Disclaimers: see Ch. 1
Again, many thanks to Psyched, who betaed most of this but won't recognize some of it! Any errors are mine.
Thanks also to all of you who have sent such generous feedback. I am honored!
Sara was first to rise in the morning, and she padded silently out into the kitchen to start the coffee, sparing one wistful glance for the hump under the covers that was Grissom, and squashing the errant, wicked impulse to slide into the bed and curl up around him. Snagging her jacket, she picked up her shoes and let herself out of the house, sitting down on the front steps to put them on. A quick lap or two around the block would take up the time while the coffee brewed.
The morning air was cool and sweet, and damp in a way the desert air never was. Sara enjoyed her run, taking in the residential neighborhood and passing the occasional dog-walker or fellow jogger. The houses were not new, but the neighborhood had a comfortable feel of settled, middle-class prosperity, the sort of calm Sara rarely encountered in her line of work. Her run stretched out the kinks in her muscles and woke her up, and she let herself back into the house in a lighter frame of mind than she'd had all week.
"There you are." Grissom was up, dressed, and in the kitchen, and he poured her a cup of coffee as she came in. "I wondered where you'd gone."
"Sorry," Sara apologized, taking the cup. "I thought I'd get back before you woke up." She sat down at the table and took a sip.
Grissom sat opposite her, and Sara realized that he had not put on his sling. "Is that a good idea?" she asked, pointing.
He straightened his arm cautiously. "The doctor told me to start stretching it a little this week, but believe me, I'm being careful." He grimaced, and rested his arm gingerly on the table.
The overhead light flashed several times as the doorbell sounded. Sara looked up, startled, and Grissom rose. "I'll get it."
He returned a couple of minutes later bearing a large box under his good arm and looking mildly baffled. "It's for you," he said, depositing the box on the table.
"Oh, good." Sara took her keys from her pocket and used the edge on one to split open the tape. "That was fast. I owe Catherine a beer."
Grissom resumed his seat and picked up his cup. "What did she send you?"
"Us," Sara corrected, and lifted out a carefully folded, plastic-wrapped bundle. "Some more clothes, mostly." She set the bundle on the table and pushed it towards Grissom, suddenly feeling uncertain. "I told her we'd be staying for a couple of days, so she went by our places and collected some things."
Grissom blinked, and unfolded the package. It was one of his suits. Sara lifted out a plastic zip bag that contained a pair of men's dress shoes, and slid those to him too. When he remained silent, she shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. "This way you don't have to go buy something."
Grissom licked his lips, rose, and picked up the suit. "That was good thinking, Sara," he said quietly. "Thank you." And he vanished back towards the front hall--presumably, Sara figured, to hang the suit up in the front closet. Rummaging hastily through the box, she pulled out two more bags for him and retreated with the remainder to her room.
Half an hour later, she was clean and dressed, and ventured out, wondering if Grissom was upset with her presumption. But he turned a calm face to her when she reached the kitchen, looking up from the toaster. "What's on the agenda today?" she asked, dumping her now-cold coffee and pouring a fresh cup.
Grissom pulled two slices of toast from the machine, put them on a plate, and passed them to Sara. "Ted's going to come by and help me start packing up this place," he said, pulling a knife from a drawer and handing that to her as well. "I won't be able to get to most of it before we have to go back, but I can deal with some of the valuables, and he can work on the rest until I can arrange some leave time." He sighed and rubbed his forehead, and put two more slices into the toaster. "I'll need you to go get some boxes for us, but after that your time is your own."
Sara spooned out jam. "You don't want any help?"
Grissom pursed his lips, looking a little...vulnerable, Sara thought. "You're more than welcome to help if you want. I just--you don't have to feel obligated."
"I'm a good packer," Sara said neutrally, and bit into her toast.
