenty four hours. The ire that rose in her throat threatened to retard what rationality she'd manage to scavenge from the ruins of her own highly held self-regard. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner and entered his office, head held high, shoulders squared back, steps purposeful in their determination to be done with the social amenities in such an awkward situation.
"Grissom," she said, steeling her voice to sound more professional that any fiber of her being actually felt. In fact, her body seemed to want to mutiny against her mind, sending her system into overdrive at the mere sight of him and the still very brief fleeting images of them on her bed... She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, shoving these insubordinate thoughts aside.
Grissom looked up, attempting to keep his face as free from expression as was possible considering his mind had no problem bringing to the surface remarkably clear pictures of the previous night. He swallowed hard and gripped his pen tightly in his hand, bringing it down beneath the desk, away from astute eyes. "Yes?"
Sara closed the door, the latch clicking into place with the finality of a bolt. She kept her hand on the door and ordered her body to settle itself into a more rational mode. It didn't quite work. Mutiny was still being attempted in various parts of her anatomy. Finally she turned to face him and almost lost her breath. The dim lighting in his office did marvelous things to the touches of silver in his hair, compounded by the icy blueness of his eyes and the delicate pinkness of his lips as they moved in silent supplication to make this ordeal as brief as possible.
"We need to talk," Sara announced, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back on her heels. She regarded him with as direct a gaze as she could muster without completely breaking down.
Grissom's eyes slowly dropped to his paperwork and his shoulders rose and fell with a deep inhalation. Like a man facing imminent doom, he sat back in his chair, back straight. "Yes. We do." He sighed.
Such a voluntary submission of their mutual need wasn't something she'd counted on. Denial, obtuse evasion of facts, triviality, anything but such a prompt acknowledgment. She blinked and looked away, down at her feet, around his office, anywhere but his own direct gaze. It was too blunt. She contemplated taking a seat, but decided against it. Sitting would make it seem more open for discussion. What she needed was a simple confirmation of her suspicions and a mutual declaration that it would never happen again.
"Okay. Last night was... wrong. It should never have happened. I don't know what came over me but... it won't happen again. I promise you."
Grissom merely looked at her, face impassive.
Sara looked at him, stared at him, impaled him with her glare but no words were forthcoming. He simply blinked several times and watched her.
Sara shifted on her feet, uncrossed and crossed her arms and finally sighed. "Look Grissom, don't give me this silent treatment. At least say something!"
"What do you want me to say?" he said, his voice quiet.
"Anything! Just... something. Jeez, I feel like I'm alone here."
"You're not alone. You weren't last night."
"I know that." Sara ducked her head to keep the blush from appearing too noticeable. She sighed again. "Okay fine then. Have it your way. Say nothing. Just wanted to let you know, clear the air, you know. Let you know that you're off the hook, it started and ended last night and... I'm gonna shut up now." She turned on her heels, opened the door and sped out into the brightness of the hall and around the corner.
Grissom once again watched her disappear with yet another confused expression on his face. What did one say to each other after a one night stand that should never have been? Shake hands? Smile and wave goodbye as they each went on their separate ways?
And what if there was more than just a physical thing between them?
Grissom agonized over these question as his gut twisted into more turns than a German pretzel.
His doorway stood empty, attestation to the state of affairs in his life.
Sara practically ran into the locker room, slamming the door behind her. There really was no reason for the anger that she felt. It was over. She'd confronted him, let him know her feelings and as usual Grissom had remained his perpetual silent figure. With no words to the contrary from him, she assumed that he agreed with her: it was a mistake and it would never happen again. But she wished that just once he might find it in himself to utter at least some words for himself in her presence when the conversation was not about work. But no. He just couldn't do that, could he?
She slammed her fist against the locker before slumping to the bench, head in hands. She fought back the tears of anger and frustration, taking deep shuttering breaths to calm her racing heart. The urge to pummel something - anything - was very strong. Her muscles vibrated with barely withheld madness born of passion. Slamming her hands down to the bench, she swung her head back and opened her mouth in a scream.
