Title: Light of Day
Author: Alison Nixon (VIgirl)
Category: Angst, Drama, Post-Ep
Spoilers: Season 4 references, up to Getting Off
Disclaimers: CSI's characters definitely do not belong to me. No copyright infringement of Anthony E. Zuiker, CBS Productions, Alliance-Atlantis or Jerry Bruckheimer Productions is intended. This is written entirely for pleasure; I won't make a dime on it, I promise.
Feedback: Yes, let me know what you think.
Archival: CSI-Playing with Fire - - Elsewhere, please email me first.
Author's Notes: Like many G/S fans, after Butterflied aired, I wanted to work through its issues somehow. I already had the first two chapters of a WIP called Black Betty's Prize posted and yet, Buttterflied and the eps that followed seemed to confuse things. So, I started this piece. The best way I could make sense of it was to make it a prequel to BBP. So, for better or worse (lol), that's what this has become. I hope you like it and that it resonates in some way. Finally, a big thank you goes to Psyched for her beta skills and thoughtful reading.
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Like a weary child, she crossed her bed on hands and knees and cast herself down. It felt so strange, she thought, lying here without having changed... She had made a habit of it from her first days on the job. Dirty or not, she would shed whatever she had worn to work as soon as she came home, flinging each item away as though it might retain some trace of death.
But there had been no such ritual today, no instinct to separate. In spite of everything, she still hoped to hold on.
The sound came, abrupt, insistent. One ring, two. Then silence.
Conversations ended before they had even begun. The story of her life...
"I couldn't do it."
Four words. Four years. Two realities.
His job meant that much.
She meant that little.
It really was that simple.
Twisting onto her side, she pinned her eyes to the wall.
It was her fault, this sense of sick surprise. She'd never been any man's easy first choice; she should have known she wouldn't be now. After all, her complications didn't tend to fit into the little box of trouble most men can handle. They never had. She knew this. She knew, having heard it a thousand times.
...you know, some women are just…hard work…
None had ever voiced the thought aloud, of course; they didn't have the guts for that. But their actions, callous and sometimes cruel, had spoken nonetheless.
Still, those men were not him. Grissom was different. From the moment he first looked at her, really taking her in with his eyes, she would have bet her heart on that. Unlike the other men she had known, his vision seemed clear—he saw her pieces, her contradictions. But he did so without assuming that the pieces didn't fit into the whole of the woman he knew. He did so by seeing her, not merely his own idea of her. She had been so sure of it. Sure that he would be the last man to say she just wasn't worth it.
The loss of that certainty had left her reeling, but as she began to realize now that his words had truly settled into her, there was more…
She had enjoyed precious few consolations since falling in love with him… Every time he rejected her, every single time, she'd clung to one idea. The rejection stemmed from what he did not feel. Or even, what he did not yet know he felt. The thought stung, but at least it made…sense. Sometimes love, even the deepest kind, is not returned. That she could grasp.
But this--
She could not find a place in her head or heart for this.
Rejection hinged on what he did feel.
On what he knew he felt.
What he knew perfectly well.
She could have fought anything, outlasted or outsmarted anything, but that.
Anything, except the truth…. For he did speak the truth: the life she offered would not come without cost. If they were ever to be together, a price would be paid, by one or both.
In the light of day, where truths could not be ignored, he was right to be afraid.
She understood; her own life had been founded on the illusion that her work defined her. She also understood that that illusion's power. The identities which hide us best are the hardest to shed. They, mirrors of each other, stood as living proof.
They were not the same person, though. There was one fundamental difference, which hadn't really occurred to her until she heard him express it to Lurie. From the day he started down this lonely path, he'd had a twenty year head start… Twenty years to lose his soul in work instead of himself. Twenty years to lose sight of the living, in preoccupation with the dead. Twenty years to live in denial about risks, rewards, and the relative balance of each.
No wonder he seemed so tired in that interrogation room. He had been hiding and pretending for so much longer than she.
Knowing that, what could she say? If a man fears everything you have to give, what can make him brave? If he lives for what he does, rather than for you…
Some things are certain and true: it is impossible to prove a negative.
No, you don't have to lose your work to have me. You don't have to lose me to have your work.
Don't I?
The pillow yielded as she contorted herself again, pressing her face into its softness. She closed her eyes, hoping to block the bright slivers that thrust themselves into the room despite her closed blinds. The instinct to retreat from the light struck her as another sign of how badly her life here had gone astray--she used to love the day. Its light brought energy and warmth; it brought a sense of possibility. The possibility that by the time the night fell, something, anything, no matter how small, might be different.
She'd lost sight of that here. For the past four years, she had prayed only that the light would fade before the loneliness it exposed completely overwhelmed her.
"I couldn't do it."
No. He couldn't.
The noise came again. She waited for her machine to engage, but it never got the chance.
As she brushed her fingertips against closed lids, she shook her head…the one day she longed for quiet and the whole world kept calling.
Do-not-call.
Yeah, right.
The damn program probably worked for everyone in Nevada but her. That would be her life, right? Sara Sidle, the exception to every rule.
