Chapter 3

He watched her as the word caused a clear spark of surprise in her expression, waiting for some kind of understanding. He hoped he wouldn't have to spell it all out for her; he wasn't sure if he could.

"Oto," she said, clearly thinking aloud. "That's ears. Sclerosis is a hardening of something or a disease of, right? So, that would be… hardening of the ears? Degeneration of the ears?"

"You have the gist of it," he said, glad that she was quick at putting things together. "It's a progressive disorder – genetic – that causes tissue to grow in the ears, and harden there, making it impossible for the mechanism of hearing to function correctly."

He watched as she turned it over in her mind, waiting for her reaction. "Your mother is deaf," she said softly. "I remember hearing you mention it once. That's how you learned sign language so well." When he merely nodded, she continued. "Did she have it? Otosclerosis, I mean."

"She does," he clarified. "It doesn't go away. There are surgeries that can remove some of the growth and extend the period during which a person with the disorder can hear, but the surgery doesn't stop the progression of the disease. It simply… postpones the loss of hearing, or minimizes it. If a person with otosclerosis lives long enough, they will go deaf."

"And it's genetic. Even if it's recessive, one child in four would have it and two carry it."

"Yes."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Why do I feel like you're the one?" she asked.

"Because I am," he admitted. "I've already undergone one surgery to remove occluding tissue, and it's only a matter of time until my hearing begins to degrade again."

"So you weren't ignoring us," she said softly, as though thinking aloud. "It seemed like… you were in your own world for a while. Even Greg said that you acted like you were deaf half the time."

"Not half," he admitted. "My hearing varied, but I missed about forty percent of conversation. I took a couple of classes in speech reading, so between that and contextual clues I was able to work without it being an issue. When it became one, I had the surgery."

"How's your hearing now?" she asked.

He gave a shrug as though it didn't matter, when the absolute opposite was true. "I have a thirty decibel loss remaining, which is in the mildly hard of hearing category. I hear when something is being said, but I don't always understand what is being said if someone is behind me or facing away from me. Actually, about one in ten adults have a loss that's in that range or even greater, but hearing tests aren't something that are routine in office exams. Unless you're looking for it, hearing loss is easy to miss."

"And easy to hide?" she asked.

"It wasn't easy," he clarified with something less than a smile, remembering the times he had walked away from discussions in frustration and the fear that had accompanied the volume of a voice draining into nothing.

"You didn't have to hide it at all," she told him.

He cleared his throat, trying not to react to the emotion in her voice. This wasn't about him, not entirely. "So, there's professional ethics, an age gap, past experience, and a disability. Sara, it wasn't you. I wouldn't have been willing to become involved with anyone under those circumstances."

"Wouldn't have?" she asked, her voice tremulous.

"Nothing has changed," he said simply. "Aside from my immediate situation with hearing, my life is the same as it was a year ago. I said no then; I should say no now."

"Should?"

He moved back to the couch and sat down beside her once more. "I'm worried about you," he said carefully. "For all the reasons I mentioned. You are thinner, and it would be too easy for your drinking to go from casual to habitual. You do your work like a robot, as though you don't feel anything. And yes, I know that I told you to gain some professional detachment, but…"

"So, you feel sorry for me," she said carefully.

"No." How could he feel sorry for someone so strong; how could she even think that. "I miss… Sara. And yes, I see you every day, but something has changed and I don't like the difference. When you came here, you were so full of life, and now… I feel like we've drained that out of you."

"We?"

"Me. The job. The city. I don't even know. I just know that you aren't… you. That worries me, because the Sara Sidle who came here is the one that I enjoyed watching, and listening to, and talking with. And maybe it's self-centered, but I feel like I have something to do with the change, and I don't like myself for it. Whether it was professional or personal, I've… changed you. I'm sorry."

She took a deep breath and looked away. He was grateful, because her scrutiny had been making him uncomfortable. "Maybe I just grew up," she offered.

"Which is exactly why I wanted to stay clear of you," he put in. "Sara, you're young and beautiful and vibrant. And as tempting as that is, I don't want to destroy what makes you… you."

