Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account.
This chapter's for Cincoflex, who read and approved. Thank you!!
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Grissom took one last look around his living room, making sure he had all that he needed more out of habit than necessity. He could be as absentminded as any professor, but not usually with possessions.
The place was fairly tidy, but he could see dust on some of the insect display cases, as well as other indications that he'd fallen behind a bit on his housekeeping. A shirt was draped over one of his kitchen stools, and a cushion lay on the floor beside the couch.
Bending, he scooped up the throw pillow and flipped it in his hands. He'd kept it with him, that first morning after Sara had kissed him, because it had still carried her scent, but he'd brought it back from California because it had sat on his mother's couch for as long as he could remember, and even though it was worn and faded it was a link to her, something tangible. Sentimental, yes, but in this case he just didn't care.
Lost for a moment in bittersweet memory, he rubbed his palm over the patchy nap, then tossed it into place on the couch. It was time to leave for work.
xxxx
"I can't believe this," Warrick muttered under his breath. "Somebody broke in here to steal a painting of Elvis?"
He looked around the tiny apartment. It was scrupulously clean, but stuffed to the gills with carpet and doilies and silk plants, and it was already making him claustrophobic. But the ancient tiny woman sitting on the cushion-bedecked couch was nodding at Det. Vega's questions, and there was a prominent space above the wall opposite her, an empty hook and a rectangle of wallpaper surrounded by smaller framed photographs.
Warrick stepped across the room to take a closer look. On close examination, he could see the faint variation in the paper's coloration that told him that something had indeed occupied the space. He eyeballed the empty patch and estimated the missing painting's frame at about two feet by three feet. None of the photographs had been disturbed, it seemed; their edges were all mathematically level. He tuned an ear to the conversation behind him.
"I came back from supper and it was gone," the woman said in an accent that hinted at Boston and a tone that reeked of rage. "My daughter has a key but she wouldn't do this. It's malice, that's what it is."
"Is there someone who would like to distress you?" Vega asked, and Warrick glanced over as he went back to the apartment's door to examine it. The little round woman was nothing like his tall, bony, calm grandmother, but she wore the same fierceness, and Warrick was willing to bet that every employee in her assisted-living complex was secretly terrified of her.
Warrick crouched down to dust the doorknob, and felt sorry for Vega, who was probably going to have to explain that they had very little hope of recovering the woman's stolen painting. If he were still a gambling man, Warrick would have been willing to bet a large sum that the perp had used a key; in a place like this, where the apartments were cleaned daily and caregivers dispensed meds, a half-dozen copies of the key would be floating around, plus whatever copies family members happened to have.
But...why just take the painting? he wondered, unscrewing the lid of a powder jar. Nobody living here is poor; she's wearing three expensive rings and there's two twenties sitting on the kitchen counter with the mail.
Warrick shook his head, and dipped his brush. All they took was what she valued most. That's some sick bastard.
xxxx
"Where're my results, Greg?" Nick demanded, impatient. It had been a very long shift, and his temper was not improved at the sight of the DNA tech grooving to some music that Nick couldn't even identify.
"You can't hurry art," Greg said with dignity, obviously choosing to ignore the fact that Nick had nearly removed the volume knob from Greg's boom box when turning down the sound.
"This isn't art, it's science."
"You can't hurry science, either. Just ask Grissom."
Nick bridled, and Greg backed down. "Thirty seconds," he said crossly. "Geez, everybody's in a bad mood tonight."
"We're entitled," Nick said shortly. They had all been busy on cases all night, but nothing had turned up on any of them; Grissom had said something about statistics, but to Nick it was pure bad luck. And highly annoying.
"Stay away from Sara," Greg added after a moment, in a tone that suggested he didn't care whether Nick did or not. "She's ready to take someone's arm off at the shoulder."
Nick grunted, and beat Greg to the printer as it began to spit out pages. "Nothin'...and still more nothin'."
Greg's agile fingers snatched up the third sheet. "This isn't nothing," he pointed out, and handed over the paper.
Nick's brows rose at the results. "Darn straight. Thanks, Greggo." His mood improving rapidly, he headed out the door in search of his supervisor.
Forty minutes later he walked into the locker room, flinching as a ball of paper flew past his head to land in the trash can. "Whoa!"
"Sorry, Nick." Sara looked sheepish.
"Nice shot." Nick walked towards his locker. "What did that piece of paper ever do to you?"
Sara looked away and started rummaging in her locker. "Nothing. It was just the announcement that the promotion's back on."
Nick sobered. "Oh. Yeah." He'd found a copy in his own locker earlier that night, and had stood staring at it for a couple of minutes in disbelief.
Sara kept her eyes on her task of rearranging the bottles on the top shelf of her locker. "You got one too, huh?"
"Yep." He opened his own locker. "Doesn't make any sense. First it's on, then it's off, then it's on again like it never happened in the first place. We have to apply all over again."
"I'm not going to," Sara said quietly, sitting down on the bench.
After a moment's hesitation, Nick sat down next to her, straddling the seat. "Me either."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, both a little wary; then a grin started to spread over Nick's face, and then Sara's.
"Too much hassle, huh?" she asked.
"Oh yeah." His smile went a little wistful as he remembered the tension between them earlier that year, the coldness. "I didn't like what it did to me. Or...to us."
Sara sighed. "Me either."
Nick held out his arms a little shyly, and Sara leaned into his hug, returning it. "Let Warrick have it," she mumbled against his shoulder before pulling back.
"He doesn't want it either," Nick said. "I don't think anybody does."
She snorted. "It was a stupid idea anyway."
"I hear ya." Nick stood up again and peeled off his shirt. "Are you really that interested in career advancement?"
