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; most of the others are mine, and if you want to borrow 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.
Spoilers: through "No Humans Involved".
Note: I'm indulging myself, which means that there's more angst to come. If you're worried...well...have I ever written an unhappy ending? Rating may change later. Many, many thanks for all the enthusiastic reviews-trust me, they make a difference! (tips hat to those who wanted to see more of Mia and Ronnie)
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Everything still hurt, but she didn't care.
Sara smirked to herself. Nothing like a little independence. Not that it was much-she was still too weak to propel the wheelchair far, and it was awkward doing it with her feet. But she was sitting up, and she was mobile. In fact, if this thing had a headrest, I'd be tempted to sleep in it.
She felt clean, too, for the first time in days. Sponge baths were tolerable, but being able to sit up meant that she could have her hair properly washed. And she was wearing her own comfortable sweats, courtesy of Warrick and the keys from her locker, rather than a drafty hospital gown.
Now if I can just talk the next visitor into getting me out of here for a while... She'd been moved out of ICU a couple of days before, but her new room was even less interesting, and she could only watch so much Discovery Channel.
As if on cue, someone knocked on the open door. "Come in," she called, rejoicing in the ability to take a semi-deep breath.
What came around the doorframe was an enormous bouquet of flowers, obscuring most of the upper half of its porter, but she'd know those shoes anywhere. "Greggo!"
He peered comically around the edge of the vase, and she grinned at him. "Sara," he said, exhaling, and took two strides forward to put the vase in her lap.
She rocked back a little, almost overwhelmed by the flora. Roses, daisies, baby's breath, and other things she couldn't name burst out of a base of ferns. "Greg, this is gorgeous, thank you." She gave him a winning look. "But can you put it on the table? I can't even lift it."
"Oh-right-sure." Greg lifted the bouquet away, setting it carefully on the narrow wheeled table near her bed, and then turned back. His hands were fisted in his pockets, Sara noticed, and his face was drawn both with recent illness and with tension. He stared down at her, almost upset, seeming poised on the edge of some movement.
"Greg, what's the matter?" She tilted her head to regard him.
His eyes closed tightly, and then he was on his knees next to her chair, face buried in the blanket covering her lap. Taken aback, she laid her hands gently on him, stroking his shoulders and hair, oddly warmed by the gesture. She could feel him shaking a little, though he wasn't crying. "Hey, hey, it's okay. It's all right."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked up. "No, it's not, Sara!" His face was creased and strained. "You almost died, you and Nick. I-I couldn't even come and see you!"
She ran the palm of her hand over his hair again and smiled a little, trying to ease him. "Trust me, if we were dead, it wouldn't have mattered."
But he only groaned, and laid his cheek against her knee, and she let him.
It was several minutes before Greg raised his head, and Sara could see the beginning of a flush in his still-pale skin. "Hey, as long as you're here..." she said, trying to forestall his embarrassment.
He settled back a little, blinking, willing to go along with her. "Yeah?"
Sara looked around conspiratorially, then mock-whispered. "Get me out of here!"
xxxx
Nick wanted to laugh at the sight, and he did, enjoying it thoroughly. Laughter had been in short supply recently. But the vision of Greg braced on the back of Sara's wheelchair as they whizzed down the paths of the hospital's garden at an insane speed made him wish for a camera. Or at least for Warrick, so that he might stick his unwounded elbow in his friend's side and make him look.
The two erstwhile patients looked much better-color in their cheeks and grins on their faces-and as Greg dropped off the back of the wheelchair and dragged it to a halt, Nick could see Sara half bent over, pleading with Greg to not make her laugh. Greg was panting, his stamina still not up to par after his bout with the flu, but his face was lit.
Nick made his way over to his friends, slapping hands with Greg and reaching out to tousle Sara's hair. She slapped at his hand, wincing a little but defiant. "Hey, leave the hair alone! It's clean."
"Oooh," Nick drawled exaggeratedly. "Special!"
"Bite me, Stokes." But her grin was without malice.
Greg regarded him curiously. "What've you got in the pack, man?"