In life, in love…
When her hands began to shake, she raised an arm and settled it over her face. She managed to shut it out a bit better that way, but only a little. Stubborn and inescapable, the light would not be so easily driven away.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
She already had one foot out the door when she remembered. Her super…she'd promised to get back to him by the end of the day. The poor man had gotten on the trail of some kind of mystery leak that was affecting the tenant in the unit directly below hers. Sara couldn't see any problem, but apparently, it was there. The other tenant worked during the day, Sara worked at night; if the super hoped to discover the source of the problem he would need access to both apartments at the same time. Unsure of the date of her next day off when he called yesterday, she had promised to call him back when the schedule for the next couple of weeks went up at work. Grissom was due to post it tonight. Naturally, the super had a new cell, whose number he had given her yesterday, but now could not find. It was tempting to just head out the door and deal with this later, but she could not quite make herself do it. So, reversing her steps with an annoyed sigh, she dumped her bag on the kitchen table and strode quickly back towards her bedroom--the caller-ID would have captured his number.
Though a relatively recent purchase, the little machine represented one of her better catalog shopping choices. Sometimes she bought things out of sheer boredom, but the caller ID had been both practical and fun. The machine's design, a sphere made of ocean blue Lucite set on a sleek, silver base, had caught her eye immediately. Instead of the typically flat LED panel of most caller IDs, this one was designed to display its digitized information so that the letters and numbers appeared to float inside the sphere, projected against its curved surface by the revolutions of a disk with tiny LED lights at the tip. The geek factor of this words-in-air effect explained what made her buy it, really. She loved the fact that no matter how hard she stared into it, watching the text seem to spin, whirl and shuffle in all directions, she couldn't see precisely how the trick was done. Looking at her own little tech magic show usually brought a smile to her face, and it did so now. Even her irritation at having to turn back on her way out the door softened as she picked it up and balanced it in her hand. Definitely money well spent, she thought approvingly as she jabbed her thumb at the scroll button to cycle back in the call list. The super had left his message yesterday—his information should be about four or five calls back. In a matter of seconds, she had found the name and committed the number to memory. She had already started to put the unit back on her nightstand, by force of habit, almost as an afterthought, she moved her thumb again, scrolling forward past her super's number to see the most recent calls.
917-817-
She knew the rest by heart.
She could not have said how long she stood there, her brain refusing to take in what her eyes had just seen. He'd called this morning, as she lay in bed. But there had been two calls during that time. Was it possible... She pressed the scroll bar again, forcing her eyes to scan each digit in the sequence so that she could be sure.
917-817-9519
Nothing in the air around her had changed, but she shivered anyway.
At some point, she must have lowered the sphere, though she could not quite recall doing so. With nothing left to hold on to, she folded her hands against herself and slowly backed away.
It could have been about work.
It could have.
But he would have left a message if it was about work, wouldn't he? Not doing so would defeat the whole purpose of the call.
There was no reason for him not to leave a message, unless--
She pivoted back to the kitchen, moving quickly to sling her bag onto her shoulder and head out the door before she could talk herself out of the tiniest spark of hope. The light had not yet fully faded as she pushed through the doors of her building and stepped onto the street. Though its remnants made for glare as she prepared to drive, she barely noticed. It just felt good to look into it for once, rather than away.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Her thoughts chased each other as she drove, flashing in fragments. Maybe he'd mis-dialed. That did happen, even to Grissom, surely. But had it really happened twice? It still could have been about work, though. He may have thought he needed to call her in, only realizing after he'd already dialed that he didn't. Possible, she supposed, if he had ever handled things like that before. But when it was about work, he called her pager or cell, not her home phone. When it wasn't about work…well, she acknowledged bitterly, he never called at all.
She fidgeted, chafing at the seat belt strapped across her chest. Should she be happy? Did it mean something? Perhaps things weren't quite as hopeless as his words to that killer implied. It had to be good that he called, especially now.
Has to be, right?
Her grip tightened on the wheel. All this assumed he actually wanted to talk, given that he had hung up rather than leave a message. She still didn't get that. Did he think he would let his secret slip if he left some trace of himself on her machine? If so, he need not have worried. It would take a whole hell of a lot more than a couple of voice mails to reveal him to her.
And if he's thinking--
She cut it off. No, no more mind-reading. She was done guessing at motives, parsing words and deeds. If he wanted anything from her, he would have to ask for it. Her own heart had been put out there for him too many times already.
So why did her spirit feel so much lighter than it had in days?
He had picked up the phone. He had taken the chance that he might actually reach her by letting it ring more than once. He had done this, twice. Maybe something, some tiny thing, would be different now. Barely an hour of daylight remained and something already felt different. Surely that was a sign.
The usually short drive seemed to take forever; by the time she reached the lab, all she could think about was finding him and…seeing what happened. Once in the cool dimness of the building, she started down the main hallway, searching for him with nervous eyes. What is it that you expect anyway? Don't be stupid. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. That's all. He didn't even have the guts to leave a message. It doesn't mean anything…probably would've hung up on you if you'd answered, anyway…
The litany kept coming, each unhappy word pushing her heartbeat still higher. But she didn't stop searching. Her legs seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying her forward almost in spite of herself. There was no point in denying what the movement implied—she needed to see him, now. The evening's dark had not yet fully overtaken the light outside…there was still time. She would gladly accept any change, no matter how trivial. She just needed to see that it was still possible.
Striding at a fast clip, her mind on her mission, she never even saw the obstacle in her path. Before she knew it, she banged her shoulder, hard. The man she had just run into grabbed at the wall to keep from tumbling.
"Whoa, Sara. Where's the fire?"
She whipped her head up. "Brass! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking…"
The captain smiled easily, amused by her mortification.
"No problem. Luckily, I don't bruise that easily. But just so you know, you've got a career as a half-back waiting for you whenever you decide to go make the big bucks."
