Disclaimers, acknowledgements, and notes: see Chapters 1, 4
When Grissom opened his eyes, there was ocean in front of them. He blinked a couple of times and looked around, bemused to find himself seated in the passenger seat of Sara's car. It was parked at the beach he'd shown her, and the lowering sun was warming the car while the open doors brought in a breeze to counteract the heat.
He took off his seatbelt and then his tie. Movement caught his gaze, and he looked out to see Sara, skirt bunched up a little, wading gingerly in the surf. Her shoes sat unoccupied above the waterline.
Grissom got out of the car and stretched, careful of his tender elbow, feeling oddly at peace after his inadvertent nap. The ordeal was over, and while grief still gnawed at him, its teeth were not as sharp. He set off across the stony ground towards the water.
Sara looked up when he was about halfway there, and waved, turning back towards the shore. "This isn't a very good wading beach," she said wryly. "But going barefoot's safer than my shoes."
Grissom glanced back at the rather forlorn high heels. "Without a doubt."
"You hungry?" Sara didn't meet his eyes, instead walking past to scoop up her footwear. "I got us a picnic."
Grissom followed, bemused at her foresight.
They sat at a battered picnic table and shared the sodas and sandwiches. Grissom still wasn't very hungry, but the idea of food was no longer revolting, and he managed to eat three halves and a few potato chips, feeding the rest of the chips to an opportunistic gull who happened by.
The two of them sat for a little while in silence, again watching the sun set. Eventually Grissom noticed the goosebumps on Sara's arms, so he stripped off his coat and passed it over the table to her. She pursed her lips, and for a second he thought she would refuse, but then she draped it over her shoulders and gave him a little smile, and he turned back to the water.
The sun slipped entirely away, and Sara sighed. "If we're going to get that stuff into storage, Griss, we'd better get moving."
Grissom shook his head. "I'll ask Ted or his dad to do it. I'm too tired."
He was. Something in him acknowledged that his mother's death was in the proper order of things, that it was right that a son should outlive his parent, rather than the other way around. But another part of him was still wailing faintly in bewilderment and loss that his deepest mainstay was gone.
"I don't know what I would have done without you this week, Sara," he said; simple truth.
She shrugged, again not looking at him. "You would have managed."
I wonder. "Nevertheless, I'm glad you're here." He pushed to his feet and began gathering up their supper debris.
Sara spent a long time in the shower that night, letting the hot water unknot her tight muscles, turning over the day's events in her head. It's a good thing we're going home tomorrow, she admitted. I don't think I could take much more of this.
All the little sweetnesses she knew Grissom was capable of; the concern he'd once displayed; the glimpses of the man she knew was all but invisible behind his mask--they had been a forbidden feast for her. She could no more have turned him away in his need than she could stop caring about him, and she had tasted each touch, each look, each concession with greedy, wistful hunger. But it's all going to end as soon as we get back to Vegas. Grissom would retreat again, and they would go back to their ruined friendship, only this time she would know--just a little--of what she was missing.
Emerging from the bathroom, again in sweatpants and t-shirt, Sara felt her stomach growl. The living room light was still on, so she didn't bother to be quiet. Grissom was sitting in bed, leaning against the back of the couch; a book was open in his lap, but he was staring into space instead of reading. He glanced up as Sara came in.
"I'm going to make hot chocolate. Want some?"
"Sure."
When she came back with the mugs, Grissom was paging slowly through the oversized volume. "Sit," he said quietly, and Sara handed him one mug and perched on the edge of the bed. Grissom turned two more pages and then angled the book so she could see the large photograph. Sara's brows went up as she recognized Robin Grissom, standing in the art gallery that Sara had seen in the photo album. Sara leaned forward and turned the book so she could see the cover; the title was "Modern Art in Los Angeles".
When she let go, Grissom pulled the book back into his lap, looking down at it and taking an absent swallow of cocoa. "Tell me about her," Sara commanded softly.