"When I moved here, I was just so glad that someone wanted me, even if it was on a professional basis. I felt… needed. But the longer I've stayed, the less needed I am. I'm tired of it, Grissom. I'm tired of feeling like I don't belong here. I'm tired of feeling nothing. And I'm tired of hoping and wishing, and then beating my head against a brick wall."

"You are needed," he assured her.

"If I were to leave today, it wouldn't make a ripple in anyone's life," she said softly. "Greg would ease into my job, someone else could have my apartment, and whatever you say about missing me just doesn't fit. Hell, most days you don't even speak to me beyond passing out assignments. I just want… to make a difference. But I don't."

Reaching up carefully, he placed his hand at her cheek to feel soft skin. The way that she jumped showed him just how uncertain she was about him. He remembered the one time she'd reached out to touch him and he had reacted the same way. He had been furious at the time, and he knew well enough that the same adrenaline which fueled anger could be easily redirected into other emotions. He had jumped because he'd been tempted to give his anger just that outlet. She had given him a way out, though. He wondered if he should offer her the same. "You make a difference," he told her, keeping his hand at her cheek and running his thumb across her chin, staying well clear of her lips.

He felt her gently press her face against his hand, and for a moment enjoyed the sensation of cradling her cheek in his palm, and then he saw it. One tear, single and yet so clear that he couldn't mistake it, slid from her eye and down her cheek. He knew then that the tug-of-war he'd been playing with her was finished. "Sara…" he whispered, somewhere between a concession and a plea. He leaned forward though, and carefully brushed his lips against hers, giving her every opportunity in the world to back away. She didn't, but neither did she kiss him back. He hadn't expected her to.

But it did make him wonder if perhaps he was too late. He knew what she had wanted, but he had no clue what she wanted now. It had taken him so long to figure things out, to weigh the good and bad of it in his mind and heart, that the balance had changed along the way. He pulled back and watched her expression, seeing another tear stream down the other side of her face. And then he was lost. Yes, she was needed. He needed her. He just didn't know how to tell her – or show her – how much.

So he did the last thing in the world that he was comfortable with. Reaching out with one arm, he curled it around her and brought her body nearer to his, using the hand at her face to cradle her head against his shoulder. It was awkward, and he didn't know if it was his own discomfort with human contact or if it was just the position they were in. At the moment though, it didn't matter. He held her, and she cried, and he just closed his eyes and tried not to screw this up. He wasn't a people person. He didn't know what the limits were, or what she needed, or what was acceptable.

Truthfully, that had been as much a barrier to his previous relationships and his work. It wasn't that he hadn't been touched as a child – he had been, and often – but his mother had always had to keep a certain distance in order to be understood. One couldn't sign with their arms around someone. By necessity, he'd been kept at arm's length, and it had become a habit. He had learned to guard his personal space carefully, and now it was hard for him to change the rules. But he wanted to. He wanted to be comfortable with the things that everyone else seemed to take for granted. He wanted to be able to open up, both verbally and physically, to someone else. He just wanted… he wanted to fit in. After forty-eight years of being on the outside, he was tired of looking through the window, and he wanted to step through the door. He just didn't know where the key was. For some reason, he thought that Sara just might be holding it.

If she found anything awkward about their position, she wasn't commenting. Instead, she was bawling her heart out. It wasn't like the loud and obvious sobs that he'd seen when people broke down in the interrogation rooms, or even the more subtle crying that he'd seen on those occasions when he'd watched someone receive horrible news about a loved one. No, Sara was silently resting her forehead against his shoulder, held there by his hand. Her body was shaking, his shirt was soaked, and the only real sign that she was still crying were the broken breaths that she was taking periodically.

He never knew how long he held her. It was long enough that his back ached and her breathing returned to normal. It was long enough that he actually became rather comfortable having his hand on her face and her head on his shoulder, whatever protest his back was making. It was long enough that her body softened against his, relaxing somewhat. When she finally pulled back, he let her go with reluctance. Her face was red and her eyes puffy. She looked horrible. She looked beautiful. "Better?" he asked.