This, she reflected, was what she liked about Brass: he never busted her chops. Even when he'd snapped at her for acting more like a cop than a CSI after the explosion, he'd seemed more worried than anything else. He hadn't been mean about it, or snide. The man just didn't seem to enjoy taking the easy shots that some of her colleagues did.
"Wow, now that is high praise. Can I ask you for a recommendation when I blow the joint?" She cocked her head and smiled. "You can tell them how I body-block with the best of them."
His face remained friendly, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Why? You going to be needing a rec?"
She managed a vague shrug, covering her surprise. She just might, truth be told. There was no way would she would admit it, though. She'd be damned if she would give the lab rumor mill any new Sara material.
"No, of course not…" She smiled widely. "I'm just kidding."
Brass could sense something unspoken, some thought or emotion threading its way through her voice and her body's restless posture. The fake grin also gave her away, the she wielded whenever she wanted to pretend a case wasn't getting to her. Brass noticed all of this almost subconsciously; he had worked with all of the CSIs enough over the years to pick up on a few of their tics.
"Better be," he warned her. "'Cause I'll tell you, I really can't imagine this place without you."
The grin expanded, in contrast to the tight physical perimeter she established by crossing her arms over her torso.
"I mean that, you know."
He opened his mouth to share what he knew, but immediately shut it again. How could he say what needed saying without being forced to explain things that he himself did not fully understand? Things rooted in another man's struggles, another man's fears. He couldn't. Everything Brass had heard Grissom say in that interrogation room felt like a confidence, even though none of it had been. Given all the complications, the wisest thing would be to pretend he hadn't heard a thing. But as he stood in front of the woman he felt certain had been the subject of his friend's…confession…wisdom seemed overrated.
"You would be missed, Sara. By---" He bit back the name. "By everyone..."
She made a sound she hoped would pass for a laugh. Brass must not be as clued in to lab gossip as she thought. He couldn't be, if he hadn't heard about the friction with Catherine and the promotion competition with Nick. Or the snickering over the four years she'd wasted on a man whose answer would always be "No."
"Huh." She made the sound again. "I… I sincerely doubt that."
She launched herself back into motion.
"You know, I, I should go."
Her quick steps took her out of earshot before he could think of a reply.
As Brass watched her go, his face fell into a frown. Unless he had misread all the smoke signals and they somehow didn't have feelings for each other, Gil sure had made a mess of things.
It was a shame, too. Brass had seen aspects of his old friend that he hadn't known existed since Sara had come to Vegas. Things that proved how human he could be when it came to her, even vulnerable… That alone made her the best thing to happen to the man since, well, since Brass had known him. And that was a very long time indeed.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Halfway between the double doors and the vaults, he stopped. Even if it would never be officially closed, the Marlin case had effectively ground to a halt. Unless Lurie suddenly developed some semblance of a human conscience and confessed to the crime, there wasn't much chance of his ever being charged.
So why am I here?
There was little to see and even less to do. Robbins had already signed off on the release papers; someone would soon come to bury her. Logically, that was the end of it.
Grissom took in a breath, trying vainly to clear his head. It said a great deal about his distraction that he had never wondered until now whether Debbie Marlin even had family to come claim her. She likely did. Most people do. But he knew how little of life came down to what most people have, or what most people do… Most people don't put their arm around a young woman to hold her still as they slice through her throat. The same arm they once curled around her as they made love. The same throat they once caressed with lips and fingers…
Most people don't…
Whatever Lurie felt, it had not been love. Passion. Possession. Not love. Not that it mattered, such details. Whatever he felt had led him to kill her. How long had he planned it? From the moment he saw her look at the boyfriend in the way she used to look at him? The moment she said he would never get a second chance? The day he looked in his rival's eyes, only to catch there traces of the pleasure she had once given him?
What was the precise instant he let his cruelest male instinct utterly override his logical mind?
What was the precise instant for you?
He shut his eyes. This was neither the time nor the place.
The admonition hardly mattered; it wasn't a moment he was likely to ever forget. The fact that it had been witnessed by Gerard, a man whose opinion had once mattered so much, only deepened the humiliation.
"I wish she'd mentioned her relationship…"
"Relationship?"
Had he been stronger, he might have survived it. He had never been strong, though, not when it came to her. Certainly not enough to stop that one word's unraveling of every fragile hope he'd held in his heart until that moment, about her…about them.
That moment had stripped him of something, something fundamental. Much like what had been stripped away during the moment an unfeeling neighbor finally announced what his mother refused to address… There was no "long trip" keeping his father from him. He had chosen a new life in a new place and he was never coming back.
Never.
He had fought hard not to let his mother see his tears, so hard. Somehow, he managed it, never asking for explanations she couldn't give. He never did, not once. Not even as he scanned the mail for years afterward, desperately searching for the handwriting he had studied night after night his lens so that he would recognize it on sight…
Nothing had come. Not a single word. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought his father never existed at all. Maybe that bound father and son together, in the end. He had never existed either. Not really.
He wasn't a stupid man. There were…connections…between past and present. She would leave eventually. No matter what she might feel, his flaws and failings would drive her away. Some random day, without warning, he would do the thing that would make her walk away. As with his father, he never even know what he precisely had done wrong.
Losing, and being lost. It felt the same. It was the same.
"I'm still here."
"Are you?"
Am I?
He blinked and tried to swallow.
This was neither the time nor the place.
Rousing himself, he forced his feet forward. His hand already lay on the cold steel latch to Debbie's vault when he heard her voice.
"Grissom." Her breath came quickly, almost as though she had been running.
