Disclaimer: If I did own CSI or anything related to it, I'd be sitting on the front porch of an 18th century Chateau, overlooking Lac Leman in Switzerland while getting a manicure. Since I'm not, it's safe to say that I don't own anything related to it.
Title: Illusions of Love
Summary: Her heart and common sense are battling a war that has started since the day she met him. How much longer can she endure the current situation without it breaking her? Post-Blooodlines. G/S.
Spoilers: Since this is a post-Bloodlines story, there will be spoilers present.
A/N notes: For all those who have reviewed my previous story with such kind words, a big thank-you. I'd also like to thank my wonderful betas Anansay, Battus and Mandy, and everyone else who has pushed me to once again 'just post this'. Without them, reading this story would probably have been hazardous to your health.
And LK, your "It's like my little beta is all grown up now."… May I call you 'delusional'? Alright, scrap the 'may'. I am calling you delusional. ;)
In the Grand Scheme of Things.
Blue and white walls were tacked with posters and reminders, harsh fluorescent lights that brought out the slightest frown-lines adorning the faces of those lingering in the offices and hallways in a ruthless manner. Hysterical laughter and angry shouts swirled around the corridor, but none of it seemed to reach her. All that she could see were the few inches of changing space in front of her feet: each time she moved onto a new tile, the pattern stayed the same, the uniformity only broken up by the occasional wad of gum or resistant coffee stain.
What she felt was different. Different in its complexity. Different in that it felt so familiar yet strange. That it somehow frightened, yet comforted her. That it made her hopeful, yet desperately sad. A cacophony of feelings, each fighting for supremacy. Her heart battling her common sense in a war that had been raging since the day she'd met him.
Funny how she couldn't remember any of the phone numbers of the take-out deli's she ordered from on an almost daily basis, but how, with such crystal clarity, her first memory of him is imprinted on her synapses.
Every little thing that he had ever said pertaining to her was carved upon her memory, from when she met him ten years ago to now. Every praise and every smack down, each wink and frown had their own space allowing her to easily recall them. And recalling, and reliving them, she did.
She had been lounging with several friends on one of the countless lawns at Berkeley when one of the women had softly whistled and nudged her shoulder. "Who's taking Dr. Grissom's course tomorrow?" A few had nodded and grunted in concurrence, including Sara. "I've seen a good dose of delectable professors, but he is certainly in my top five." Suddenly, five pairs of female eyes skimmed the surroundings, until each of them had landed firmly on the sight of Gil Grissom.
Sara had seen her fair share of good looking men, from the Scandinavian types with blond hair and blue eyes to the seductive Spanish looking ones with jet-black hair and brooding eyes. Yet none had ever quite caught her attention the same way Dr. Grissom had. What made him stand out was not just his appearance, though tall, curly brown hair and, judging from his forearms, a fairly muscled body, didn't do him any harm. It was his charisma that gripped her. She didn't pretend to be an expert in body language, but even from afar, she could sense that he wasn't an easily read person. That underneath the front he displayed, even when talking to a fellow professor, there was something far deeper, far more complex than he was willing to share with outsiders.
The draft of cold night air ended her reminiscing abruptly, and she blinked a few times, dislodging her memories and focusing her attention on the hand that held the door open for her. Not a word had been said since his soft and compassionate 'Let me take you home'. His hand which had felt surprisingly soft and cool on her clammy skin had not left her body. It had migrated from her hand to her elbow, and then to the small of her back, where it now nestled comfortably. Like it was meant to be there, forever.
"Your place or mine?" The question came abruptly, shattering the silence that had cocooned them. She looked confused, as if to say 'Neither is home'.
She straightened. "Mine. You can just drop me off. It'll be easiest for both of us."
The Tahoe's lights blinked once and a door was once again opened for her, and she stepped in. Hearing the door softly close, she noticed him from the periphery of her sight walking around the car and getting in a few seconds later. The only sound that registered was the soft hum of the engine.
They passed the casinos with the outrageous neon lights, blinking as though to scare the night away, providing an artificial glow that seemed to attract the visitors like snails to beer.
The towering fountains sped by, spurting their water stories high on a regular basis, whether it be every five minutes or half hour, allowing people to forget that Las Vegas was a desert-city. People would look on with wonder at the marvels of technology that allowed thousands of gallons of water to be pumped daily up into the air. But not Sara. Sara never saw it. She only saw her reflection in the window: the bags under her eyes, the drawn lines that made her seem older than she was, the exhaustion clearly reflected in her brown eyes.
She wondered when she became this sullen, this lonely, and this tired. Her energy used to be boundless, even a triple shift wouldn't knock a dent in her determination. If anything, unsolved cases would show her real character. An unlikely mix, she possessed the calm and stealth of a greyhound, yet the determination and stubbornness of a pit bull. It made her one of the best in her job, but socially it caused her more grief than glory. She was too independent, too much of a solitary person, too smart perhaps for her own good. Some thought her stuck-up because of her intelligence, others were frightened by her fierce independence. And she herself was frightened of her feelings for the man sitting next to her. For her feelings for him were strong, much stronger than they had ever been for any other man. And he was afraid of her as well, like so many others. Not a great confidence booster, nor something that made her feel proud. Rather lonely and dysfunctional. For what was wrong with her? Why couldn't the man that she loved love her back? Or if he did, act upon it?
Suddenly she realized that the car's engine had stopped, and that they were in the parking spot before her house. Now, Grissom's Tahoe was standing there, the engine cut and he waiting patiently for her to get out of the car. She huffed. Out of all the scenarios, this was the one she had never considered. Grissom taking her home because of a DUI charge. So he touched her hand and had been awfully nice to her for the last half hour. It didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Tomorrow, if she'd still have a job, he'd be most likely treating her like the soot that's present at the bottom of an empty wine bottle. Necessary to the team, but never fully appreciated. And all too easy to throw away.
She felt something touch her hand and she looked down and up into the face of her supervisor. His eyes were a stormy blue, and although she tried her best not to fall captive once again, she failed. The tears welled up and she blinked furiously, trying to keep the salty liquid from flowing down her cheeks. But his gaze, open and concerned, didn't help matters and she lost the battle. The tears followed gravity's path, and would have dropped onto her shirt had he not intervened and tenderly wiped them away. Startled, she looked up and removed his hands from her face. She didn't need this. She didn't need his caring and temporary closeness. She ducked underneath his arm that was placed on the rooftop, uttered a soft ' thank you' and walked tall and straight to her door. She wouldn't show her weakness and pain now. He had bailed her out of the station and brought her home, and that was all he would see of her tonight.
But she misjudged him. He didn't let her leave that easily, and by the time she had fitted the key into her lock, he had jogged up to her apartment and stood beside her, his deep and even breaths softly fluttering her hair.
"Grissom, I'll be fine. Just go, please."
To Be Continued.
As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.