This is probably a one off, stemming from my frustration at the lack of
anything progressive between Grissom and Sara. Naturally that meant I
wanted some sort of totally angsty sorrowful regret from Grissom. Ahem. So
I'm shallow. Sue me.. Actually, see disclaimer. Please DON'T sue me. = )
Anyway, if you want more, you'll have to let me know.
Disclaimer: Right, 'cause, if I owned Grissom and Sara, I'd waste them the way CBS does. Um, NO.
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes
He sat by her bed and tried to remember a time when this pain hadn't infiltrated his entire being. He held her hand, but he couldn't feel it, because his skin was still numb.
He remembered yesterday morning, sitting alone with an entomology textbook, eating, when the call came. When all the little regrets he had suppressed came rushing into his brain, falling over themselves for his attention.
"Grissom." Her voice echoed down the line.
"Sara? What do you need?" He was startled. He couldn't remember the last time she had called at home.
"You have to come." He waited for her to tell him why, to explain what she wanted, to provide him with details, so he could fabricate some reason it wasn't possible for him to see her, but there was only silence. "Sara?" Nothing. "Sara!" Then he did hear a noise, through the line. Sirens. A common enough noise, but it filled him with dread. There was a crash, and he heard muffles voices. Suddenly, a voice came on the line. "Hello? Is any one there?" He forced the sound from his throat. "Yes." "May I ask who I'm speaking too?" "Gil Grissom. Who are you? Is my colleague there? I was just speaking to her and.." The voice cut him off. "Sir, I'm at the scene of a four car pile-up. I suggest if you want information, you meet the ambulance when it reaches the hospital." Hospital. His normal capacity for thought fled him, and he found the words 'hospital bad' repetitiously circulating through his system. The voice hung up before he could pull himself together enough to ask for more details, and he flung his phone from him. The resulting crash barely registered as he grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.
That had been 32 hours ago. Since then, he had learned to hate all sorts of new words and phrases. Among them: "Just be patient, sir," "I'm sorry, you'll need permission from the family," "Please hold," "I'm sorry," and "coma." He especially hated the first one and the last one. They were wound about each other now, and he was certain that he would never be able to hear one without the echo of the other following.
Everyone had told him to go home and get some sleep, that likely she would never know he had left, but he would know.
Besides, she had asked for him. So he would be there, for as long as it took.
He owed her that much. He thought back, trying to recall the last time they had really, truly talked, but he couldn't think of it. His cursed himself for avoiding her, putting her last in his life. And why? So he wouldn't get hurt?
God.
Nothing. Nothing could hurt more than this.
Holding her hand and wondering if he'd ever see her gap toothed smile aimed his way again. Nothing could hurt more than remembering his cruel rejection of her affection. Nothing could hurt more than sitting there, holding her hand, with every missed opportunity tossing in his head. He tried to distract himself by summoning up some quote about how things all worked out in the end. Some trite saying that promised brighter times, but all he could think of was a poem by Francis William Bourdillon:
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one: Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
It was all he could do to sit there and pray that the poem did not apply to him.
Disclaimer: Right, 'cause, if I owned Grissom and Sara, I'd waste them the way CBS does. Um, NO.
The Night Has a Thousand Eyes
He sat by her bed and tried to remember a time when this pain hadn't infiltrated his entire being. He held her hand, but he couldn't feel it, because his skin was still numb.
He remembered yesterday morning, sitting alone with an entomology textbook, eating, when the call came. When all the little regrets he had suppressed came rushing into his brain, falling over themselves for his attention.
"Grissom." Her voice echoed down the line.
"Sara? What do you need?" He was startled. He couldn't remember the last time she had called at home.
"You have to come." He waited for her to tell him why, to explain what she wanted, to provide him with details, so he could fabricate some reason it wasn't possible for him to see her, but there was only silence. "Sara?" Nothing. "Sara!" Then he did hear a noise, through the line. Sirens. A common enough noise, but it filled him with dread. There was a crash, and he heard muffles voices. Suddenly, a voice came on the line. "Hello? Is any one there?" He forced the sound from his throat. "Yes." "May I ask who I'm speaking too?" "Gil Grissom. Who are you? Is my colleague there? I was just speaking to her and.." The voice cut him off. "Sir, I'm at the scene of a four car pile-up. I suggest if you want information, you meet the ambulance when it reaches the hospital." Hospital. His normal capacity for thought fled him, and he found the words 'hospital bad' repetitiously circulating through his system. The voice hung up before he could pull himself together enough to ask for more details, and he flung his phone from him. The resulting crash barely registered as he grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.
That had been 32 hours ago. Since then, he had learned to hate all sorts of new words and phrases. Among them: "Just be patient, sir," "I'm sorry, you'll need permission from the family," "Please hold," "I'm sorry," and "coma." He especially hated the first one and the last one. They were wound about each other now, and he was certain that he would never be able to hear one without the echo of the other following.
Everyone had told him to go home and get some sleep, that likely she would never know he had left, but he would know.
Besides, she had asked for him. So he would be there, for as long as it took.
He owed her that much. He thought back, trying to recall the last time they had really, truly talked, but he couldn't think of it. His cursed himself for avoiding her, putting her last in his life. And why? So he wouldn't get hurt?
God.
Nothing. Nothing could hurt more than this.
Holding her hand and wondering if he'd ever see her gap toothed smile aimed his way again. Nothing could hurt more than remembering his cruel rejection of her affection. Nothing could hurt more than sitting there, holding her hand, with every missed opportunity tossing in his head. He tried to distract himself by summoning up some quote about how things all worked out in the end. Some trite saying that promised brighter times, but all he could think of was a poem by Francis William Bourdillon:
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one: Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
It was all he could do to sit there and pray that the poem did not apply to him.