He couldn't bring himself to turn around, not with only a small square door between her and the dead girl; there was only so much he could take. It was why he called her this morning, like a fool. It was also why he hung up rather than take the chance of hearing her voice.
"So, this is where you are."
He lowered his head.
"Yeah…I'm just…doing a final check on a body."
She smiled a little, though he still had not turned around.
"Do you…need some help?" He could hear shoes tapping against tile as she moved towards him. "Which vic is it?"
"No one you're familiar with," he said quickly. "Just the DB from a case I worked with Warrick a few days ago."
"Oh, you mean the floater from The Aladdin's pool?" She stepped closer.
"No, no. You don't have to…I can handle it." He turned his head towards her, ever so slightly.
"Grissom, let me help. There's still time before--"
"I don't want your help."
No words left her, but he could feel the sharp inhalation of her breath shearing the air like wind.
He gripped the latch tighter, willing her to leave.
Her feet shifted jerkily as she began to turn away, but not before she caught a glimpse of the vault door. D-21. She'd seen that number only a day ago, written next to a name on a set of toe prints.
She could only see his profile, but it was enough.
"It's her."
Gently, she turned back.
"What is it that you need to check? I thought we couldn't make a case."
He couldn't offer the real answer—she was right. He had no case-related reason to open this particular drawer.
"I might have…missed something."
Her palm found his shoulder before she could pin it to her side.
"No, you didn't."
It took every bit of discipline he had not to react to her touch, to neither flinch nor soften.
"Grissom."
"Right." He breathed in quickly. "There are other things I ought to attend to. I need to get to the case assignments and--"
Their bodies were close enough that he nearly brushed against her as he turned. He tried to keep his eyes away from hers, but failed. They stared at each other, letting the moment expand as fully as two frightened people could manage without breaking. Sara could have sworn his lips moved, but no sound emerged. She wondered if her expression mirrored his …There were so many things she wanted to ask, before the lingering light left for good. Something could be different. It could.
Maybe if she just…
He moved suddenly, breaking eye contact as he stepped back. When she saw his lips move again, she knew it would not to say anything she wanted to hear.
"...So, I'll let you all know about your assignments in a few minutes."
She almost reached out to him to make him stay, almost. Hadn't she just told herself that he was the one who needed to act? He knew how she felt, even now. He knew that all he had to do was say yes.
It would have to be his yes, though. Not her saying it for him. Not her asking him for it. Not anymore.
So, she let him escape. As she stood watching him push through the double doors, he hesitated and turned his head towards his shoulder. It was hard to tell if he could really see her face from that position, but she tried to believe that he could.
Her smile felt strange; for the first time, she didn't know what she wanted it to convey.
Her smile looked beautiful. So beautiful that he couldn't be certain it wasn't imagined. He silently thanked her for it, anyway.
Then he was gone.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Strange, how it had slipped, all that vaunted self-control. The case's ugliness should have hardened him, made it easier to heed the warnings. And he supposed it had. From the moment he walked out of the house and confirmed the resemblance with his own eyes, he had shut her out. But now that he could no longer justify losing himself in the investigation, he wanted nothing more than to see and hear her. He fought the impulse, but he needed the reassurance--the dreams still felt horribly real. Confused echoes of what he had seen, they corrupted his sleep again and again, though their details mercifully faded as soon as he awoke. There was, however, one particular corruption that showed no such mercy.
The doctor's hands, grotesquely large as they force Sara's head back…He can see it happening, but cannot move, being condemned instead to watch as the other man folds her slimness onto the floor before he turns her face… He wants to scream, but his mouth will not work and her eyes stare up at him, nearly black with accusation. He is sure of only one thing—he does do this. It's Lurie. Lurie. He is sure, until the moment he lifts his eyes from hers and realizes that the doctor is no longer alone. The moment he sees his own bearded face gazing back at him, eyes wild…
I wouldn't. I'm not—
He wasn't like Lurie, not like that. Their lives ran parallel, but only in crude outline. Enough for him to understand the man's motivation, up until the point he actually took Debbie's life. After that, he understood nothing.
I wouldn't. I love her. I even loved her enough to let her go.
Not that he felt proud to have done so. She had offered a life to someone else and he stood by and let her do it. Lurie had acted brutally, but at least he hadn't just let it happen. His passion for the woman he wanted surged strongly enough for that—for action, albeit blind and full of hate. Grissom had done nothing, offering up only false words and falser feelings.
"You deserve to have a life."
They had been a test, those words, but how could he have expected her to know? Know that his words were not a permission to leave, but an invitation to convince him of her earlier denial?
He shouldn't have, but he had. She always knew what he was thinking; he had counted on that. He didn't realize it the time, but her angry stare and the sound her high heels made against the floor as she walked away without a word had signaled a real break between them. Things hadn't been the same since. She kept doing things that left him questioning whether she had ever really cared for him, or not. Maybe it had just been some intense, but fleeting crush.
Like her trip to the vineyard with a face made up for a date. Like her rush to the boyfriend's side the instant she saw him amid the ruined glass and damaged bodies. Catherine called him "Sara's boyfriend," but he hadn't needed the news bulletin. He knew. He also knew he had to get out of there before he saw any more of them together. Nick could have handled the other case on his own, but he needed the excuse and took it.
Had Sara been less worried for the EMT, she might have caught the irony of his explanation. Seeing her with the man she obviously preferred really had made him feel ill. Like a punch to the gut.
She had a way of doing that.
