Chapter 2

Sara awoke with a throbbing headache and a good dose of absolute confusion. She had the absent thought that she was glad the headache wasn't worse, and gave a silent prayer that it was due to her being ill rather than becoming used to the alcohol and its after-effects.

That line of thinking brought her to the illness – in Grissom's SUV – and where she was currently lying.

Grissom.

Shit. She would have almost preferred to go to jail rather than have him see her as he had the night before. She decided that there was very little in life worse than making a fool of herself in front of a man she wanted only to impress, both professionally and personally. Last night she had accomplished neither. She was frankly disgusted with herself on many levels. She was also embarrassed.

Turning over on the couch, she lowered her feet to the floor and sat up cautiously. Thankfully the throb didn't increase. She looked around the large room, taking in its sparse and masculine feel. She hadn't really taken time to look around the night before, and the one time she'd been herein the past it had been more a matter of urgent planning than visiting. Now she took in the silence of the large room, the clear view of the kitchen, and the dark drapes pulled shut against the sunlight. If the lines of light were any indication, it was a bright day. A glance at her watch told her that it was nearly noon; she hadn't slept long at all. It had been nearly light when she'd gone to sleep.

Sara had no clue how long Grissom usually slept. She was known for going days without sleep, and even when she collapsed it was only for a couple of hours. In reality, that was the reason behind her alcohol consumption. Staying awake all day simply gave her too much time to think, and few of her thoughts had been pleasant. Books no longer held her interest, and going out seemed horribly lonely. She had found out nearly by accident that a drink or two would let her fall asleep a bit faster, stay asleep a bit longer. In truth, if she had slept the five hours that her watch indicated, she'd slept more than she had in the past week. Insomnia wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

She stretched out the kinks of sleeping on an unfamiliar couch, although it was – as Grissom had told her – fairly comfortable. Then she stood up and walked the short distance to the kitchen. The faint light was enough to see by, so she peeked into cupboards until she found a glass. She then filled it with water, drank it, and repeated the process. Alcohol caused dehydration, and that was what the hangover was all about. If she'd gone home as she had planned, she would have taken two aspirin and two glasses of water, and likely wouldn't have even felt anything this morning. She usually didn't.

"Good morning."

The voice nearly caused her to choke as she spun around sputtering. Grissom was there in jeans and a flannel shirt, looking more casual than she'd ever seen him. He stepped forward and patted her on the back until the coughing stopped; all she could think of was the warmth of his palm on her back. "You know that doesn't really do anything," she told him once she had stopped coughing and had stepped back away from him.

He gave a shrug. "It's what my mom always did; either that, or pull my arms over my head. I don't think that would really work either. At least, it doesn't have any type of an anatomical reasoning behind it."

"Most wives' tales don't," she agreed.

"And yet we still do the same things that we have for generations," he agreed.

She looked down at that, knowing that he would catch the faint blush she developed when he talked about previous generations. She didn't feel like explaining, and he was an observant man. Yes, people did do things for one generation after another, regardless of whether the ingrained habits were productive. Getting drunk was one of those things, and she had no doubt that she had received it from several generations of Sidles who had tried to find answers at the bottom of a bottle. Brass had once told her that there were more problems than answers there; this was her proof.

"Is it okay if I make some coffee, or will the smell make you sick?" he asked as he opened a cupboard and gestured to a small bag of coffee.

"Do whatever you want," she told him. "It's your house. In fact, I can call a cab and head home anytime you'd like."

He shook his head at that. Damn. It wasn't that she'd expected him to accept the offer, but she had hoped. "There's a discussion we have to get through," he told her. "It may as well be this morning."

"It's afternoon," she told him.

He looked over her with a typical expression, one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement and eyebrows raised. Normally she found the sign that he was amused to be a good thing, albeit rare. Now she just wanted this over and done.

"Can I get you some br…" he paused a brief moment, and then winked. "Lunch?"

She shook her head at that. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't much of anything except drained and empty and feeling like shit. Grissom had been right when he'd mentioned her weight the night before. Food didn't taste like anything to her, so she kept her diet to coffee and the occasional meal which she knew was supposed to taste good. It didn't; nothing did.

"You need to eat," he told her as he glanced back with concern. He'd already set up the coffee pot and was reaching for a breadbox. He took out a bag, removed a few slices of bread, and placed two in the toaster that was on the counter.

"I'm not hungry," she told him honestly.