Nick swung his backpack off his good shoulder and set it on a nearby bench. "I am a magician, my friends. I bring you..." He unzipped it with a flourish and pulled out a white paper bag. "Real food!"
He watched their faces go from inquiry to delight at the steamy odor of Thai take-out, and gloated.
They made a picnic of it, passing the containers from hand to hand and ignoring the possibility of germs. Nick was pleased to see Sara eating a respectable amount for an invalid-still not enough, in his opinion, but at least she had an appetite.
It was when Sara yawned for the second time that Nick assumed authority and decreed that the visit was over. Greg whined a little, but mostly for show; he too could see the weariness in Sara's posture.
They escorted her back inside, and were each pulled down for a kiss on the cheek, and Nick took a cab back home, satisfied.
She's getting better.
xxxx
She wasn't expecting him, and that made it worse, because for a treacherous moment her heart leapt when she scooted herself into her room and saw Grissom sitting in the chair next to her bed. In that instant, she realized she'd made two mistakes-she'd forgotten that visitors were not screened in the Recovery wing, and she'd sent Greg and Nick away in the corridor.
He looked asleep, slumped a little and eyes closed behind his glasses, and at the same time wearier than she had seen him in a long time. He'd lost weight, and lines bracketed his mouth; she could even see a small tear starting in the knee of his jeans, an abnormality on the normally tidy Grissom.
Sara started to back up, hoping to reach the corridor undetected, but Grissom's eyes opened before she got to the door, and he saw her. He straightened, eyes widening. "Sara."
She bit her lip, briefly considering the retreat, but decided it would look too much like cowardice. Instead, she walked her chair slowly forward, ignoring the fatigue that had brought their little garden party to an end. "What are you doing here, Grissom?" she asked coldly.
It didn't seem to fluster him. "I came to see you."
His eyes were fixed on her, but instead of meeting them she maneuvered her chair around to the far side of her bed. "You're...not welcome here."
He flinched, she saw it out of the corner of her eye, but he didn't move. She reached for the call button and pressed it. When she said nothing more, he shifted, and spoke.
"Don't I even get an explanation?"
If there was any anger in him, Sara couldn't hear it. He only sounded sad, and tired.
"If the last year isn't enough of an explanation, you'll never get it," she said shortly, struggling furiously with a swell of sympathy for him, the old familiar tenderness that she just couldn't quite kill.
Grissom sighed. "Sara...I need to talk to you."
"Oh." She pursed her lips in mock thought, then turned the chair slowly to face him. "Isn't that a change."
She wanted to make him angry, she realized. If he started yelling, she could feel completely justified in her own rage, and she could shove him away with a clear conscience. Maybe his anger would break his hold on her, reduce him to something petty-
But he wasn't angry. He was only watching her, and the quick glimpse she had of his eyes before she looked away made her throat ache. No.
"I've spent years trying to talk to you, Grissom," she told him, keeping her voice low. "You didn't want to. You think after all this time of, of avoiding me I'm just going to listen to you now?"
"I've been trying to listen recently, Sara," he countered coolly. "But you didn't seem to have anything to say."
It was true, she had to admit that to herself if not to him; he'd been more receptive since her embarrassing coda to the Linley Parker case. But she'd run out of things to say to him, besides telling him off, and as satisfying as that would be, it wasn't a particularly good idea while he was her boss.
"You're right," she said abruptly. "I don't. I'm not playing your games anymore. I appreciate your saving my life, I really do, but I'm done. I don't want your pity."
He flinched again. "Sara-"
The orderly came in. "Hey, Miss Sidle, what do you need?"
Sara shifted her gaze to the tall man. "Dr. Grissom is leaving. Could you see him out?"
The orderly looked from one to the other, his brows going up at the thick tension in the room. "Sure thing," he said, his voice more formal. "Doctor?"
Sara didn't look across the bed, fixing her gaze instead on the wall between the two men. Nevertheless, her peripheral vision saw Grissom hesitate before standing up and crossing her blank stare. He paused as he reached the orderly.
"If you change your mind, you can call me," he said, and the very neutrality of his tone made her twitch with pain. But she didn't move, and the next moment he was gone, the orderly following behind.