Up until that moment, having never actually seen them together, he had managed to live in a state of semi-denial. If he didn't see the hard evidence, he could pretend the relationship meant nothing. That she didn't really care about and even love the man. Once he had seen that evidence, though…
It was one more reason to trust his head, rather than his heart. If she could choose another man once, she could again. If she could truly fall for another man once, she could again. And if he let down his guard around her, he would be in too deep the next time to survive the loss.
He couldn't do it. Not again. The barren life he led now proved it. She had left him empty before. If it happened again, there might be nothing left intact at all…
There were things he needed that she could not give. Certainties, guarantees, scientific proofs, all based on evidence that he could measure. He needed to know in advance how the results would change if he allowed himself to change some of the variables. Because past is prologue, whether he liked it or not.
So why couldn't he stop?
Knowing how it would all end, no matter what they did, why?
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
The scary part? She didn't need even need to ask. She just knew.
As Grissom swiveled the guard's chair and duct-taped himself around the chest from a roll secured by one of the posts of the museum's velvet-rope barrier, she could see the answer on his face. Caught up in his experiment, he didn't seem to notice the way she stared at him. It might have made him wonder, if he had—she looked like she was seeing him for the first time. Her fascination with him began as fascination with the puzzle, more so than with the man. She never quite knew what she hoped to see when she stared at him then. She hardly knew now. He just seemed so self-contained, so undisturbed, by her, by anything. Perhaps she hoped for some kind of fissure or fracture in the façade. Some aperture that would grant her a glimpse of the self he kept so carefully shielded. Patience had its rewards; she had caught glimpses through the years, here and there… In a way, she supposed, his confession to Lurie had simply been the latest in a series of unexpected reveals. But given what he'd said, she found herself at a loss. What should she make of him now? Only a few days had passed since that case, and yet, he seemed like his normal self—calm, controlled, absorbed in work. Had he forgotten whatever the resemblance had stirred in him so easily? Or had he just…forgotten her? Having decided he could not accept what she offered, perhaps he had already moved on. Perhaps he had already abandoned his feelings, leaving them behind like so much debris.
Shaken, she stepped forward to distract herself by releasing him, her small, deft hands sending the scissors into rapid motion on one side of his body and then the other. Naturally, before she could step away, the relative closeness worked its usual mischief. These opportunities didn't come as often as they used to; it shocked her system, this reminder of how good he smelled. How good he looked. She rarely fixated on such things, but she loved the man, every part of him. If she ever doubted it, moments like these made it clear how much she still wanted him.
Exhaling slowly, she crossed her arms and forced herself to focus again on the case. Grissom, features perking like those of an animal catching a scent, cocked his head toward the far side of the gallery. He's found something. The thought brought a wistful smile to her face. If he were even half as good at finding things with his heart instead of his head, maybe they could have gotten somewhere…He rose suddenly and walked rapidly towards the middle of the room. She followed; by now, she also had picked up on the slight rattle coming from the ceiling. They soon stood side by side, eyes fixed upward. When he turned his head and favored her with one of his little smiles, she had to force herself to focus yet again.
"Sara. Could you…?" He tilted his head back up toward the ceiling.
She couldn't help but smile. No matter what else went awry between them, his boyish enthusiasm always charmed her.
"…Sure."
He fetched the chair and rolled it into place. As she worked to steady it for him and he snapped on a pair of gloves, she could feel his eyes settle on her. Maybe he was just worried she wouldn't get a good hold, but he seemed to take his time surveying her. She kept moving, fussing with the task more than she really needed to. Finally, after planting her right foot firmly atop of one of the wheeled legs of the chair, she nodded at him. Taking hold of her shoulder, he put one foot on the seat and began to propel himself upward. Still warm-faced from his earlier scrutiny and wanting to see him smile again, she huffed loudly, as though his weight had taxed her. Her act must have been convincing; she won her reward. But the smile came with a look, one she could not quite read. Determined not to get lost in the effort to decode his expression, she took a breath instead.
"So--" She asked, her voice full of nerves. "What do you see?"
He said nothing, turning back instead to the vent and removing its cover with a few quick movements. As he dropped one hand to give the square of metal to her, his eyes remained fixed on the opening, trusting, it seemed, that she could remove one hand from the chair and take the metal from him without jeopardizing his position. She looked at his hand…such an easy excuse to touch him… But maybe he hadn't been talking about her that night. Maybe she had just heard what she wanted to hear.
The mere chance he might not welcome her touch made her avoid any contact as she reached for the cover and deposited it on the gallery floor.
When she looked up again, she could see Grissom slip both hands into the opening. He must have found whatever he'd sought. The words came quietly, but she caught them.
"Domo arigato."
…Mr. Roboto.
She shook her head.
Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Maybe it was the theatricality of it all. Maybe it was the sense of relief after the darkness of his last case. Maybe it was the simple fact that she hadn't looked in his eyes for this long without anger or disappointment, in ages.
Maybe it was the unanticipated way the lovely tumble of curls set off her face.
"Handle is molded plastic fiber. Materials are used by hundreds of manufacturers throughout the country…It's impossible to trace."
What she'd found, yes. But what he felt?
Nick's voice intruded; Grissom flicked his eyes towards him. The younger man's comments deserved attention. They did. Just not when she was standing this close.
Sara arched one smooth, brown brow, speaking knowledgeably now of emu and ivory. He watched a wry little smile cross her face as she ended her recitation, and for no real reason, held out the sword.