He didn't answer, but merely shrugged. For some reason she didn't think he was giving in. She stood there until the coffee was ready. He poured her a cup without asking if she wanted it, adding a splash of milk from the refrigerator just as she would have. It didn't surprise her that he knew how she took it; he didn't miss much.

With the warm cup in her hands, she walked back into the living area and sat down on the couch. The sheets were still in place, and she had the absent thought that she should clean up after herself, but she didn't have the energy to move. Instead, she took a sip of the hot coffee and didn't bother to wince as she felt the burn to her lips and tongue. At least she was feeling something.

Moments later, Grissom joined her, placing a small plate of buttered toast on her lap. She looked up in surprise; she hadn't seen him coming. She hadn't been thinking at all, but rather sitting in some form of detachment that she was becoming more familiar with. It was like watching herself perform in a movie, she thought. When someone spoke to her, she was there. But when nobody was around to anchor her, she was just watching herself from a distance, feeling nothing.

Grissom sat in silence for a long moment, drinking his coffee, before he spoke. "What happened?" he finally asked.

"I had too much to drink," she said with a shrug. "My judgment was poor enough that I drove instead of calling a cab. That's it."

His head tilted sideways as he looked at her, but the expression in his eyes was not one of understanding. "Does it happen often?" he asked. "The drinking, not the driving."

"Usually I'm home," she told him. "Last night I'd gone out with Nick and Warrick, so I drank a little more than I normally would. I had maybe three beers," she told him honestly. "One with them, and then they headed out. Then I went to Libby's for some dinner. I had two more beers there, and didn't eat very much. Then I decided to just go home. I made it about half-way before I saw the blue lights, and you know the rest."

"Normally you're home," he repeated, and she had to wonder if it was because he was latching onto that one fact or if he was just addressing the situation chronologically. "Define what's normal."

"I don't sleep," she told him pointedly. "When I get off, I usually have a beer with breakfast to help me relax. I go to sleep faster that way, maybe get three hours instead of one or two. But, I'm not a drunk, Grissom. I don't drink on the job, I don't need to drink, and I don't drink when I get up in the evenings. Trust me, I know what an alcoholic looks like, and I'm nowhere close."

He just looked at her for a long moment, his silence saying more than any words could about his thoughts. He didn't believe her. He didn't trust her. He didn't care about her, and that was what hurt the most.

"Look, I know I screwed up, and I won't do it again. If you want to run daily urine checks, feel free. I'm done; I promise. I've never been drunk on a case, and I've never let it affect my work."

"I'm not worried about your work," he said softly. "You're one of the best CSIs that I've ever worked with. But I am worried about you. The one thing you left out of that list was drinking alone, and apparently that's a fairly normal occurrence. It isn't far from that step to alcoholism."

"I know what an alcoholic looks like," she muttered, finally taking her gaze from the cooling coffee to meet his eyes. "I watched one kill himself a little more every day when I was growing up. My dad was the best person – and the best cop – I ever knew, until he'd had a drink or two. Then anyone was fair game. My mother was his favorite target, but I got my share, too. I was smart enough to learn to stay clear; my mom never was. And no one thought to wonder why a cop's wife always had a black eye or a broken arm." She noted that her hands were shaking, and she occupied them with bringing the coffee to her lips to take a sip. "He died at forty-nine of cirrhosis of the liver. My mom is in a convalescent hospital in 'Frisco with no clue who she is, much less who I am. They say it's Alzheimer's, but I know it's getting slammed in the head too many times. I never understood why she stayed." She looked down at her now empty cup. "So I know what alcoholism is, Griss. I'm not there, and I'm not going there."

"You know you're predisposed to it, though," he said softly. "Don't you think it's tempting fate to drink on a daily basis?"

She shrugged at that. "Lately, I don't really care."

"Why?"

Well, if they were getting things out into the open – hashing over her life both past and present - never mind that she had offered the information about her childhood – she decided that she'd throw it all in. "There's not a lot in my life to stand up and sing about," she told him. "I live alone. I eat alone. I go to movies alone, and to the store, and to work. I'm not advancing in my career; I have nobody in my life that cares one way or the other. I'm a magnet for losers, so I've learned to stay clear of men, except…" She stopped herself there. She wasn't going to be that honest.

"You don't sing anymore," he said softly.

"What?"

He shrugged. "It just occurred to me that you don't sing at work anymore. You used to sing when you weren't thinking about it. I always knew you were really into a project because I'd hear you, and I'd know not to break your train of thought. I haven't heard you sing in… years."

"Like I said," she told him. "Nothing to sing about. Hell, Griss, even you don't want to get close to me and we've been friends for years."