Grissom just didn't know what to make of Sara. He'd spent the last couple of months trying to bring their relationship back on a more normal footing, only to see his gestures fall into emptiness, and he was beginning to think that he really had ruined everything. But the Sara who had accompanied him to the West Coast with brisk efficiency seemed to be offering him the silent support he needed, without demanding anything in return. He wondered if he should have said something else about the clothes, and her thoughtfulness; it had touched him deeply, but at the same time, the sight of the suit had reminded him why he needed it and how soon he would be wearing it, and words beyond simple thanks had failed him. Hanging it in the front closet had given him a few moments to compose himself. She didn't need to see him upset; it would only make things harder for the both of them.
The doorbell and lights pulled him from his reverie, and he left his thoughtful perch on the arm of the couch to open the front door for Ted. It occurred to him that Sara hadn't asked for an explanation of why the lights were wired to the bell, and he snorted to himself as he realized that she probably knew why already. Not much gets past her, that's for sure.
Ted came in with a duck of his head. "Hey, Gil."
"Hi, Ted. Thanks for coming over." He waved the young man down the hall. "Sara got some sodas and stuff, they're in the fridge. Help yourself whenever you like."
"Where is Sara?" Ted looked around as they walked into the living room, a faint tinge of red gracing his cheeks, and Grissom had to bite the inside of his own cheek to keep from smiling.
"I sent her out for supplies. She'll be back shortly. You brought your cellphone?"
Ted patted the holster on his hip. "Grandma gave me a list of some things she wants if you don't want them, but I told her to keep the phone nearby."
"Good." There were things Grissom knew he would want to keep, but a lot of stuff was of no use to him, and he didn't want to get rid of anything that Marie might want. "I figure we'll start with the artwork; we can begin packing it when Sara gets back."
By the time Sara arrived, rolls of packing tape looped over her wrists like oversized bracelets, he and Ted had already taken down most of the paintings and photos and stacked them against the walls. Ted hurried to help Sara carry in the stacks of flattened boxes and the rolls of bubble wrap, while Grissom stripped the bedding from his sofabed. The wide mattress would make an excellent surface on which to pack the framed artwork.
"You still want to help?" Grissom asked her quietly as Ted went back out for the last load.
"Absolutely," she said cheerfully. "Where do you want me to start?"
Grissom pulled a key from his pocket. "There's a safe set into the floor of her closet. Can you pull out the contents and the stuff from her dresser for me, so I can sort it?"
She took the key. "Elbow bothering you?" Her eyes were sharp.
"A little," he admitted.
Sara muttered something he couldn't quite catch, and disappeared into the kitchen, reemerging a few seconds later with his wrap. "Do you need help with this?"
She sounded almost threatening, he thought, which was unnecessary, as he had no intention of arguing with her. "No, I've gotten the hang of it."
He fastened it around his arm as she went into his mother's bedroom, and then Ted came back in, and they kept going.
Three hours later, Ted was making sandwiches in the kitchen, and Sara wandered into the bedroom with two cans of soda, finding Grissom sitting on the bed in a flood of sunshine and sorting through various necklaces and other jewelry. His expression was haunted, but at the same time, Sara thought, he seemed to be remembering things that were good.
He looked up as she crossed the threshold. "Brought you something," she said in a neutral tone, and held out one of the cans.
Grissom's brows rose approvingly, and he took it. "Thanks."
When her hand was free, Sara stuck it in her pocket and came out with the bottle of ibuprofen. "Brought you this too."
One corner of his mouth turned up, and he looked at her over his glasses. She gave him a stern look in return, and he shook his head and took the bottle. As he popped it open, Sara sat on the bottom edge of the bed and looked at the sparkling collection spread out on the quilt. None of the pieces she saw were particularly expensive, but they displayed an elegant taste and a certain sense of humor--the silver pin of a cat with a fish in its mouth and a very smug expression was charming. Sara began to suspect she would have liked Grissom's mother.
Tilting her head, she peered more closely at the necklaces, then looked up at Grissom, who was tossing two pills into his mouth. "May I?"