And he did. He told Sara stories of beachcombing trips and lessons in signing, going to Disneyland to ride the roller coasters and to Vasquez Rocks just to marvel; he described a cordon bleu cook who never could remember to not put drip-dry clothes in the dryer; a woman who dreamed of being an artist but who found her talent to be unequal to her passion, and so nurtured others' talents instead; a woman abandoned by her husband, who never quite trusted enough again to remarry; an impatient, plain-speaking, flawed and generous human being who had been the bedrock in Grissom's life. For a little while, Robin Grissom lived again for Sara, laughing through her son's words, becoming in turn a young wife, a single mother, a successful businesswoman, and--when her energy waned--a reluctant retiree. The cocoa was long gone by the time Grissom ran down, finally shutting the big book and setting it aside.
"I wish I could have known her," Sara said, the truth escaping her before she could censor it.
"She would have liked you," Grissom answered, and the gaze he lifted to her was complex with sorrow and regret. They stared at each other for a few long seconds before Sara dropped her eyes to her mug.
"What time do you want to get started in the morning?"
Grissom leaned over to pick up his watch from the bookshelf. "It's ten-thirty now. If we get up at four will that give you enough sleep?"
Sara shot him a dry look. "This is me, remember? I can drive twice that distance on less sleep than I've had all week."
Grissom snorted, and flexed his unbound left arm carefully. "Well, since I think I'm recovered enough to drive at least part of the way, have pity on my need for more than ten minutes' sleep."
Sara had to laugh. Standing, she gathered up their mugs. "See you in the morning."
Grissom sighed when he saw the small pile of cards on the clear space on his desk. Catherine... He'd called her twice to check up on things, and she must have informed the lab about his loss. But it was a reasonable move, he conceded; his colleagues knew that his mother had been taken ill, and would naturally be curious. Emergencies left little space for privacy.
He sat down in his chair and pulled the little stack to him, ruefully cognizant that he would do almost anything to avoid paperwork. There was a formal, bloodless card from the Sheriff, and another, much the same, from the lab director, in the name of the lab; now that he thought about it, the lab had also sent flowers for the funeral. One with a brief printed sentiment and a near-illegible signature was from Jim Brass, and another in a feminine hand was from Doctor Robbins and his wife. The card from the night-shift lab techs and David touched him unexpectedly; the verse on the inside was nothing special, but the little notes that they had added to their signatures displayed a kindness that their casual exteriors usually hid.
Cards from Warrick, Nick, Catherine--awkward and sincere, and he appreciated them. Nothing from Sara, but he hadn't expected it. She'd been there, and that was more than enough.
Glancing at the clock, Grissom realized that opening the cards had taken all his extra time, and it was now the start of shift. He put them in his desk drawer and picked up the sheaf of assignment slips, flipping through them and making decisions. He'd offered Sara the night off when she'd dropped him off that morning, and she had scoffed at him genially, so he expected the full complement of CSIs tonight.
Decades of people-watching stood him in good stead--the expressions on his people's faces were pretty much what he expected when he appeared in the doorway. Catherine's was casual with a hint of sympathy; Nick and Warrick glanced at him and away, with Warrick mustering neutrality and looking back; and Sara...
...Sara was watching him with quiet expectation, rather than the closed-off formality he'd gotten used to. It wasn't quite the warmth she'd first displayed, before things had gone so bad, but it was different.
He let his gaze flow over the room. "Thank you for the cards, people," he said sincerely, but went on before they could respond. "Catherine, Nick, you have a double murder downtown. Brass will meet you there. Warrick, Sara, you're with me--we have a possible suicide and a disappearance."
Sergeant O'Reilly was waiting for them at the run-down apartment building. "Sorry about your loss," he muttered to Grissom as the CSI got out of his vehicle, looking almost as uncomfortable as Grissom felt. "The body's upstairs."
It was definitely different. As the three of them moved in their practiced dance of processing, Grissom realized that the cool emptiness of Sara's usual professionalism--tempered occasionally by a brief flash of their old synchronicity--was once again filled. He wasn't quite sure what had replaced the hollow formality, but to him it felt like--
Spring.
See Chapter 7