It felt good. Surreal, but...good. Like most men, he could remember rushing about the house with such things as a child. Lengths of cardboard clad in tin foil, brandished before him to ward off the invisible attacking horde--he hadn't only cared about bugs as a boy. Of course, his mother had indulged his high spirits, offering him her special smile when he returned from battle, declaring the kingdom secure. Then, as he gazed up at her with solemn eyes, she would thank him, first in sign and then in a kiss. It was why he wielded his child's weapon in the first place. Not for the sake of swordplay, but for her sweet reward.
"…As of five minutes ago, no one's answering the phone."
"Call Brass." The command would send Nick on his way. "Get a warrant."
He hardly waited for the words to have the desired effect before he gave in to the impulse. Unsheathing the toy with the flourish of his youth, he looked right at her, hoping to win that special smile. Instead, she jumped back, unsettled.
He gave it a few more seconds; her expression did not change. As he brought the sword back down and slipped it back into its scabbard, he sighed. She used to smile at nearly everything he did.
Used to.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He would surely have offered some clever bit of Shakespeare had he known. What fools we mortals be, love's labor lost, or something else equally apropos. Well, she had always been mortal. But she had never before thought herself a fool. Fool enough to stare at the blue sphere for some tell-tale trace, day after day. Fool enough to live in hope.
The question was why. What did she think had changed? Maybe he'd seemed the slightest bit…warmer…during the art case. Maybe he'd been a little slower to repress every glance and smile. Not that she could even allow herself to react at the time; he'd confused her too much for that. He had spent years doing that. All this time, though, she assumed he did it unknowingly, as part of some bizarre hit and run flirtation enacted for no real reason, other than the fact that he could. But now, the things he'd said to Lurie had cast all of that into doubt. The feelings she thought he had--they were real. It wasn't just a game to him.
It wasn't. What he said proved it.
So...why hadn't he called?
She bit down hard on the soft flesh of her lip, hating herself for even asking the question. What did she expect? One case that got to him, made him think of her, and one that seemed to restore him, and he would magically bridge the gap?
The Bard did have a habit of getting it right, in one locution or another.
Love does make fools of us all.
Of her, since she was still waiting. Even after he said he couldn't do it.
What kind of fool did that make her?
Still, none of this explained the reason she'd moved on to the second beer. Drinking them wasn't about trying to lose her way in some alcoholic fugue. She knew there were more effective ways to obliterate her senses than that. But it was about trying to lose something. Like the day which stretched endlessly before her, like a bright, empty field. She couldn't sleep the light away and for the first time in her life, she couldn't read it away either. But she needed to do something to make the time pass more quickly. Something like...eating a real breakfast she had taken the time to cook, lingering over the cracking of shells and whipping of eggs, the browning and buttering of toast, the cutting and arranging of fruit, all things she rarely bothered with. The longer the process took, the better.
In spite of this, when she finally sat down at the table, the clock's hands had barely advanced. The meal so carefully laid out before her would take some time to consume, but as she stared down at it, she knew it wasn't enough. Without conversation, without distraction, without...something...to make her linger, she would just put one forkful after another into her mouth until she was done. If nothing disrupted that almost mechanical rhythm, she would be done far too soon.
Then it came to her. The bulk of the six-pack she'd bought weeks ago was still sitting in her fridge. It took her forever to work through a pack of beer, always had. She usually preferred to wait until it was nice and hot outside before she drank it—the cold clear taste seemed best then. Vegas had yet to really warm up so far this spring, though; she hadn't made much of a dent in the pack. God only knew how long the bottles had been there, in fact, but there they were…
Bent slightly at the waist as the frigid air chilled her skin, she hesitated. Drinking a beer at this time of day, well, it just seemed...wrong, somehow. Like there ought to be some better way. But what way would that be? When she first came here, she would chase the day by switching on her scanner as she ate. A year ago, she would have used company of another, when Hank's free time coincided with her own.
Now, she had nothing. There was just her meal, which sat untouched as she stood in front of the fridge, still undecided. Why can't I be like everyone else for once? So many people eased unwanted time away with a drink. If it wasn't wrong for them…. Besides, every sip she took would lengthen the meal. Every sip would give her a little less time to think about daylight she didn't even know how to enjoy anymore. She'd done it before, when she'd needed to hasten the passage of time. Like when she ate alone in some restaurant. Inevitably, despite the obvious book or paper folded next to her plate, someone's pitying eyes would drift towards her. She hated those looks. The more that came her way, the faster she shoveled food into her face, just to hasten her escape. Over time, though, she'd found ways to resist, ways to remain in her seat until she was good and ready to go. Simple formula: always order something to drink, if she wasn't thirsty, something she would be forced to savor slowly. Super sweet iced tea, so cold it could not be gulped, whipped cream-topped hot chocolate, served in a mug so big it could be nursed forced, root beer floats so tall and tasty they became a meal in themselves. Anything that kept her too busy to just put the food away, bite after bite. It worked pretty well, usually. It also saved her from more prying eyes: racing through meals just drew more unwanted attention.
As she reached for the long neck of the bottle tucked into the fridge door, she began to feel a little better. This was okay. This was fine. Nothing she hadn't done in other places to pass the time. So what if she'd rarely chosen alcohol as her drink of choice? So what if the only person judging her solitude now was herself? Her eyes, turned upon herself, were as hard to take as those of any stranger.