He waved his soda at her in a "feel free" gesture and took a swallow. Sara leaned over and picked up a long silver chain. It held a delicately wrought pendant, a tangle of silver, and after a second Sara realized that it was a puzzle. Something gleamed at the heart of it, and she took the pendant in her fingers, touching it lightly, trying to figure it out. After a moment, though, she shook her head in defeat. "It's not meant to come out, is it?"
Grissom, who was watching her, looked amused. "Actually, it is. But it's very tricky. Mom loved puzzles like that," he said, surprising her, and leaned forward to lift the pendant from her fingers. Sara bit her lip against the reaction of his warm skin brushing hers, but watched as he manipulated the tangle with the same exquisite care he used on fragile evidence. After a few moves, the loops gave way, and a smoky pearl sat in the center of them on his palm. "She had to show me how," he admitted.
Sara shook her head. "That's amazing."
Grissom pulled the rings back up, twisting them expertly into place. "You try it." He held out his hand.
Sara shot him a glance. He was squinting just slightly, and there was a challenge in his eyes. She narrowed her own eyes in return and plucked the pendant away. It took her a little longer, but within seconds the pearl was free again. Wrinkling her nose, Sara enclosed it once more and held it out to Grissom.
He shook his head. "Why don't you keep it?"
Her mouth fell open again. "Grissom...I--I can't do that." She couldn't begin to articulate all the reasons why not.
Grissom frowned impatiently. "Sure you can. Marie's allergic to silver and her granddaughter's into piercings. I don't know what to do with most of this...at least one piece will have a good home."
She would have protested, insisted, but the grief and weariness were settling back into place in his face, and she couldn't stand the idea of making them worse by arguing with him. "All right...thank you," she said quietly.
Sara polished off her third slice of pizza and sat back with a sigh. "Did we get enough done today?"
Grissom shrugged, dropping the piece of crust he'd been toying with back onto his plate. "We made a good start. The valuables are packed up; tomorrow I--we--" he blinked apologetically-- "can take them to the storage unit after the funeral." Ted had taken most of the jewelry back to Marie's for safekeeping, though Sara had seen Grissom tucking a handful of small boxes into his luggage.
"What time is it at?" Sara asked, keeping her tone level.
"Eleven o'clock." Grissom stood up and picked up his plate, dumping the crust into the trash can. He'd only eaten one slice, but Sara didn't feel comfortable pushing him. At least the beer has carbohydrates. She took a swallow of her own.
"I was thinking we could spend one more night here, and then head back in the morning," Grissom continued. "If it's all right with you. If we get an early start and don't run into traffic, we can get home in time to get some sleep before the next shift."
Sara shrugged in turn, and set down her bottle. "Suits me." Her mouth quirked. "It's not like my boss is going to call me on being gone for four nights."
Grissom snorted with a touch of humor. "Very true."
He finished clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, and Sara put the rest of the pizza away. Grissom shook his head at the sight of the takeout remnants in the fridge. "Mom would have scolded me for that."
"What, the food?" Sara shut the fridge door and looked over at him. "She wasn't a fast-food fan?"
Grissom arched a brow at her. "Who do you think taught me to cook?"
Sara forbore to mention that she hadn't known he could, instead smirking at him. "You can't, though. And neither can I."
"True again." Grissom looked down at his arm, which was still wrapped, although he had not reassumed the sling. He said nothing more, simply walking out of the room.
Sara frowned as she watched him go, wondering if she'd managed to piss him off somehow or if this was a manifestation of grief. She puttered around the kitchen for a couple of minutes, starting the dishwasher and wiping down the table, but quickly ran out of things to do. Poking her head cautiously into the living room, she saw Grissom at the far end, sitting almost exactly where she had sat the day before. She could make out the edge of an album held open in his lap. Torn, she hesitated a long moment before choosing to approach him. What's the worst he can do? Snap at me? I've survived that before. But she was almost wincing in anticipation of the sting; somehow the last few days had eroded her hard-won defenses against him.