But it was a silent scream. Her ultra tense body absorbing the full impact of what would have been a deafening screech of anger. A minute of silent, tense mind jarring internal bellowing and she released herself to fall forward on herself, her sides bewailing the sudden strained tautness of muscles in her bid to release - in private at least - part of her stress. She held herself as her insides rearranged themselves to a more normal positioning. Her mind took over and she sat back, took a deep breath and stood up. Feeling very much relieved and able to function somewhat normally, she went to the door.
Only to have it shoved into her face. She jumped back, hands up. "Whoa!"
Grissom, too, jumped back holding the door partially opened. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Sara stared at him, momentarily taken aback by his presence before nodding her head and stepping forward to squeeze by him.
"Sara?"
She stopped. "What?" She didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry."
Her body froze for a moment and then she turned around.
He was standing to his side, head bowed, hands at his side. No proud standing supervisor met her eyes. Now it was Grissom, the man.
"What?"
"I'm sorry Sara. For last night. For this morning. For a few minutes ago. None of it should ever have happened." He glanced at her. "I mean, most of it shouldn't have happened. Um, well, maybe just not in that way-"
"What are you saying, Grissom?"
He sighed. "And this is why I don't say anything around you. I can't."
Sara stepped forward and placed herself in front of him. She stared at him square-on. "Just say it, Grissom. Just say what you mean. You did good with the 'no' a few months ago."
Grissom glanced at her and Sara swore she saw a hint of hurt in his eyes. Her mind paused in its summation of his actions.
Grissom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sara, none of it should have happened. Last night, this morning or just now."
"Fine. I agree." She turned to leave.
"At least not like that," he added.
Sara stopped. And turned. "What?"
He looked at her. "I didn't want our first time to be a drunken one night stand. I didn't want to disappear in the morning. And I didn't want to be tongue-tied around you afterward."
Sara swallowed. "What are you saying?" Her heart at begun beating again, but there was no anger fueling it this time.
Grissom turned to face her directly. "I mean, it should never have happened. I wanted it to be different."
Sara took a step forward, her mind screaming at her to run away, her heart whispering for her to go to him. "How different?"
"Dinner, for one."
"Dinner?"
"Yes. Where two people sit and eat, together."
Sara smirked. "I know what dinner is, Grissom."
Grissom smiled. "Good." And then he dropped the smile and his face became an epitome of seriousness. "Sara, will you have dinner with me?"
She pushed down the uprising of joy and brought in its place a thin veil of fear and distrust. "Why? Guilty? You want to... cushion the blow or something?"
Grissom pulled back. "No. I want to make it right."
" 'Right'."
"Yes. If I'm not too late."
"My god..." Sara closed her eyes. This conversation had taken on overtones she wasn't sure she wanted to, or could, deal with.
"What?"
"Grissom..." To tell him, to say the words, to give them life by giving them air and voice. But they were being held by other words, warring words that also wanted existence outside of her mind.
"What?" he said, exasperation becoming apparent in his voice.
Sara sighed. No battle won. "I don't know. I mean, this morning was... strange. Looking at you now, I don't know." She looked at him. "You don't talk to me for months and then we have one stupid drunken sexfest and suddenly you want to have dinner with me. What, you needed to know how I'd be in bed before you thought about having dinner with me?"
Grissom blinked and his mouth hung open. "Sara..." he choked out, "no, not at all. I..." and the blockade came up again.
"You what?" It wasn't only anger coursing through her veins now. Her mind was a chaos of inane possibilities to explain his sudden interest in her. There was a deep need for some sort of explanation.
Grissom took a step forward and took Sara's hands in his. She looked down at them and then back up at him, like she couldn't believe he was actually touching her. "Give me a chance. Please."
He was standing so close, like when he held her wrists the day she'd asked him to pin her down. So close she could feel his breath on her cheek, feel the heat from his body, smell his soap on his skin. So close she could feel herself leaning into him, caving, melting. His mere presence stripped away, layer by layer, all the walls and curtains she would erect to keep herself emotionally upright and able to function. She met his eyes and was struck by the sheer intensity of his gaze, how it wavered not and held its place in hers. The intensity of pushing through walls.
