NOTE: An apology for the recent lack of updating - - and it's a good one. I went on a brief, two-day vacation the day after the last update, and came back to find out that a) George and Jorja had been fired (thank God they're back now) and b) my computer was hit by lightning. The hard drive was saved, thankfully, but it took a while to go through repairs. I finally got it back, so, at long last, a new chapter of the story.
Sara tells secrets and Grissom gets some answers, but not enough. Also, a little more GSR.
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Chapter Twenty-two: The Practicing Masochist (GRISSOM)
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"I have to admit, this isn't how I expected to see the morning after," Sara said quietly.
She handed him the waxed cup of coffee and insinuated herself into the room. There was no other word for it. One second, she was outside and he was determined to be alone, and the next, she was standing on his warm beige carpet, holding a cardboard container of Starbucks coffees. He stood there, door still open, wondering how he had let this happen.
"I was picturing breakfast," she continued, "or at least some time spent lying on the sheets, maybe with your arm around me, while we watch TV. But I guess this is as good as it gets." She took the plastic cap off her coffee and sipped at it. Smiled. "Your coffee's getting cold, Grissom. Come on, drink. I remembered what kind you like."
He closed the door, and took a drink of the coffee. It burned his tongue. "Sara, this isn't the best time."
"You're right. The best time was probably last night, before we were interrupted. But this is the best we're going to get, Grissom, and I'm going to take it."
She sat down, and he sat down next to her. He could smell her shampoo, something vaguely fruit-scented. Pears, maybe. He tried to wonder what it would have been like if they had had their morning after, and she had showered in his townhouse. He had unscented shampoo. He would have been able to touch his lips to Sara's hair and taste only her, with no interference.
Right now, she smelled like pears and fresh coffee. He thought that her lips might taste the same way.
"I can't take back what I said last night," she said. "But I don't think that you killed Lizzie Zimmer."
What she said last night. He wanted to lie and say that she hadn't bothered him, or that he hadn't even heard her. But he couldn't make the words come to his mouth, so he just nodded.
"But I want to know," Sara said, "how you knew that she was dead."
He almost spilled his coffee. He kept his hand around the cup and stopped it at the last minute, but she had seen the jolt.
"I noticed," she said. "You weren't surprised when they came. You even said that you knew what they wanted from you. So I know that you were sure that someone killed her, but I don't know how you knew, or why you didn't just tell me."
"I wanted - -"
You.
"I wanted to be wrong," he said.
"Well, you weren't. Zimmer's dead. Someone raped her, killed her, and framed you. So tell me what you know, Grissom."
"Not much," he said honestly. He was too close here; too tempted to touch her. He could feel the warmth from her skin. "Sara - - are you here as a CSI or as . . . as a friend?"
"As a friend, Grissom?" She frowned at him. "Are we even friends?"
"We were friends once," he said, "and I don't know what we are now. But still, I need an answer, please."
"I'm here as a friend then, I guess. I want to fix what happened between us. I screwed up. I shouldn't have ever said what I said, and I didn't mean to say it. I was - - shocked. Because you'd known something about Lizzie, and you hadn't told me. I was standing there in my bra, and all I could think about was the look on your face."
He could still see her in his mind's eye. She had been behind him, but he knew, nonetheless, how she would have looked. Holding up her shirt to cover herself, her face pale, eyes searching for some kind of contact point, some familiarity.
"Someone called me," he said. "Someone told me that she was dead. That was it."
"Can you identify the voice?"
"Male," he said. "Adult. I don't know if I'd recognize it again. It was just for a second. All he said was, 'She's dead'. And then he hung up." He concentrated. "It wasn't anyone I knew. No one was trying to warn me to cover anything up. It was a stranger."
"It was our killer."
"Possibly. Or an accomplice."
She nodded. She looked absolutely alive, more vibrant than he'd seen her in years. "Sure. Warrick's gonna go crazy when he hears this. This is great, Grissom. If we can prove that anyone called you during that time . . ."
"What are the odds of that?"
"Don't start sounding defeated on me. You didn't do this. We're going to prove that."
He said, softly, "Warrick's going to take you off the case."
"He wouldn't do that."
"He hasn't yet," Grissom admitted, "but he will. Especially if he finds out that you came to see me today. You have a personal involvement."
"We all do. It's you."
"And that's why you, of all people, can't work the case. And I'm going to tell Warrick that."
She clenched her coffee cup in her hand, her frown deepening into a scowl. "Do you get some kind of bizarre kick out of doing this to yourself? If you'd just let someone help you, love you, whatever - - maybe this wouldn't happen. You're a masochist."
"I'm a realist," he said, but her words stung anyway. Was he a masochist? He didn't enjoy sending her away, didn't get any thrill out of denying himself the right to touch her, to kiss her. There were reasons for it - - and they were certainly more complex than just self-punishment. Of course they were. Because if they weren't, then he was a fool. A fool with some sort of Messiah-complex.
