Disclaimers: see Ch. 1
Last four chapters! Many, many thanks to all of you who wrote me wonderful notes of enthusiasm and encouragement and suggestion. Do you want a sequel, or shall I just leave them as is?
Once again, this wouldn't have been half the story it is without Psyched's invaluable assistance. Thank you!
I'm going to go crazy, Sara thought darkly, looking around her apartment. Three days of enforced vacation had given her opportunity, and boredom had given her motive, and not only had she cleaned and organized her apartment, she was seriously considering repainting the whole thing just for something to do.
Without a work schedule, she'd let her afternoon runs stretch out longer, but it only took the edge off her rebounding energy. Nightmares broke her sleep each day, but since she didn't have to get up to go to work, she was getting more sleep than usual. And activity kept her from thinking too much--about Madelyn, or Linley, or Grissom. Or herself.
The quiet time in the station had given her plenty of opportunity to castigate herself for being so stupid as to drink and drive. Sara had spent the next two nights trying to reconcile herself to her own innocence in the Stevens case, but Madelyn still haunted her, and would indefinitely.
The phone rang, and she started, but the number on the caller ID made her grin. She scooped up the receiver. "Nick! What's up?"
"Heyyyy," came Nick's pleased voice. "Greg owes me ten bucks!"
That made her laugh. "And you called just to tell me that?"
"No, he was sure you blew this town on your vacation. I knew you'd stay." He chuckled. "I love an easy bet."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Glad to be of service," she chirped. "Anything else I can do for you, or are you just going to stalk me?"
A brief confusion of noise and voices resulted in Warrick's voice. "What he's taking his own sweet time about saying is," and she heard Nick grumbling in the background, "we're going out for breakfast, you want to come along?"
Another jumble of sound came as the two men wrestled for the phone. "Who's 'we'?" Sara asked, not sure if anyone was listening.
"Warrick, me, Catherine, Lindsey, and Bobby," Nick's voice replied, sounding a little breathless. "Is Brass coming?" His voice was more distant, as though he were talking to someone else, and then it got louder again. "No, no Brass today."
Brass tomorrow, the back of Sara's mind supplied with ridiculous timing. There's always a Brass-- She cut off the thought. No B5 flashbacks. "I'll meet you," she said, immensely comforted that they had remembered her. "Where?"
Sara was prepared for Grissom's stern look the next evening when he found her in the lab's corridor, and again she raised her hands to signal innocence. "Hey. I'm just taxi service today." She jerked a thumb at the breakroom, and Grissom's expression softened at the sight of Lindsey sitting at the table with a book.
"How'd you get talked into that?" he asked with amusement, and she shook her head.
"I'm not really sure." Kids weren't her thing, but she'd seen the strain around Catherine's eyes that morning at breakfast, and on impulse she'd offered to look after Lindsey for the day, since there was no school. The next several hours had been very educational for Sara, confirming her conviction that while children could be charming, she had no desire for one of her own any time soon, and quite possibly never.
"How are you doing?" came the soft query, and she looked back to find Grissom's gaze on her.
"Fine," she said quickly, not willing to discuss it at the moment, and certainly not in the lab hallway.
"Sara--" Grissom cut off his sentence, and then started again. "Are you free for breakfast?" At her startled look, he shrugged. "Now's not the time, but I do want to know how you are."
She hesitated, torn; the irony of his offer didn't escape her. I owe him, came the thought. "All right. Call me when you leave work."
Sara took a nap when she got home; she'd been holding to the night-shift schedule for the most part, but then had spent that day awake with Lindsey. When she woke, she cast about desperately for something to do. When Grissom called, she was in the midst of ironing everything that could be ironed, and was about ready to pitch the iron through the nearest window. It astonished her when he asked her if eating at his place would be all right.
"Sure," she managed, cradling the phone on one shoulder and shutting off the appliance. "Can I bring anything?"
"Just yourself," Grissom said cheerfully.
Grissom watched out of the corner of his eye as Sara hesitantly explored his living room, wondering a bit at the fact that he was pleased to have her in his space instead of uncomfortable. It usually took him some minutes to be at ease even when Catherine dropped by. He poured more pancake batter onto the griddle and observed Sara drifting from butterfly case to bookshelf and finally to the wrought-iron sculpture that occupied one corner.
