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.
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"I cannot frickin' believe this!"
Catherine watched the young man pace back and forth, alternately clenching his fists and running his hands through his long hair. "Do you know how long I've worked on that program?"
"Did it have any monetary value?" Det. Vartan asked patiently, and Catherine took another photograph of the broken window and the fire escape beyond it.
"No, it was just a hobby." Disheartened, the kid collapsed onto his couch, and Catherine stepped over his long legs as she moved to the other side of the tiny efficiency apartment. "It wasn't even a game, man, it was just a project I've been working on for like ten years."
Computers weren't Catherine's forte, but she knew enough to realize that such a timespan meant that the programmer would have had to rework his project again and again as computers evolved. That would take some dedication. Of course, she tended to think of programmers as all a little crazy, but the kid's despondency was real. He obviously considered the project of value to him.
"I don't get it," he went on. "I mean, they could have just grabbed the hard drive. But no, they wiped just that program, and took my backups too." He looked baffled. "How did they do it? I didn't tell anyone where I kept those CDs."
That is kind of weird, Catherine thought. Why just that program? Why not the projects he does for money?
Frowning, she headed back out to her SUV for a box. Maybe Archie could figure out something from the computer itself.
xxxx
Grissom's self-assigned case took him to the Strip, to collect evidence from a break-in at a casino. Slipping through the swarms and drifts of people, he marveled dryly at both the chutzpah of the thieves taking on an establishment that was open twenty-four-seven, and the ineptitude of the casino in leaving its backroom area unsecured.
As he slid through the crowd, Grissom's eye caught on a diminutive woman some yards ahead of him, and for an instant her gait was so familiar that it made him stare. The height, the stride, the fluff of silvery hair--but before his heart could hope, he realized that it wasn't her. It couldn't be.
But the moment left him unsettled, and hurting again.
Grissom bumped into Catherine as she emerged from the A/V lab. "How's your case going?" he asked.
"Nowhere," Catherine growled in reply. Her hair was ruffled, and there were circles under her eyes despite her makeup. "Archie and I spent three hours on that computer, and we can't find a thing."
"This is the program robbery, right?" Grissom leaned one hand on the wall, thinking back over assignments. "Those usually don't have much probative evidence, Cath, you know that."
"Yeah, but this one has nothing at all." She ran a hand over her scalp and sighed. "And I do mean nothing. No prints, no fibers. Definitely a professional job."
"The program's valuable, then?"
She shook her head. "No, that's the weird bit. The only person who cares about it is the programmer."
"Obviously someone else does," Grissom pointed out, but gently. Catherine looked pretty stressed. "Look, do you want to go grab some breakfast? I'll buy."
She blew out her breath. "What time is it?"
He glanced at his watch. "Five-thirty."
A smile appeared, edged with slyness. "Ducking out early, Gil? What would the boss say?"
Grissom looked down at her, smirking a little. "Do you want breakfast or not?"
"You're on."
They ate not at the diner, but at a family-style restaurant a little farther away. Grissom liked it; the food was good, the atmosphere quiet, and he'd never been called there in a professional capacity. He ordered coffee and an omelette, but Catherine chose to go the dinner route, asking for chicken pot pie and a soda. Her drink came in an old-fashioned thick-glassed Coca-Cola bottle, like the ones Grissom's mother would buy as a special treat for them. He blinked at it, memory ambushing him again, then pushed the thought away.
"So I hear nobody's applied for the lead CSI position."
Grissom took a sip of coffee. "Don't tell me you want it."
Catherine snorted. "Not a chance. I do enough paperwork as it is."
Neither of them mentioned the extra salary, skirting carefully around the touchy issue of the money Catherine had received from Sam Braun. She unfolded her napkin and put it on her lap. "Well, I hear that the dayshift CSIs are scrambling for it."
"Doesn't surprise me." Grissom rubbed at his beard. He missed Sara, he realized. They spent more of their free time together than apart these days, but she'd said she had errands to run, and he'd taken the opportunity presented to be a better friend to Catherine. Where Sara felt the need to reconnect with Brass, Grissom thought he should start making his relationship with his friend more two-way.