No, that wasn't him. That couldn't be him. Warrick carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and Nick wanted to be some kind of modern-day white knight, okay. And even Greg might have some kind of fixation - - a loyalty, maybe - - that had driven him from the lab into the break room just to say that he trusted Grissom: but that wasn't normal, and that wasn't him.
He didn't enjoy being who he was, he just was.
"Reality isn't giving up on everything you need or want just because it might be impractical." She shook her head and set the coffee cup down on the table. "But I didn't come here so we could critique you. I came here so we could talk."
"So talk," he said shortly.
"There's something I haven't told you."
"Is it about the case?"
"Yes." She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, and she was almost touching him then. "And if anything would get me kicked off the case, it would be telling you this."
"So don't tell me. I'm not going to risk your job for my sake."
"You aren't risking my job. I'm risking my job."
"Sara, whatever you're going to say, don't. Don't say it. I'm sorry about what I said before - - I need you on this case. I need all of you on this. You're my best CSI, and I don't want you to jeopardize your position or my chances of being proved innocent because of this . . ."
"You're the realist," she said. "And this is reality."
"Sara, don't."
She kissed him. Briefly. It wasn't enough. It was too much. He couldn't decide and didn't want to decide which, he only knew that he kissed her back. It only lasted a few seconds, but when it was over, he would have listened to anything she had to say. He would have risked anything for her right in that moment, or allowed her to risk anything - - whatever she wanted. He loved her . . . and hated her just a little for knowing what he would let her do to him. For knowing what she could do.
She moved her mouth from his to his ear, and he could feel her lips move in their whisper:
"The evidence is missing."
He drew back, as if she'd hit him instead of whispered. "What?"
She just nodded.
"All of it? Everything?"
Another nod. "The samples . . . the sheets . . . the scene itself is still intact, but we took almost everything back to the lab for analysis. We - - we thought that we were being thorough. I mean, how could we have known that this was going to happen?"
He wasn't processing this. He just sat there.
Everything was gone. All of his chances had just been taken from him. He couldn't be proved guilty, but he couldn't be proved innocent, either. It was a hellish limbo of indecision, and he knew that everyone would assume the worst. After all, it was his lab, wasn't it? His people. If he had asked one of them, if he asked, so softly and subtly, for the evidence to be lost, because it condemned him, they might have even done it.
"Where? Where was it?"
Sara swallowed. "Greg. He took a break - - just a couple of minutes - - and he says that it was missing when it came back."
"Apology accepted. I was jumping at shadows anyway."
And now you're jumping at shadows, he told himself. You know Greg. For God's sake, you trained Greg. He wouldn't take it. He's not part of some elaborate scheme to bring about your downfall. He went on a break, that's all, he went on a damned break and SOMEONE ELSE took it, not him. You know that. You know that you can believe that.
"Then I'm going to trust him," Grissom said.
"I'm impressed," she said. "But yeah, I think you're right. He was . . . you didn't even see him. He was wrecked, Griss. Shoulders shaking. He tore the lab apart looking for that stuff. He wasn't even on the map anymore. When Catherine hit him, for a second I thought that he was going to hit her back."
"Catherine hit him?"
"Slapped him," Sara said. She ran a hand over her face, drawing back a few loose strands of hair. "She - - she thought that he might have lost the evidence on purpose, and he heard her say it. He said that I didn't think he'd done that. Told her that everyone screws up sometimes, but not everyone blows up the lab when they do it. So she hit him."
She sighed. Grissom watched her, fascinated. She looked exhausted suddenly, as if these confessions and that one single sigh had taken so much out of her that she could barely stand to sit up. She leaned forward, and almost collapsed against him. He held her uncertainly, his hands flat against the smooth surface of her back. She gave one single, tearless sob into his shoulder, and then was still.
If he hadn't been able to hear her breathing, he would have been worried. Too many people were dying, too many people were being hurt. And above all else, he would not lose Sara.
"We're falling apart, Grissom," she whispered. "Everyone's turning on each other. This - - this is hurting us, bad. God, I wish Nick were here. I miss him. He could've handled this better."
"I haven't heard from him since he was en-route to Boston."
He was abruptly worried. He hadn't thought about Nick all day, but concern rocketed into him. Was he going to get another phone call, just a whispered, He's dead, and then hear the line go dead? Was he going to have to stare at photos of Nick's body?
"He's on his way home," Sara said. She pulled back, rubbing her eyes. "He couldn't find anything to help us - - and he doesn't even know Lizzie's dead yet. When he left, this was just a rape case." She gave a short, unpleasant laugh, almost like a bark. "Sounds terrible, doesn't it? Just a rape case. It seemed like such a big deal, too."
"It's gotten worse."
"It's gotten as bad as it can get." She looked at him nakedly. "Hasn't it?"