"I got that from Mom," he explained casually, realizing as the words left his mouth that he never would have said them if their trip to Marina del Rey hadn't taken place. The pulse of loss was still a deep ache, but time was blunting it a little. "It was a gift from one of her artists, but she didn't really have space for it, and I like it."
Sara nodded, absorbing the information the way she did whenever she was learning something new. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked finally. "Set the table maybe?"
"If you want," Grissom replied. "I suppose it's too much to expect of you to just sit and relax."
She rolled her eyes at his gentle tease. "I've been relaxing all week," she pointed out dryly. "If I get much more of it, I'll combust or something."
He laughed, and flipped the pancakes expertly. "Plates in that cabinet," he pointed with the spatula, "silverware in the drawer nearest you."
He watched her set the table, one place on either side, and couldn't help comparing this morning with his occasional breakfasts with Catherine. With the older woman, they ate at the breakfast bar, shoving papers aside, and she drank vodka and orange juice and tried, sometimes, to draw him out. With Sara, it was the opposite--he was the one who was going to have to ask questions. And the alcohol stayed in its cabinet.
He shuddered a little, remembering the phone call. The mere idea that she could have killed herself crashing her car was nearly unbearable. The knowledge that she was so stressed that her judgment was off was almost as bad. She had been such a good friend to him in California, far better than he expected, and while he'd tried to do the same for her on returning, it hadn't been easy. She was wary of him now--still--and he was afraid he knew why.
Would she even have agreed to this if I weren't her supervisor? He'd meant to call her that past evening anyway, figuring that a couple of days' space would be enough, but she'd appeared at the lab and he'd asked her in person. It was too easy to make evasions over the phone, and one way or another, he was going to do his best to make sure that she didn't fall so far again.
Coffee and juice; pancakes and melon and slices of cheddar. They sat at the table in a flood of morning sunlight and a slightly uncomfortable silence, but after a moment Sara asked him how work was going, and they eased into the casual, easy conversation that had once been common. Grissom told her about Greg's latest hairstyle--apparently he was compensating for his more conservative attire--and filled her in on their current cases.
"I have to go to court next Tuesday," she informed him, waving her fork for emphasis. "Which kind of breaks my promise to stay in the lab all week."
Grissom shrugged. "The demands of Justice supercede even my powers," he said drolly, delighted to see her smirk at that. "Just stay out of the field and we'll be okay."
Sara rolled her eyes again, sighing dramatically. "Got it." She took another bite of her third pancake, and swallowed. "You know, Griss, these are really good."
"Thank you," he replied, pleased. "Secret family recipe."
She grew pensive again as they cleared the table. As he refilled their cups, she folded her arms and leaned against the breakfast bar. "Okay. Why am I here?"
Grissom handed her back her mug. "Because I need to know how you're doing," he replied patiently, choosing to speak at least part of the truth rather than evading the blunt question.
"Ever the supervisor. You could have just called me, you know."
He shook his head. "Not as your supervisor. As a friend." As her surprised look melted into skepticism, he hid his wince. "Let's go sit down," he said, nodding towards the living area.
She sat on the couch that had replaced his old loveseat; he took a chair to one side, and put his mug on the low table. "You're right," he said, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. "I could have just called. But I wanted to see for myself."
Sara raised her brows. "'Paranoia'?" she quoted at him with a hint of humor, and he smiled.
"Something like that. Sara--I do need to know how you are, but I realize that outside of work I have no real right to ask." She blinked, looking taken aback. "I'd like to earn the right again, if I can. But first--" His smile went lopsided. "Will you extend me a little credit and trust me with the truth?"
Sara just didn't know what to make of Grissom. She had more than half-expected him to withdraw into his old self when they had returned to Vegas, and while he hadn't seemed to, she had been too wrapped up in the Parker and Stevens cases to think much about it. Now...now it was though her mistake, her vulnerability, had spurred some change in him. He didn't press for an answer just yet, instead just watching her. She took a gulp of coffee to buy time, her mind spinning.
Her caution was warning her not to open up to him again. She'd heard him admit that he wasn't capable of a relationship with her, and she knew that no matter what, that attraction would not leave her as long as she was around him. But she was so tired of hurting, and of trying to carry on alone, and his friendship had been one of the best things in her life before they'd moved apart.
Oh, who am I kidding? If he's going to be nice, I don't stand a chance. "I..." she began, trailing off in doubt, then seizing the most important question. "Grissom, I have to know this. Are you going to back away again? I can't--I can't trust you if this is only temporary."
