A/N: Here's the next chapter, added quickly as promised J I realize that this one isn't much longer than the last, but I promise there are more lengthy chapters to come. This chapter turns more G/S 'friendly' and really shows more of the direction that the rest of the story is headed. I hope everyone enjoys it! Thanks, as always, to all the readers who have left me such nice reviews! Every single one of them is truly appreciated J Read on!
Chapter 6: Nightmare
Sara slid the key into the lock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open carefully. The first thing she realized was that there were disconcerting noises coming from inside the room. She had expected only silence, or at the most, soft breathing, so she was briefly shocked. The second thing she realized, which caused her heart to start pounding, was that the noises were coming from Grissom—he was crying out in his sleep. She had never heard his voice sound like that—breathless, trembling, tinged with fear. She couldn't make out everything he was mumbling, but what she got was something like, "There's another one…" and "Blood…" over and over again. In between, he kept gasping, "No…" as if fending off some invisible enemy or witnessing something horrible that he couldn't stop.
Sara reached for the light switch and flipped it on. What she saw in the bright illumination was Grissom thrashing around on the sofa, his arms out protectively in front of him. The blanket was crumpled on the floor, and he was drenched in sweat. Rivulets and drops ran down his face, his hair was saturated, making each curly lock more obvious, and his wet shirt clung to him as he moved about.
Panic-stricken at what he was going through, she rushed to his side, sitting on the edge of the couch. "Grissom!" she called loudly, unsure at first whether to touch him. She thought she had read somewhere that waking someone out of a nightmare could be dangerous—if you touched them, they could hurt you or themselves unintentionally. But right now that didn't seem to make sense, and she was so freaked out over Grissom's behavior that she couldn't even be sure if she had read that at all. So she grabbed his arms gently, holding them by his sides, and tried to speak calmly, "Grissom, it's me, Sara. It's all right. Everything's all right. You're fine. Grissom, wake up."
He stopped thrashing, but his eyes remained tightly closed and his frightened ramblings continued.
Sara kept talking to him, repeating her words from before, using them as a soothing mantra to free him from the hold of the nightmare, "Shh, shh, Grissom, it's all right. It's just a dream. It's all right. It's all right."
Then he surprised her by suddenly shooting up into a sitting position, causing her to drop her hands from his arms. His eyes snapped open and he stared at her, but she knew he wasn't really seeing her. It was like he was looking right through her, the haunting scenes still filling his mind and vision.
The confused look on his face and his blank eyes scared her; he seemed to be caught in some dark, horrible place halfway between sleep and wakefulness. But what scared her even more was the incredible heat she felt radiating off his body as he sat mere inches in front of her. Without even making contact with his skin she knew his body temperature had skyrocketed, and she was concerned he might need medical attention. She had heard about fever dreams—how they were almost like hallucinations, so real to the person experiencing them. She was considering whether to call Catherine or the paramedics, when Grissom blinked and his eyes changed. And what Sara saw reflected in those revealing blue depths froze her to her soul—it was fear.
"Grissom," she said to him, now that he was really with her, "it was only a dream. It's over now."
"Sara," he breathed shakily, sounding completely unlike himself. He grabbed onto her and buried his head in her shoulder.
She was shocked into inaction at first, not knowing what to do. But he held on tight, and she could feel his body shaking—from more than just a chill this time—and his heart racing, as his sweat and extreme warmth soaked into her.
God, Grissom, you're on fire, she thought, worried about his health, but still not reacting to his unexpected, desperate embrace. She was still uncertain of what she should do. Then she realized how much he needed her right now, and she couldn't let him down. She couldn't deny him the physical connection and security he needed at this moment, no matter how he might feel about it later.
She could still see the look on his face when he had come back from the nightmare, and that scared her more than anything else so far, because she had seen Grissom in the throes of many strong emotions over the years—frustration, anger, sorrow—but never like this. She realized that she had never seen him afraid before. Maybe a little when she had volunteered against his wishes to play decoy for the FBI during the "Strip Strangler" case a few years back, but then he had covered his fear for her safety with anger.
Now, though, now was very different. The emotion she had seen in his haunted eyes, mirrored on his drawn face, was nothing short of pure, unadulterated terror. He was completely terrified. Of what, Sara didn't know, but whatever it was she wanted to rid him of it—banish the demons, protect him, make him feel safe, and never let them hurt him again.
So slowly, she wrapped her arms around his trembling back and held him to her. He tightened his grip even more, and she moved a hand to the back of his head, gently stroking his wet hair. She wanted to comfort him as much as she could, with her touch as well as her words. The need to protect him and take care of him nearly overwhelmed her as she turned slightly and laid her cheek against his sodden curls, tasting the salt on her lips as she soothed quietly, "Shh…shh… It's okay. It's okay…" She almost said "baby," but stopped herself before the word slipped out. "…Grissom. I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe now."
They held on tightly for a long while in silence, rocking as one on the couch. Eventually, she felt his breathing and heart rate slow back to normal. She waited for him to let go first, knowing that he would only do so when he was ready. Finally, she felt his grip loosen and he sat back. Her hands lingered on his arms for a few seconds longer before she dropped them to her side.
He shifted away from her, sliding his legs off the sofa, and leaned forward, lowering his damp face into his hands. Most of the sweat had evaporated off his body as his shivering had intensified.
Sara waited, a bit impatiently, for him to say something. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath, dropped his hands, and turned to look at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it without uttering a word. He averted his eyes from her intense, concerned stare for a minute, but felt her warm brown gaze drawing his view back to her face.
He finally coaxed the words from his throat and began, "Sara, I'm so…"
"I swear, Grissom," she blurted, cutting him off, "if you apologize for one more thing, I'm going to punch you out."
His eyes widened as he was shocked back into silence, but the lightness in her voice matched the smile on her lips, and he knew it wasn't a serious threat.
She seemed to be waiting for him to smile in return, and when he didn't, she said solemnly, "Listen…do you want to talk about it?"
Fresh fear flickered across his face and he shook his head.
"It's all right," she assured him, placing her hand on his forearm. "You don't have to say anything. But I want you to know that whenever you're ready to talk, I'll be here to listen."
"Thanks, Sara," he said. "I really appreciate it." He paused, trying to gather courage for what he had to say next. "I just hope that I…that I didn't…do anything to make you feel…uncomfortable." He glanced away.
"Never," she replied firmly. And she meant it, although at the moment she was very worried about him and it was hard to concentrate on anything else.
At that single heartfelt word from her, he finally did grant her a weak half-smile. But then an especially strong shiver wracked his body, and Sara's concern grew even more. She knew she should get him moving. "Why don't you go into the bathroom and clean up a bit?" she suggested. "Splash some cold water on your face, or whatever you need to do. Then we'll go back to CSI and you can get into a dry shirt."
She stood, and then slowly helped him up. He swayed a little dizzily at first, so she kept a grip on his arm until he became steadier on his feet. "You all right?" she asked.
"Yeah," he answered, but she thought she should walk with him, just in case. So she accompanied him across the hall to the door of the nearby men's room, and then went back into Brass's office. She picked up the blanket, folded it, and draped it over the arm of the sofa as she awaited his return. She didn't know exactly what to do to help him, but she hoped she would figure it out soon.
When he came back, he didn't look all that much better, but he had stopped sweating—only his hair and his shirt were still somewhat wet. Sara handed him his jacket, which he put on and zipped up to the collar, and grabbed his open bottle of water off the floor. She made sure to lock Brass's door as they left and headed outside.
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