He emerged from the fabric to see her staring at him, her expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. "Who, me?"
Nick chuckled, and tossed the shirt into his locker, pulling out a clean one. "Okay, yeah. Forgot who I was talking to."
Sara shrugged, the amusement taking precedence. "Administration's boring. For me it's the puzzles."
"Yeah, we all know how you love a challenge." Nick began on his buttons. "Me, I wouldn't mind a little more responsibility, but I think I can wait for now after the last fiasco."
"More power to you," Sara said easily, and closed her locker. "See you tomorrow."
"You're off tonight?"
Sara turned at the door, her smile almost puckish. "Both of us." And before Nick could muster a tease, she was gone.
xxxx
It was easier in the dark, somehow. They were both tired from the rush of cases, and while they'd spent a relaxed night together doing mundane chores and simply enjoying each other's company, somehow they'd ended up sitting together on his couch in the darkness. Dawn was still an hour or two away.
Grissom lowered his head a fraction so he could get another whiff of Sara's scent. He never grew tired of holding her like this; some fantasies were just as potent even when fulfilled. Her head against his shoulder, her back against his chest, his arms around her waist and hers folded over them; she stroked his arm idly with one thumb, and he could feel her stomach move as she breathed and her hair slide against his throat. It was as close to perfection as he could hope for.
"What made you change your mind?" Sara asked, her voice almost lazy.
"Hmmm?" He'd been drifting, not thinking so much as just savoring.
"That night. When you asked me if I still wanted a relationship."
The words were casual, but they brought him to full alertness, and he could feel a subtle tension seeping up her spine. Grissom bit his lip; they had started their relationship quickly, but they hadn't really discussed it. On his part, at least, it was due to not wanting to prick the bubble of his dazed bliss, and to his habitual avoidance of emotional topics. But the conversation was inevitable, and he marshaled his thoughts, reminding himself that he had nothing to hide. Not any more.
The thought calmed him a little, and he took a deep breath, letting it out and feeling it ruffle Sara's hair. "It didn't happen that night," he corrected, and felt her tension subside slightly. He tightened his arms around her, trying to reassure. Sara trusted him, but his track record wasn't great, and it was going to take time for him to prove that he was done backing away. "It was a couple of days before." He pressed his cheek against the crown of Sara's head, remembering the unpleasantness of that night. "When Irene..."
He trailed off, unwilling to verbalize the nastiness of finding his very-ex-lover trying to intimidate Sara. She reached up and behind and touched his face, stroking gently. "I remember." Her head turned under his chin and she placed a light kiss at the base of his throat.
Grissom sighed, half in pleasure, half in sadness, and Sara snuggled deeper into his arms. "I don't know when it really happened, Sara, it just all came together that night." He stared into the darkness, barely able to make out the boxy shapes of his bookshelves. "This...is going to take some explaining."
She laughed a little, a comfortable sound. "I'm all ears."
He grinned, even though she couldn't see it. "Do you know how amazingly competent you are?"
"Huh?"
His arms tightened again. "I'm not changing the subject. From the moment I met you, I was struck by your competency. You not only did everything you were assigned, you did it superbly well. It never took you long to get the hang of something, and then you wouldn't stop until you had it exactly right. You were terrifying."
She laughed again at the gentle tease, but his guess was that she was blushing, too. "You're extremely competent, Sara, and I don't say that lightly. One of the reasons I asked you to come to Vegas in the first place was I knew I could trust you, not only to follow the evidence, but to follow it thoroughly and correctly."
He sighed again, remembering. "You're never sloppy or careless. And while you sometimes get too emotionally involved in cases--"
Sara stirred, but he shook his head, knowing she could feel it. "We can argue about that later. You can get too involved, but it never seems to stop you." His eyes narrowed in remembered pain, and his voice lowered. "I've seen you bounce back from exhausting shifts, maddening cases, lab explosions, even betrayal. I really believed that you didn't need anyone or anything. You were sufficient unto yourself."
"Gil--" she protested, and he shook his head again.
"I know that wasn't true, but that was how I felt. Sara, no matter what happened, you kept going, tall and strong. When I recovered from my surgery and started to take another look at my life, I couldn't see how I could fit into yours. You didn't seem to need me, and without that need--I thought--nothing would last between us."
He hadn't realized how rough his voice had gotten. Sara twisted in his arms to face him, cupping his jaw, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth in a brief hard kiss. "It isn't true," she said fiercely. "I do need you, Gil. You have to know that."
Grissom wondered how she realized his doubts when he scarcely dared think about them himself. "I know," he muttered, returning the kiss, willing himself to believe. "I do know."
They huddled together for a long moment, both aware of their own painful vulnerabilities laid open to the other's gaze. Then Grissom tugged Sara back against him, and she slid an arm around his waist, resting her other palm against his chest. "I remembered so much that night, so much that Irene brought back, and it made me think about you, about us. About coming to get you at the police station. Sara, that was when I first started to think that maybe there was a place in your life for someone after all...maybe not me, but you needed someone."
She nodded against his shoulder, and he continued. "Then I remembered California, and Mom's funeral, and I thought that maybe I could be what you needed." His mouth quirked in the darkness. "I wasn't planning on saying anything that night, but you kind of pushed me into it."
Sara chuckled again. "Good thing I did."
"Yes." Grissom reached up and slid his hand into her hair, marveling for the thousandth time that he could. "A very good thing."
Her mouth was warm and alive under his, and it was several minutes before he could bring his mind back to what they had been discussing. "Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah." Her voice was slightly breathless, and she put a hand on his nape and pulled his head back down.
See Chapter 3