His eyes closed for a moment. "That had… nothing to do with you."

"I know," she said on a sigh. "Your work is too important to sacrifice for a relationship. I get it."

"No, you don't," he told her. "My career is… a small part of why I keep to myself. To begin with, it's easier to function if there's certainty in my life. Relationships are… uncertain."

"At the very least," she agreed.

He set his cup down on the floor at his feet and rubbed his palms against his jeans. "I'm not very good with people."

"That's a crock," she told him bitterly. When he didn't speak, she looked sideways to see that he wore a shocked expression. "I've seen you with victims, and you do fine. You get along with Catherine without any problem, and Brass too. Warrick thinks you walk on water, and hell, you even talk to Nick."

"I… do better than I used to," he admitted. "It's an effort, though."

"Sorry to bother you," she remarked sarcastically.

He took a deep breath, then reached up to remove his glasses and rub his hand over his face. "I would rather work with evidence than with people," he admitted. "I like certainty, and people don't provide that. Relationships, whether friendships or something else, are complicated and unpredictable. And no, it isn't a risk that I want to take."

"The benefits out-weigh the risks," she told him simply.

"Sara…" He was quiet for a moment, and then finally spoke. "Do you have any idea why I didn't want to go to dinner with you?"

She lowered her head. "Because you're my boss," she told him.

"True enough," he allowed. "But that's only the surface. There's a lot about me that… you don't know. There's a lot that would affect any attempt I made to have a relationship, and my informed choice is to be alone."

"That's a cop-out," she said. "Everyone has things that nobody knows. Do you think I tell everyone that I grew up terrified of my own father?"

"No, I don't," he admitted. "And who you were as a child certainly affects who you are now. But I'm talking about… defects. I don't feel it would be fair to any woman to… get close to them."

"Why?" she asked. "I know you don't want… I just want to understand. If this is about me, than I need to know. Every man I've ever dated has cheated or bailed, and you won't even consider the possibility. That's not about fairness. And if there's a defect, I have to know what it is before I can fix it."

He shook his head, taking another breath before reaching over and wrapping his hand around hers the way he had the night before. She tried not to feel the warmth, the strength there, but it was like trying to ignore the sun. "I'm fifteen years older than you," he said gently. "You can't tell me that doesn't matter."

"It doesn't to me," she told him honestly.

"You know so little about me," he told her.

"So tell me," she said in desperation, frightened at how close to tears she was. Something in the warm hand around hers and the uncertain voice of the man beside her was tearing at her. She needed to understand in order to get her world back in order.

"I've been in two… relationships," he said. "Both women realized that my chosen career was not as exciting as it sounded. They were disgusted by it, confused by it. They had every right to leave, because when my phone would ring or my pager would go off, they were second. Nobody likes to come in second." She didn't have anything to say to that. "The saying is that it's better to have loved and lost, rather than to have never loved at all. And that statement was clearly coined by someone who had never… lost."

"Everyone gets their heart broken, Griss," she told him, wanting to turn his hand over in hers but resisting the urge. "It's part of being human. Even I know that. But… I don't even get that chance, most of the time."

"There are simply too many factors on the wrong side of the equation," he told her. "Yes, I'm your supervisor, which presents an ethical compromise that I'm not willing to make. I'm much older than you as well. I'm not talking about a year or two, or even ten. Fifteen years is nearly a generation, Sara."

"I didn't say the situation was perfect," she muttered. "I just… You are the only man I've ever known who didn't resent the fact that I have a brain. You're smart enough to challenge me, and you're not threatened by me. Yes, you're older than I am, but we both know that age and maturity have little to do with one another. None of it will wash, Griss."

He let go of her hand then and stood, taking a few steps away from her and keeping his back to her. "Do you ever want children, Sara?"

That took her by surprise. "What, you can't have kids? I was talking about dinner, not marriage and a family."

He turned and gave her a small smile at that. "Fifteen years," he emphasized. "But as far as I know I could have children, if I were willing to."

"With what we see every day, I can't blame you for not wanting to bring a baby into this world. I don't… know if I want children. I don't want them now. My career is important to me, and I feel like what I do makes some kind of a difference, or at least I did. I don't know what I feel anymore. I don't even know if it matters anymore." She tucked her hands between her knees, trying to keep them warm. The chill that had engulfed her when he had stood was not abating. She felt as though the hammer was about to drop, and she wouldn't be able to get clear of it.

He watched her for a long moment, his glasses in his hand. Finally, when he spoke, it was the last words she would have expected. "Sara, what do you know about otosclerosis?"