And yet, when she sat down next to him, leaving a few careful inches between, Grissom surprised her yet again by pushing the album over so that half of it rested on her lap. "First cooking lesson," he said, pointing to the page. And she had to chuckle.
Grissom was about five years old in the photo, she estimated, and was liberally smeared with flour all over and chocolate on his face. He was standing proudly behind a trayful of battered, haphazardly frosted cupcakes, his expression that of the triumphant conqueror. "How did they taste?"
His grin was wide enough that she could see it out of the corner of her eye. "Best I've ever had."
For nearly an hour they paged through the arrays of pictures, with Grissom reminiscing not so much about his mother specifically as about his life with her. He touched only briefly on the fact that his father was gone, telling Sara with a few oblique words that the man had vanished from their lives; later, his casual reference to his mother's deafness made her realize that he assumed she had somehow figured it out. What a Grissom-like compliment.
He slowly painted a picture of an intelligent loner whose bond with his mother was intensified by her single status in a time when such things were rare, and by her deafness; Sara saw through his stories, told with his usual dry humor, to the young man who never quite fit in and eventually didn't much care that he didn't.
And then, halfway through one of the later albums, he snapped it shut abruptly and slid it back into place. "It's late," he said, but every investigative instinct Sara possessed told her that he was hiding something. "I need a shower."
"Go ahead," Sara said, pulling up her legs so he could slide past. "I'll remake your bed."
Grissom looked down at his arm again. "I think I can manage."
"I have to justify my presence somehow, Grissom," Sara said dryly. "Go on."
He muttered something under his breath and went to pull clothes from his bag. Reaching the hallway, he stopped and turned. "Sara?"
She straightened from tucking in one sheet corner. "Mm?"
Grissom's mouth twitched, and for a moment she thought he wasn't going to speak at all. "Will you come to the funeral tomorrow?"
...How did he do it? How did he find ways to steal her breath and leave her touched and aching? "Griss...I'd be honored."
He gave a slow nod and disappeared, and Sara sat on the edge of the bed, thoroughly taken aback.
Eventually, the thought surfaced that she owed Catherine two beers for tucking in the simple dark suit and blouse, and the appropriate shoes. Half a smile graced Sara's face, admiration at Catherine's canniness. And then she heard the shower turn on, and impulse took over.
The last photos they'd looked at were a couple of shots of Grissom at work as a coroner. Sara opened the album to that page and flipped to the next page, wondering what it was that Grissom hadn't wanted her to see.
Or...didn't want to remember? Her mind wheeled a little dizzily at the photo that took up most of the page. It was a studio photograph, showing Grissom with his arms around a woman about his own age of twenty-something. She was pretty, fashionable in the style of the time; her back rested against his chest, and her arms were folded over his. Her head came to his chin, Sara noted, and her hair was raven-black, carefully coiffed and fluffed. Sara bit her lip at the light in Grissom's eyes, wincing a little for herself; her eyes narrowed, though, as she took in the faint cast of self-centeredness on the woman's face. Grissom looked happy, completely in love, but his depth of adoration was missing from her expression.
There were a few more photos of the two of them, casual ones; there were also blank spaces, as though some photos had been removed. Again, Sara slid a picture free and flipped it over, but it too was blank. None of them listed the woman's name.
Sara hissed a little in frustration with her awakened curiosity, and replaced the album. It was the second-to-last one, but she didn't have time to look at the last one if she didn't want Grissom to catch her. Moving rapidly, she finished remaking his bed and escaped to her room. Flopping onto the bed and staring at the ceiling, she ran the entire evening over in her head; the civility of supper, a brief bout of teasing, Grissom's unexpected reminiscing. And how hard was that for him, I wonder? He almost never says anything about his past, even when it's relevant to a case. Why now? Maybe it was just the circumstances. Maybe he just needed to remember.
Except for the mysterious woman. Catherine had said something once about Grissom getting burned, and Sara wondered if that was the person who had hurt him.
See Chapter 5