Turning back to the table, she dropped the bottle next to her plate, the thickened ridges on its bottom striking the wood solidly. It took her a minute's search to find the only beer opener she had. A tiny thing, it tended to get lost in her kitchen drawers. Somehow, though, she had kept track of it over the years. Finally, her fingers found it, lifting it free. She ran her thumb over the letters, as she did every time she used it. 'Harvard University -- Class of 1993 – Senior Day.' Only a week before graduation, the day had been perfect, warm with the promise of summer and wonderfully clear. Standing in line, she and her friends had grabbed their openers from the bins of t-shirts and hats, laughing as they flipped the tops of icy Coronas and praising the academic gods that they had all made it out on time, and in good standing… She gave a ghost of a smile, picturing it all as if no time had passed. I was so happy that day. Ridiculously, unreasonably happy... She wouldn't have wished the day away for anything, then. Not for anything in the world.
She glanced at her watch. The first beer, interspersed with small bites of breakfast, hadn't slowed her down very much--it was only 9 o'clock. She had always been afraid to slow down. This was why. If she wasn't working, or quasi-working, if she didn't have anyone in her life to distract her from working, slowing down meant this. This...desperate attempt to run down the clock, in any way she could.
Working her way through the second one, sip after swallow, swallow after sip, it all seemed hilarious suddenly.
She didn't even really like beer.
Should she have felt relief when her pager began to hum? She didn't know. Going in would keep her from opening a third bottle, but she had already tired of the taste anyway. It still wasn't hot enough out there, although the light which brazened its way through her window seemed nearly bright enough to fool mere mortals into believing so.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
"How you feeling?"
Turning, she raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. "Hey. What do you mean?"
"Well, you were…popping cough drops at the scene the other day a mile a minute."
She tried to school her face, to erase the irritation. What was with all this sudden concern?
Forcing a false smile to her face, she widened her eyes and nodded. "I thought I was... coming down with a cold."
Stepping back a bit, she sat down at the break room table and took a sip of coffee. Now that he'd played Mother Brass, he probably would get to back to business. He'd be disappointed: nothing had come in from Trace yet about the evidence she'd found at the perimeter of the house.
"Yeah." He paused a half-second too long. "Yeah..."
She swung her eyes back to Brass's suddenly sheepish face. He sure didn't look like he was about to ask about the case. What could his tongue be tripping over?
"I, uh…I understand colds."
What is this?
He fixed his eyes on hers.
"You know, back in Jersey when I was getting it from both ends…from my wife and my work...things started to get heavy. I started...medicating." He paused, making sure she understood. "Killed my cold."
Every line in her face tightened, but he kept on talking.
"…And God forbid I had an early morning rollout and I had that…tell-tale breath, you know what I mean? So I would…dodge my supe and…start…popping cough drops."
She stared, her frown growing deeper. For the life of her, she could not figure out what he expected her to say.
"Huh."
But apparently, she would have to say something. He just would not quit.
"All I'm trying to say is…there's more problems than answers in the bottom of a bottle, believe me."
"Yeah.". She knew that. Who didn't? Chasing the daylight away with a beer was one thing. Searching for answers with one was quite another. But even if he could understand that kind of motive, she had no intention of sharing it. Brass was a good man and it was nice to think he cared, but there were some places she just wouldn't go. Not with him, not with anyone.
She shrugged and looked away. Then she forced herself to look back. She might as well get this conversation behind her. "Actually, I had a couple of beers with breakfast when I got off shift."
She dredged up a half-smile. "Then…I got called in."
He nodded.
"Just a couple?"
Do you think I'm lying? What the hell… Everybody in the universe can knock back a few after work and I get the third degree?
Her eyes narrowed, but she worked to stay calm. He means well. He does.
"…Yeah."
He must have sensed that his doubt annoyed her; his smile came tinged with a kind of sheepish apology. "I'm just looking out for you."
Interrogation complete, he rose to leave at last.
She had no idea what the hell had just happened.
Unbelievable.
If she were smart, she would chalk this up to one of the many reasons she needed to move on. She couldn't even have a drink on her own time without it becoming a topic of conversation. She also couldn't express an opinion about case priorities without getting it thrown in her face… Or stick up for herself when other people grabbed whatever cases they wanted.
He said he couldn't accept the life she offered. Why should he? She couldn't accept it anymore either.
The first steps had actually been taken more than a month ago. Slow process, updating her resume, registering at job boards, uploading all her details. Slowed even further by the time she'd wasted trying to make sense of Grissom's confession, or whatever the hell it was. She had been so caught up in him she hadn't even checked any of the job listings for the past few weeks.
As she swallowed another mouthful of the bitterness in her cup, she made herself a promise. The very next day would find her eating her breakfast next to her computer, instead of a beer. The light would really run for her then.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Philosophy or pathology, her jumbled words did mean something. He believed this, implicitly, though he would never have admitted it to the wraith-like figure before him. How could he? Her thoughts were more likely to have sprung from the confusion of a drug-addled brain as from some moment of perfect intellectual clarity. Then again, the fact that he discerned any clarity in Mindy DuPont at all said far more what ailed him than he dared dwell on.
It was easier to think about what ailed her. What happened to this woman? What had brought her to such a point? The path to addiction led from flight, he'd always thought. Flight from the intolerable, be it fear, pain, rage, or shame. In Mindy's case, based on the frantic edge of what he could see in her eyes, he would guess pain, and fear. It probably explained why she seemed to want nothing more than to disappear. He'd seen worse addicts who still managed to seem stronger than she did. Only real self-hatred could have wreaked such havoc.
But like she said, she never wanted to feel. Not like the two opposing forces that defined the boundaries of her existence. The saint wanted her to feel in order to save her, the sinner in order to ruin her. The saint had suffered for his faith. The sinner had lived. In the end, they had both left her utterly alone. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd been abandoned, either. It never was, for people like them.