She shrugged one shoulder, sniffling loudly. He took the opportunity to stand and retrieve a box of Kleenex from the bathroom, returning to hand it to her. She mumbled what sounded like thanks, although he wasn't sure. He reached down and picked up the empty coffee cup she had set on the floor and the small plate of untouched toast.

"You really should eat," he told her almost absently. His mind was off in so many directions that he couldn't focus on what he was saying. But regardless of his common misunderstanding of common social cues, he could see by the embarrassment on Sara's face that she needed a moment to compose herself. He took the dishes into the kitchen, rinsed them in the sink, and then left them there. By the time he returned, her face had returned to a more normal color and she could open her eyes fully.

"Gee, if you felt sorry for me before, I must really look pathetic now," she muttered as she blew her nose softly once more.

"You look beautiful," he admitted, and then he wanted to hit himself. To him, it sounded like a line. It sounded… wrong. "I mean, for someone who's just…" He allowed himself to trail off before he made a bigger ass of himself than he already had.

"I get it," she said, and he was almost certain that she was smiling. It was subtle, and as much sarcasm as humor, but yes, it was a smile. He released a breath he hadn't been aware that he had been holding.

"Sara, you do make a difference. And I don't mean to the lab, or to the city. You make a difference to me." He thought a moment as he sat back down, this time with a little more space between them although his placement hadn't been a conscious choice. "And I… want you here. I need you here."

"Why?" She sounded near tears again.

"Why?" he asked himself aloud. "Because you keep me guessing," he said, trying to put feelings that he didn't even understand for himself into terms that she could comprehend. "I look forward to you – to talking with you, or batting ideas back and forth, or even listening to you arguing with Cat or Nick. Some days when I haven't had much sleep, it's a little easier to go to work because I know I'll see you there. I didn't even realize how much you affected me until you threatened to leave." He shook his head, a chill traveling down his spine at the memory. "I really didn't understand about the hamburger," he said with a self-depreciating smile. "I still don't."

"It wasn't the meat," she admitted. "It was that, as much as you say you liked having me around, you didn't pay any attention to me beyond the professional. If I mislabeled evidence you'd see it in a heartbeat, but when I just wanted you to… You never saw any of it. You didn't get it. I guess I shouldn't have taken it personally; you don't let anyone get close, do you?"

No, he didn't. When a person was close, they could cause damage. He had wanted his world to be safe. He knew that above and beyond everything else, Sara had within her the power to destroy him. He didn't like for anyone to have that much control over him. Still, he was beginning to realize that she held his heart whether he acknowledged it to her or not. He could only lie to himself for so long, and the time for deception was long past. Now, he watched her. When he hadn't given an answer, her head had dropped as though he had, and it had been negative. It occurred to him that most silent answers were taken that way, regardless of their intent.

"Sara, what did you want me to do?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Do?" she asked with another sniff.

"You said, you just wanted me to… You never finished the sentence."

"I wanted you to see past the CSI to the woman underneath," she admitted softly. "God, how corny does that sound. I guess I didn't realize what I was asking."

He thought about that, deciding that it made sense but not knowing what to do about it.

"You're the most observant man I've ever known," she said carefully. "You never miss anything. I've seen you come behind Catherine or me and find evidence that we'd passed right over. You can pick up a lie in a suspect without even trying. But, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't make you see me."

He reached over and touched his fingers to her chin, gently turning her to face towards him. "I saw," he admitted. "Sometimes I saw more than I wanted to. But I didn't know if I could…" He shook his head before continuing. "I know how to treat a CSI. I know what to say, and what not to, and what is acceptable or not. I know where the lines are. But with women – with friends – the lines aren't as clearly defined. There's no operating instruction to fall back on, and no safety net for when you mess up. I thought that as long as I kept you where I knew what to do with you, then I wouldn't hurt you."

"You had it backwards," she told him.

And then she did the unthinkable. Sara Sidle leaned forward and kissed him, carefully, on the lips. And somewhere in his confusion, and his fear, and even his embarrassment, he lost track of where what lines were supposed to be. Somehow, against his better judgment and despite what he'd said earlier in the day, he couldn't find any resistance to her. Somehow, he kissed her back.