His eyes darkened, and she knew her words had hurt him, but she didn't take them back. His hands tightened on one another, and then he pulled them apart and sat back a little, rubbing them on his pants. "I won't, Sara. I've learned my lesson. I want to be friends again, if we can."
She set her cup down with more precision than necessary, glad of the excuse not to look at him. "Then...what do you want to know?"
Her lowered eyes saw his hands flex, as though he wanted to do something with them but was not allowing himself. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I guess I want to know if you're really okay or just pretending...and if there's anything at all that I can do to help."
His words made her glance up, but now he was looking down. "I'm...on the way to being okay," Sara admitted; it was hard to get the words out. "It's hard to sleep sometimes, but you were right about the vacation. I mean," and she had to smile sheepishly as his head came up with a little grin, "I guess I was worn out." She looked back down at her own hands. "Even if I am going crazy with nothing to do."
"Just think of all the paperwork you're missing," he teased, and her smile widened, then faltered at his next words. "Have you thought about seeing a counselor?"
She was silent for a long moment, and again, he didn't push her. "It's crossed my mind," she admitted. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't make me."
"If I thought it would help, I might have," he said with a hint of steel. "But in this case it's a choice you have to make for yourself."
Sara pulled her gaze up to his face, slowly, but instead of the disapproval she expected, there was only worry. She sighed. "There's been a couple of times in my life when I needed a shrink," she said quietly. "But I don't think this is one of them."
He nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But remember, you can always change your mind."
She snorted. "Yeah."
A little silence fell. Sara was afraid Grissom would remind her of the other half of his question; she honestly didn't know whether her answer would be "You can leave me alone" or "Give me another hug", and neither one was really appropriate at the moment. Even if a large part of her wanted him to come sit next to her so she could lean against him and forget everything for a while.
"You're already helping, Griss," she said finally. "I mean--coming to get me--and--" She halted, unable to articulate what she was feeling, but his eyes were understanding.
"Thank you for letting me," he said softly.
When Sara got home, it was midmorning and the sun was fierce. She got out of her car and jogged towards her building, hurrying to get out of the heat, but before she reached it a shout of her name made her swing around. Five spaces down, Brass rose out of his car, jacket and tie missing and sleeves rolled up. "Got a minute?" he asked as he came towards her.
"I'm on leave," she said doubtfully, but he shook his head.
"It's not business." He was already sweating, Sara noticed, and he looked even wearier than he had the last time she'd seen him. She suspected she knew what he wanted to talk about, and she really didn't want to, but she didn't have the heart to make him stand out in the sun either.
"You'd better come inside."
Brass heaved a relieved sigh as they entered her cool apartment. "Man, you'd think I'd be used to the heat by now, but every summer..." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Sara waved him to a seat and pulled two bottles of water from her fridge, handing him one without comment and sitting down opposite him. The captain opened the bottle and took a long pull at the liquid.
"So what brings you by?" Sara asked at last, keeping her voice pleasant, but his brows went up.
"Three guesses," he said, his gravelly voice equally light.
"You're not my father, Brass," she pointed out shortly, and he snorted.
"And a good thing for both of us that I'm not." His words were bitter-edged, but he waved them aside. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. Would have done it sooner, but I've been kicking asses over that poor Stevens girl."
Sara sat back with an exaggerated sigh. "You, Grissom...can I expect Catherine on my doorstep next?"
He grinned a little at that, eyes crinkling, and despite her annoyance Sara felt a rush of affection. She had never doubted the older man's sincerity. "Probably, if she knew what happened. But your little...adventure...seems to have stayed within the cop circle."
They both sobered at his words. "I'm not here to scold you," Brass said after a moment. "I figure Grissom did a good job of that anyway. I was just worried."
Sara dropped her eyes, toying with the cap of her bottle. "I screwed up," she admitted. "You were right." Which was more, she realized, than she'd admitted to Grissom.
A hand--short of finger, wide of palm--entered her vision and patted her knee. "I wish I wasn't," Brass said softly. "Sara--you gonna be okay?"
She looked up, and his gaze was as worried as Grissom's, but lacked the terrifying pull. His eyes were just kind, and concerned, and that annoying lump was back in her throat. "Yeah," she said, and swallowed. "Yeah, I am."
See Chapter 15