She didn't think he'd be back.
Sara got carefully out of the wheelchair, desperately tired, and lowered herself to the mattress of her bed. She scraped off her slippers and lay down, curling up under the blanket as tightly as she could manage with her injuries, and clutched her fury to her.
But no matter how it burned, she couldn't seem to get warm.
xxxx
Well. I have the answer to my question. Grissom found himself sitting in his car, staring through the windshield, hands locked on the steering wheel. She definitely doesn't want to see me.
And he'd thought it hurt before. He flexed his fingers, watching them go up and down but not really seeing them. What am I going to do now?
He'd wanted to explain at least a little, to see if she really was through with him. He hadn't quite believed that she was, even after being barred from the ICU.
He did now.
True, she would have to come back to the lab sooner or later. But he had no illusions about how that would work-it was going to be a strain at the very least. He'd had a taste of her icy professionalism before, and he wasn't looking forward to more of it, but that was the smallest issue.
No one gets through life without ruining some things, and he'd done his fair share of it, ranging from stained shirts and burnt meals to experiments and the occasional piece of evidence, much as he hated to admit it. Relationships too-he'd ruined the last couple before they'd even got off the ground.
And not since he was seven years old, standing next to the shards of his mother's crystal vase, had he denied responsibility for his actions.
Not when he was aware of them, anyway. Grissom acknowledged ruefully that there were plenty of times when his abstraction had let him overlook consequences.
Not this time, though.
xxxx
"You have to be kidding." Mia shifted on the lab stool and stared at Ronnie, who shrugged.
"Ask anybody. It was obvious from the start that they had a thing for each other."
"And that's why Dr. Grissom brought her here?" Mia asked in disbelief. The idea seemed ridiculous applied to the supervisor, whose moral code was so integral to him that the very idea of doubting it was laughable.
"No, no." Ronnie sipped from the can he held. "He really did need an outside investigator."
"She is one of the best," Mia acknowledged. She'd worked in other labs, and interacted with any number of CSIs, and the Las Vegas lab's investigators were better than most by a long stretch.
The QD tech stretched a little, eyes half-closing. "They used to flirt with each other all the time, in this really subtle way, but it never seemed to go anywhere, and then Sara started dating somebody else, and their relationship went south after that." He chuckled, sardonic. "It's kind of funny-Sidle could have practically any male in this lab if she wanted, and that includes some of the married ones. But instead the two of them just dance around each other."
A little needled at his amusement, she folded his arms. "Including you?"
Ronnie shook his head. "No way. You know what the CSIs get into-bad enough when they bring back just samples." He set his can aside. "I'm the neat-freak type."
His sleepy gaze ran over Mia in a quick pass, tinged with appreciation-enough to let her notice, but subtle enough to let her ignore it if she wished.
Mia considered the other tech for a moment. It had taken her several shifts to find a time when they both had free breaks, but as Archie had promised, Ronnie was a font of information. And in his favor, the gossip he repeated was without malice, for the most part.
He was smart, deliberate, and told a good story; and he was clean, not only in his lab but on his person. She'd walked close enough past him to catch his scent, which bore only soap and shampoo-no heavy scent of cologne or aftershave.
"Want to get a beer after shift?" she asked abruptly, testing a little. She didn't do mixed drinks, but beer at least came in sealed bottles.
His smile was slow. "Cool."
xxxx
Greg knew something was wrong. He'd left Sara looking better, still smiling from all their fun, and with her kiss tingling on his cheek as he walked out of the hospital. Now, two days later, he was back, having insisted on the privilege of driving her home. And he found her closed and severe, all the fragile sparkle gone.
Contrary to popular opinion, Greg did have some sense of self-preservation. So he didn't ask; he just shouldered her bag and pushed the wheelchair when the Recovery nurse insisted that Sara not use her own legs to leave. Nor did he offer to help her into his little compact when they reached it, though he did fasten her seatbelt for her; between her sore arm and her half-knitted ribs, she couldn't quite manage the stretch.
Sara didn't break the silence until he made a turn that took them away from her neighborhood, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her head turn to regard him. "Where are we going?"
"Catherine's," he said coolly. "With a stop on the way."
"Greg..." Her voice was both annoyed and tired, and he shot her a glance, his own conviction keeping him from reacting.
"Don't bother fighting, Sara. You're not well enough to be on your own."
She didn't, and it worried him a little; the Sara he knew would have made at least a token protest. But when he snuck another glance, she was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed, and he kept his mouth shut until they reached El Rosale's parking lot. He pulled up near the door and dialed a number on his cellphone; a few minutes later, a waiter came out with a large bag and handed it through the driver's side window, gravely accepting a five-dollar bill as a tip. Sara opened her eyes as Greg unrolled the bag's top. "What's that?"
"Lunch," he said succinctly, and pulled out a styrofoam container to pass to her. Napkins and plasticware followed, and Sara opened the container to reveal burritos, fixings, and salad.
"It's vegetarian," Greg said, opening his own container. His own quesadillas had chicken, but not visibly.
"Yeah." Sara was still staring at the food on her lap. "Greg..."
"I thought I told you not to argue." He gave her his best beseeching look, desperately afraid that she would. He didn't know how to argue with a sick Sara, how to win without making her wear herself out.
"I'm not." She gave him a small, vulnerable smile, and his heart melted. "Thanks, Greg. This looks great."
He grinned as best he could around a mouthful. "So eat!"
She was asleep by the time they reached Catherine's house, and she'd only eaten half the food, but Greg figured he'd settle for what he could get. She woke only enough to get into the house and into Catherine's guest bedroom, but the older woman smiled reassuringly at Greg as he stared worriedly at the closed door. "She's okay, Greg. This is normal for someone just coming out of the hospital."
"But we only drove," he protested, and Catherine patted his arm.
"Sara just doesn't have any energy stores left. It doesn't help that she ran herself down beforehand, either," she added dryly. "She'll be fine with some rest."
Greg let out a breath. "If you say so," he said doubtfully.
Catherine chuckled. "Trust me. Now go home, Greg. She'll sleep for hours, and you need to do the same."
Well, he couldn't argue that. It was very annoying, the way he got tired so quickly. Sleep sounded good.
It wasn't until he was lying in bed, staring at the far wall, that he really let himself think about her.
Beautiful, brilliant, unattainable Sara. He'd had a crush on her for what felt like forever. It wasn't that he hadn't dated other women since they'd met; she'd made it very clear that they weren't going to get together, and he'd accepted that, enjoying the flirtation and the camaraderie and the sight of her ass when she wasn't looking.
It was equally obvious that she was hooked on Grissom. Greg didn't know what his problem was; it seemed to Greg that anyone pursued by the delectable Sidle would spend, oh, about five seconds protesting. If that. But he'd stopped trying to figure Grissom out long ago.
He still had a crush on Sara, kind of. He still had wistful half-awake moments when he dreamed of her in his arms, giving in to his kiss, or striding into the lab that wasn't his anymore and pinning him against a counter to put him in a liplock, but when his mind was clearer he had to admit that neither scenario fit Sara. His dream girl wore her face, but only as a mask.
No, mostly they were friends now. Being her student, as it were, had done a lot to knock the mushy notions out of his head; it was hard to hold onto romantic ideals when his mentor was scolding him irritably for forgetting gloves again or they were both up to their sweaty elbows in something really stinky.
And it had terrified him to see his friend so reduced. The invincible Sara, made pale and quiet and way too thin by a freak accident. He'd almost been grateful, the first time he visited, that his illness had kept him away before and he'd been spared the sight of her battered and unconscious.
Almost.
Greg liked to joke about his grandfather's ejection from Norway in the last century-heck, Grandpa thought it was a major joke himself-but the old family story had one thing at the heart of it.
Responsibility.
A Hojem takes his responsibilities seriously, that had been the unconscious refrain when he was growing up. And one of the responsibilities of friendship is being there when your friend needs you.
Well, he was going to be there. Whether she liked it or not.
See Chapter 6