Scully's A/N:Let it be known that my cousin works at Ben and Jerry's… and I effin HATE Cherry Garcia.
Geek's A/N: I'd just like to point out that I do not personally eat Ben and Jerry's. It's completely overhyped for the prices they make you pay for it.
Hey everyone. Well, someone reported Stalemate… so deleted it. Sad but true. I think I'll post chapter 13 and then archive the story somewhere else. Email me with your thoughts about what I should do… or some such. This is such bull.
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Despite the fact that breathing was supposed to be a function of the autonomic nervous system, Sara quite simply did not do so for at least 15 seconds. Lost in the endless blue of her supervisor's eyes, it occurred to Sara that breathing seemed rather trivial at the moment. When her lungs finally reminded her otherwise, she sucked in a cool breath and whispered, "What exactly is it that you want, then?" She was terrified of the answer.
His eyes never left hers as he breathed, "What I can't have."
For a moment she just sat there, stunned at his bold admission. Did he just say what I think—and then suddenly, all the bottled up, carefully hidden, and ultimately rejected feelings of the last ten years exploded from her. "What…the fuck?!" she cried angrily, throwing the afghan off of her shoulders. She slammed her coffee mug down on table next to her as Grissom looked on, stunned.
Sara whirled around to face him, an accusing finger in his face. "You…are so full of bullshit, Grissom. What the hell is that supposed to mean? You want me and you can't have me? Here I am, Grissom! Right here! Why can't you have me?" She leaned down and got in his face, hating him and loving him all at the same time. "Let me explain something to you. The only person who thinks that you can't have me is you. There are no rules about supervisor-employee relationships, ok? I don't care that you're 15 years older than me, ok? You are the only one keeping this from happening, so don't give me that bullshit about how you want what you can't have." She slumped, defeat and resignation creeping into her voice. Giving him a sad look, she uttered, "I am so…tired of this, Grissom. You—you are nothing but a coward. Thanks for the shirt and the...conversation," she spat bitterly as she peeled off his sweatshirt and left his office.
(---)
Grissom sat on his couch, dumbfounded at the events that had transpired. He absently picked up the sweatshirt she had thrown down. Without thinking, he held it to his nose and immediately regretted it. God, it smelled like her. He put it down on the couch and numbly returned to his desk to finish his paperwork.
(---)
Sara sat seething in the layout room, trying to go over evidence. When she realized that she'd just looked at the same piece of evidence for fifteen minutes without really seeing it, she decided to give it a rest for a moment. She stood up and walked around the room for a few moments, trying to collect her thoughts.
God, he's such an asshole! "What I can't have." What the fuck does that mean? Why does he do this to me—not to mention himself? