Disclaimers: see Ch. 1; acknowledgments, see Ch. 7.
Grissom closed her apartment door behind him; Sara wondered bleakly why she'd let him follow her in, and braced herself for a scolding. But he only turned concerned eyes to her. "Are you all right?"
She laughed, a bitter sound, and pulled off her scarf. "I got pulled over on a DUI. Does that sound all right to you?" Dumping the scarf on the breakfast bar, she followed it with her coat and opened the fridge for water. "Want one?" she asked, waving the bottle at Grissom.
He shook his head. "Sara, what you did was stupid, yes, but it's understandable."
She twisted the cap off and took a few swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat, but it came back the moment she lowered the bottle. The distance the alcohol had provided was gone, and the fact of Madelyn Stevens' suicide was ricocheting through her again, cutting deep with the knowledge that there was no helping her now, that the hopeless, angry girl had rejected her own life and the system that had failed her. "Oh. So getting drunk 'cause I'm feeling guilty is okay?" She capped the bottle and smacked it onto the counter.
"It's not your fault," Grissom said firmly. "Sara, you had nothing to do with what happened to her."
Her anger was disappearing into despair. "If I'd gotten there sooner--" she tried. "If my pager was working--I should have checked it--"
"Sara." Grissom's voice was authoritative. "This was not your fault. You know as well as I do that someone who is determined to kill themselves will usually find a way."
She couldn't find the words to explain it to him, that she had promised Madelyn her help, and then had appeared to break that promise. For all Madelyn knew, Sara was just like the others who didn't listen, who didn't care. He might be right. But it doesn't change the fact that she's dead.
Instead, she just bent her head, unable to force her voice to work. She'd run out of energy, out of resilience, out of everything, it seemed. Grissom let out a sigh. "Sara. Please let me help you."
She was so tired. And she knew she would regret this. It was just another taste of what she wanted but couldn't have, that inevitable attraction ruining what could have been--what once was--a wonderful friendship.
But his hand on her shoulder was warm, and he was watching her with eyes that seemed to be asking for more than permission to offer her a little strength and comfort.
She shook her head, but it wasn't a refusal--it was a giving in. Grissom turned her gently towards him, and she found herself surrounded by warmth and living solidity. She was so tired. Sara leaned gradually against him, her arms folded against herself but her head finding its way into the space between his jaw and his shoulder, a space that seemed to fit perfectly.
He didn't say anything. He just held her. His breath was soft across her neck and his heartbeat was strong in her ear, and for once she let someone else worry about keeping balance. There was no awkwardness, no tension. There was just the two of them in a bubble of peace, he offering, she accepting. When his hand crept up and slid slowly over her hair, she only sighed and let one palm rest on his chest. It felt so good--his breath stirring the air she breathed, the touch of his hand, the still quiet strength of him, offered for once without stint or limit.
"Why are you doing this?" she muttered eventually.
She felt his head shift a little, as though he were looking down at her. "Do I need a reason?"
She stiffened, and his embrace tightened fractionally, as though to keep her there. "Sara--" His sigh made her skin tingle. "You gave me comfort when I needed it. Don't deny me the gift of returning it."
She blinked. "I...didn't think you remembered that."
The faint sound under her ear held a hint of amusement. "I almost thought it was a dream, except when I woke up I could smell your scent on me."
"Oh." She really didn't know what to say to that.
"...Thank you," he added awkwardly.
You're welcome seemed a bit formal under the circumstances. After a moment, she just nodded.
They stood there a long time. Sara knew it had to end, though, and at last she drew in a sad breath and straightened out of Grissom's embrace. He let her go, and the empty anguish that his touch had lessened grew again. To her surprise, he reached out and cupped her face in his hands, turning it up so he could look at her clinically. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked with a touch of authority.
She shrugged and stepped back, unwilling to hurt him but not quite able to deal with so personal a touch. "Eventually, I suppose." Fatigue was washing over her again, and all of a sudden she scarcely had the energy to stand.
Grissom let his arms drop back to his sides. "All right. For now." He gave her a sharp look. "But we're going to have to deal with this later, Sara."
"Whatever," she sighed, too tired to argue.
He made that half-amused noise again, and took her arm. "Come on. Bedtime."
She didn't have enough strength to argue when he guided her to her bed and made her sit. He slipped her shoes from her feet and pushed her gently down, tucking in the covers around her like she was three years old. He didn't turn out the light, as though understanding that the nightmares were lessened by its glow, and sleep drowned her quickly.
At one point she half-woke, opening her eyes to the sight of Grissom sitting nearby, paging through a journal, glasses sliding down his nose. It was absurdly comforting, and she went back to sleep.
The late afternoon sunlight roused her again. The apartment was empty, she found when she got out of bed, but Grissom had left her two fresh muffins from the bakery down the street, and a note.
Sara,
I suppose there's no point in telling you not to come in, and you have a report to make anyway, but we are going to discuss vacation time again.
That said, please consider calling me when you wake up, to assuage my paranoia.
Sara recognized the symbol below as a much looser version of the initial "G" he used on paperwork, a version she hadn't actually seen in years, not since his last letter to her in San Francisco. The smile that made it to her face was definitely bittersweet.
"Yeah? What am I supposed to say?" she asked the paper softly. It didn't escape her that the two sentences clearly separated into work and not-work, or that his request was just that--a request. The humor in the phrasing didn't disguise the message of concern, and Sara wondered how a man so often evasive about personal matters could be so clear on paper.
She was torn between the desire to talk to him and the dread of making herself vulnerable yet again. Last night Grissom had become the friend he'd once been, as though all their intervening strain and complications had never happened. She wanted it to last so badly, and at the same time she felt as she had in the movie theater, that it only made the longing worse. When she realized that she had been staring at the note for several minutes, she growled at herself and picked up the phone.
It was tremendously anticlimactic to get his answering machine. A second or so passed before Sara could reorganize her thoughts. "Uh, Grissom, hi. I'm fine. Um...thanks for the muffins, I'll see you tonight."
When she hung up it was laugh at herself or cry, so she laughed.
Rumor, it seemed, had advanced only so far. When Sara walked into the breakroom, Nick stood up and enveloped her in a hug, and for a moment she clung to him, as relieved by the healing of their friendship as she was comforted by his touch. "How you doin', sweetheart?" he asked softly.
"I'm okay," she said, pulling back enough to smile at him, and if the smile was shaky he didn't point it out.
"You sure?"
"Hey--" Warrick spoke from the doorway. "If you're passing out free hugs, Sara, I'll take one."
They all chuckled at that, and Sara traded Nick's arms for Warrick's gentle squeeze. "We heard about Madelyn," he murmured into her hair. "It's a shame."
She let out an unhappy breath and let him go. "Yeah. Well--" She shrugged. Their eyes held only concern, no anger, and she knew that her run-in with Las Vegas' finest had not reached their ears.
Nick opened his mouth, but before he could speak Grissom breezed in. "Good evening, people," he said easily. "I have a meeting with the director in a few minutes, so I'll pass out assignments now." He handed a slip of paper to Nick. "You get a body in a restaurant. Suspicious circs. Warrick--" He turned to the taller man. "Assault at the Lucky Strike. Have fun." He raised a brow at Warrick's sigh and turned back to Nick. "Take Catherine along if she gets here before you leave, or Greg if she doesn't, but either way you're primary on this one. Sara--" and his glance was perfectly casual-- "you have a report to make; when you're done, come find me." With that, he vanished as quickly as he'd come.
"Well now." Nick studied his assignment with pleasure. "The question is, do I wait for Cath or hightail it out of here?"
Warrick snorted. "If you know what's good for you--you'll wait." He threw the other two CSIs a casual salute and turned towards the door. "See you guys later."
Nick stuffed the paper in his pocket and went to refill his coffee mug. "This pot's almost decent, if you want some better get it now."
"Right behind you." Sara found herself a cup and took the pot as he handed it to her.
"I'm going to grab my gear," he said, dumping sugar in his coffee. "If the esteemed Ms. Willows doesn't show up before I'm ready to leave, Greggo gets it." He winked and strode out, and Sara snickered into her cup.
She was just leaving the room when Catherine hurried up. "Geez! Where is everybody? I'm only two minutes late."
Sara shrugged. "Grissom was running early, so everybody else was too."
Catherine put a hand on Sara's arm, her expression gentling. "I'm sorry about Madelyn," she said softly.
Sara gave her a lopsided smile. "Thanks." A swallow of coffee helped chase away the lump. "Oh--if you can catch Nick before he leaves, you get to go with him. Body in a restaurant."
"Which way did he go?" Catherine asked, grinning.
The report wasn't easy to write. There were many details about the night before that Sara would much rather forget, as soon as possible. But she filled it out with precise anger, knowing that it could be used to help punish whoever had left an unstable teenager unsupervised long enough for her to take her own life. By the time she was done, her stomach was churning, but her eyes were dry. Sara pulled the papers neatly together and went to turn them in. That done, she headed for Grissom's office.
He glanced up as she appeared in the doorway. "Close the door and have a seat," he said calmly, and she obeyed, settling uneasily into the chair facing his desk.
"Thanks for the call this afternoon," he added, before Sara could decide what to say. "Sorry I didn't pick up; I was in the shower."
She squashed the brief, totally unbidden image of Grissom with suds in his hair. "Did I say thank you for last night?"
"I think so." Grissom shut the file he was holding and tossed it on the desk. "I take it you turned in your report?"
"Yeah." She folded her hands, tense. "Am I going to have to see the director?"
Grissom shook his head. "I already talked to him."
"Oh." She shifted in the chair. "...What did you say?"
His glance over his glasses was kind and professorial. "I explained that you had just come off several double shifts and a traumatic event, and that your reaction was entirely outside of the lab's concerns aside from the law enforcement element. He asked me what action I would be taking, and I told him that you would be taking a week of vacation time as soon as you made your report, and then would spend a week in the lab only, to make sure you were rested. He seemed satisfied with that."
Her mouth had dropped open a little during Grissom's recitation, and she closed it again. "Grissom--you don't have to--"
His gaze became sterner. "Don't argue, Sara."
She shook her head. "No--I mean--why are you covering for me?"
"Oh." The corner of his mouth curled up. "It's my job, covering my peoples' asses. I've done it for Warrick and Catherine. You just haven't needed it until now." She bit her lip, and he sobered. "Everybody makes mistakes, Sara, including me." He sighed and pulled off his glasses to rub his face. "Especially me. I owed you the coverage."
He put his glasses back on, and went stern again. "But this had better not happen again."
Her insides were a jumble of relief and confusion and an odd lightness of heart. She held up both hands in innocence. "It won't. I promise."
"Good." Grissom blew out his breath, and Sara only then realized how tense he had been. "You know you can talk to me if you need to, Sara, right? Any time."
His eyes were worried, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice, and she wanted to ask him if that meant she could talk to him about anything. But that would have been cruel, and he had just gone out on a professional limb for her when by all rights he should have left her to twist in the wind. So she stuffed the nasty impulse back down.
"I'll keep it in mind," she answered--not quite able to keep all the flippancy out of her voice, judging from the brief flash of hurt that he blinked away the next instant. "Grissom--thanks." And that she meant sincerely.
"You're welcome, Sara," he said gravely. "Now go home. You have a week of vacation. Go visit your parents, or go camping, or do nothing at all, but I don't want to see you here until next week."
"Okay," she said meekly. The idea of a week without work was appalling, but Grissom had got her off very lightly, and she wasn't about to waste that gift. "I need to clean my apartment anyway."
His grin crinkled his eyes. "Going to organize your sock drawer?"
Her laugh surprised her. "Something like that." She stood, then gestured hesitantly at her pager and gun. "Should I..."
Grissom shook his head. "You're only on vacation. Keep them."
And somehow that let her escape.
It was the interrogation room, and yet not; for instance, there was an ordinary, smaller window right next to the mirrored one. But it wasn't important. Sara sat next to Brass, who for some inexplicable reason was wearing a fedora, and across the table was Madelyn, who sat with her arms folded and a stubborn look on her face. Sara realized that Brass was trying to convince Madelyn that she would be charged with a felony, but she kept insisting it should only be a misdemeanor. Then Brass was gone, it was just the two of them, and Madelyn made the table disappear with a shove of her hands; the leather strap was pinching her neck impossibly thin, and she opened her mouth and screamed and screamed...
Sara managed to open her eyes, and the screaming stopped, sinking back down into the underside of her mind. She stared wide-eyed into the dimness, afraid even to blink, her body a tense knot of muscle and bone. It took a long time for her heart to slow, and a longer time before she could convince herself to move. Well. Now I know. Each ghost who haunted Sara had her own scenario; the details varied, but the pattern was the same. Madelyn Stevens would show up again, her throat constricted into an unnatural horror, but it would not impede her voice.
Finally Sara unkinked herself, rising stiffly to make her way to the bathroom. Only a hot shower would relax her enough to even hope of getting back to sleep, though the odds weren't good.
I wonder why I'm bothering, she thought, standing under the pounding spray with her eyes closed. It's not like I have to get up for work. But she didn't want to screw up her schedule too much; she would be back to work in a week. There was no justice for Madelyn, but there were others she could help.
Sara didn't bother drying her hair when she got out; she just toweled off and crawled back into bed, turning to stare at the ceiling and feel her pillow getting damp as it absorbed the water. And to realize, for the millionth time, that she was lonely.
See Chapter 13