Though he still wasn't quite prepared to tell her that he and Sara were a couple. She didn't know, he knew that; if she did, she wouldn't be able to hide her smugness.
He was just as glad she didn't, for now.
xxxx
Sara paced along the aisle of the big store, consulting her mental list. For all her methodical habits as a CSI, she still shopped the way her mother did--starting with a basic list of needs, and then browsing the aisles to see if any bargains caught her eye. It's probably just what the grocery stores want.
Do I care? No.
She needed conditioner, floor cleaner, paper towels, cereal; she'd come to the organic grocery store because it had the best selection of fresh fruits and vegetables besides the Saguaro Square farmers' market, and it was a lot closer, with better hours.
And it had lemon juice in gallon containers. Much easier than ordering it from the restaurant supply house.
With that thought on her mind, Sara collected a couple of jugs. The stuff kept, and sooner or later there would be another decomp. Turning into the personal care aisle, she found her conditioner, and then a now-familiar bottle caught her eye. The last time she'd seen that logo, it had been upside-down.
And I'll bet Grissom doesn't have another one yet. He said he had to go shopping soon.
Without hesitation, she snagged the bottle of shampoo.
xxxx
Grissom opened his front door at the muffled thud, and was both surprised and pleased to see Sara on the other side, balancing on one foot and her arms full of bags.
"Oh, good, you're still up," she said, and put her foot down.
"I thought you weren't coming by," he replied, but couldn't help grinning. He held the door open for her, and she swept past with a quick kiss to his chin, evading his reach for one of the bags.
"I wasn't," she replied, putting her burdens on the breakfast bar. "But I got you some stuff, and I was going to call but my cellphone's dead, and--"
Grissom put his hands on her shoulders and cut her off with a kiss. "I'm glad to see you any time," he reminded her, and she relaxed under his touch, grinning.
"Well, I couldn't get out my keys with my arms full. Have you eaten?"
"I had breakfast with Catherine." He let her go and peered into the nearest bag. "You?"
"Nah. I'll grab some crackers--"
Bags of fruit, and a couple of bottles of something. "No you won't. Do you want pancakes, or a sandwich?"
He looked up to see her plant her hands on her hips, and shook his head. "Forget it, Sara. You're not going to win this one."
Her glare had no force, and he let it slide off him, rummaging in the next bag. She didn't let him take care of her half as often as he liked, but today he was prepared to insist.
He didn't have to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders relax in a sigh, and knew she was giving in. Straightening, he gave her a smile. "So what did you get me?"
xxxx
Her eyes popped open in the dark, and it was such a relief to wake, to emerge from the inexplicable terror of the nightmare, the horror that made her want to scream right along with the victims. Sometimes she did scream, but she didn't remember doing it this time.
As ever, she was curled up into a huddle, hands fisted and knees pressed against her chest; the fear was still washing over her, but she knew it would recede, and eventually she would be able to move.
And then there was a rustle, and a voice heavy with sleep. "Sara?"
She couldn't force her voice out, but a warm hand touched her shoulder, and a dim shape pushed itself up on one elbow next to her. "Sara?" Grissom's voice was clearer now. "Are you all right?"
"Nightmare," she managed through a clenched jaw.
"Oh." And with the simplicity that was one of the things she loved about him, he reached over and gathered her up.
Living heat, and the comforting clean smell of him; the smoothness of his skin under her cheek, the prickle of his beard against her temple; the feel of arms around her, of someone willing to hold her against the terrors in her own mind. "Tighter," she muttered, and he complied, pressing her closer until she could scarcely breathe. It was exactly what she needed, the hard pressure real and tangible, shredding the clinging film of her dream.
Slowly, her muscles unlocked, and when the tears hit his chest Grissom didn't say anything, just stroked her arm with one hand, and she didn't have the energy to explain that she wasn't crying because of the nightmare, she was crying because she had never had anyone to hold her after she woke.
Until now.
She didn't remember falling asleep again, and when she woke in the afternoon her muscles ached, but only a little. Grissom didn't ask, but Sara knew that he was just giving her space. If she wanted to talk about it, he would listen.
And maybe now I can.
See Chapter 4