His walls may have thinned, but the walls of the locker room seemed to be thickening and moving inward. The air suddenly became thick and it was hard to breathe. Sara stared into Grissom's eyes, unsure of the sudden shift in dynamics. Before she knew what was happening, his hand was on her face, gently rubbing her skin. His touch was so soft and gentle, like a butterfly's. Her eyes fluttered and her heart skipped a beat, but she kept her gaze as steady as she could.
He could overpower her universe with so little. A glance, a brush, and now a touch. But this touch was different on so many levels.
His breath fanned her face and she realized he'd moved closer to her. His chest touched hers and tiny filaments of energy coursed through her. She could feel what was coming, what he was going to do, and even though her mind gapped at the probability, her body stayed still.
And when his lips finally touched hers, a mere brush of skin against skin, a tentative contact, something else shifted around them. Like a time and space shift where everything still looks the same but there are underlying differences hidden from the naked eye. She felt them and by the shiver that ran through his body, she knew he felt it too.
He'd chosen, and took her along with him.
Sara pulled away with his hand still on her cheek. Grissom stared at her, his eyes searching her face for any sign to continue or back away.
"Don't do that, Grissom," Sara whispered.
He swallowed hard. "Why?" he asked just as quietly.
"It's hard."
His eyes kept going from hers to her mouth and back again, trying to make a decision. He raised his eyebrow in a silent question.
"You can't do that, Grissom. You can't just ignore me and then kiss me and hope everything'll be better." She wanted to yell at him, scream and cry and let him know just how torn up she was inside. Instead, the words came out like a gentle reprimand.
He shifted on his feet, his hand falling away from her face. "I'm sorry." He took a step back, putting distance between them and looked down at his feet.
She felt him pull away on more than just the physical level. In her a war raged on: to pull away herself to avoid injury, or step forward, risking pain but hoping for pleasure. He seemed so contrite and remorseful, standing there with his head bowed like a child chastised. Her heart reached out to him. Her hands ached to touch him, this man who had stolen her heart and kept it captive every night that she came into work. No matter what he did, she still found herself gazing upon his form and fighting the images that would come to her mind, images of such profound sensuality, every romantic poet paled in comparison. All of Grissom's quaint little quotes were reduced to mere words trying in vain to emulate the passion of real life and true love. Whether Grissom would ever admit it or not, Sara knew there was a connection between them, always had been, from the first moment they'd laid eyes on each and felt their hearts skip a beat into that realm of near catatonic infatuation.
Sara fought that little voice inside that kept whispering sullen little lines that spoke of a woman pining away for a man too dense to take his head out of the book, or away from the microscope as the case may be. She hushed it with the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears whenever he was near.
He'd made a move and a rather drastic one at that if one were to take into account the entire man himself. Sara found it stupefying that she should actually be considering walking away from such a valiant effort at a genuine and sincere connection with another human being. He had come through, for her.
She stepped forward, once again closing the distance and putting herself within his sphere of existence. Her lips grazed across his, a simple touch but one that at the same time closed the gap completely while opening up another realm entirely.
He jumped at her touch, but only momentarily and then leaned in, making it more than just a kiss. It became a seal over their hearts. A nexus for the beginning of a new journey. It spoke of promises and pacts signed in the meshing of tongues and the grasping of hands against cloth and flesh.
They came back to the real world with the slowness of one floating to the surface, bit by bit their awareness coming into focus and they broke apart with great reluctance, each holding on until the very last moment.
They stood a moment, leaning against each other, taking strength in the presence of the other and the faith that they'd always be there. While their breathing slowed and they reined in their pounding hearts, their thoughts began to coalesce into a semblance of form and function.
"Can we start over again?" Grissom asked, the quiver in his voice unveiling his own reaction.
She saw the hope in his eyes, felt the nervous twisting of his hands, the delicate shuffling of his feet. She sensed the fear too, fear that it might be too late. And she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would never be too late, that her heart could never turn him away once he'd decided to come to her. "Yes," was all she could get out. It was still too early for sentences.
~*~
...the end...
Copyright Ó 2003 Anansay