People like them.
He never wanted to feel either. Not even as a child. The aversion had been worse then, if that were possible. He'd perfected all the ways to deaden his feelings as an adult, killing them with work and near-hermetic isolation. But as a child, he possessed no defenses at all. Constructing them had taken precious time and until they were ready, there had been no escape from the flood of feelings that felt like a scream coursing from one end of him to the other, over and over.
That was why he noticed it. The perfect silence embedded in the dead creatures he gathered along the shore near his house. The dead no longer drowned in their screams. They no longer felt borne away by the flood. The dead returned to a perfect peace.
"We all have this secret, terrible cave in our hearts…"
He looked up, skin pricking in alarm. How could this stranger know? How could she know its exact shape and form?
The cave was secret. Places in the heart always are. It was terrible. Beauty, fierce and full of allure, always is. But that was Sara. Secret. Terrible. Beautiful. She had taken possession of all his hollow places long ago. That cave comprised her realm, the sphere of her control. No matter what happened on the outside, he could always feel her there, watching and waiting. Judging. Judging him as the weak, frightened man he knew himself to be.
So, to escape, he spent his time in flight. The faster he flew, the more blurred his vision. The higher he flew, the more her likeness, the one he carried with him, seemed nearly as real as she did. As long as he could see her there, he wouldn't need to see her anywhere else.
Yet, at moments he least expected, he did. That day, it never occurred to him to avoid her. He simply left the interrogation, Mindy's wispy words still snaking through his ears, and walked right to her. He'd played with words, saying he needed her help with "a woman," though with what intent, he could not have explained. Whatever he hoped to elicit, he didn't get it. Not a smile, no softening of her eyes. She'd always given him something, sharing little parts of herself so quietly that no one else could see or hear it but them. It was part of her sweetness. Or, it had been.
How long since she--
He heard the walk first, even before the voice. Sara had a distinctive gait, full of long strides taken with her hips leading the way. Long an object of fascination, that odd pitch to her body reminded him of something, though he hadn't realized what until a couple of years ago. One morning at home, too tired to sleep, he had skipped through the channels looking for anything familiar. By chance, he hit upon a collection of long-limbed, thin women stalking a walkway in pretty suits and skirts. It was the same slung-back look he had seen only a few hours before, when Sara sauntered up to him beside that bus. Tall and slim in a sleek suit he'd never seen before, weight thrown back on her heels, hips tipped just so. He'd had no words, but that gorgeous smile said it all.
I miss that, he thought, head still down as he listened to her approach. He missed the way he used to let himself look at her, without caring so much about what he might give away. He missed being less afraid, of her and himself.
Maybe it was a sign. Maybe whatever swirled between them had gone beyond the simple pleasures of looking. He would have to see, now, not just look. Dangerous territory, though. Seeing her meant seeing the future. One he would inevitably spend alone, no matter her promises.
But…he'd heard the walk. Once the memory of the smile that once accompanied that sound overtook him, how could he not try to see?
"Samples from your suspect. There's nothing but a few track marks. No defensive wounds, no bruising."
He lost himself the instant he met her eyes, catching only a word here and there.
"Junkies usually bruise if you breathe on them too hard. She's a pile of twigs…very frail."
He heard only echoes.
"…there's nothing…"
But there was something, for him. His heart hadn't changed. Inside its hollows, she still stood, looking out at him. Her light spread itself there, in spite of him. Just as in the real world, no matter how much he hid from her in the night, in his work, the day always asserted itself. Sooner or later, he would be forced back into the light and his life. His troubles always seemed to begin at that edge between night and day. The night hid, the day exposed, opening the way to thoughts and dreams.
Thoughts and dreams which crept in the moment he stepped outside and settled himself behind the wheel. Thoughts and dreams which pressed in still closer the moment he turned out of the lot towards the east, towards the rising sun. By the time he fitted key to door and pushed his way inside, they enveloped him completely. The quiet and light of his home also conspired against him. One amplified the sounds of an empty life; the other prevented him from filling that life with his nighttime work for at least a few hours. Of the two, the light mattered more. Coming through the panes with a stubbornness that would not be denied, it led his mind straight to her. Like a current, completing its circuit from her to him. Though she might be far away, in the light of day, the circuit always ran its course. He accepted this. Secretly, he welcomed it.
No, his heart hadn't changed. Had hers? Certain things had struck him, even in his willful oblivion. She didn't stand as close. She didn't touch. Her eyes didn't smile. Though he had never understood what he'd done to call forth any of these things, he knew they had gone away. Bringing them back would require something he did not think he was ready to give. Not yet.
But the harder he fled, the deeper he drove himself towards her. The faster he flew, the more the blur left him wanting to see.
When the thought came, for once, he simply said it.
"I haven't seen you for a while, have I?"
Something rippled across her face, skimming the surface of her skin. Had he blinked, he would have missed it. Something had shifted, though, he would have sworn it.
"You see me every day."
Only a second later, she stepped past him and moved away. Standing in place, he looked down at the floor. Then he looked up, turning his head in the direction she had taken. She moved as quickly as he once had himself. He stayed there a moment longer, listening hard for the sound of her footfalls, but she was already gone.
(Fin)
This story is continued in Black Betty's Prize, the WIP I began posting a couple of months ago. Now that I've gotten this story out of my head, I'll be turning my attention back to the next chapter of BBP. To those who have asked about it and hit me the fic stick, esp. the PwF chatters, thanks.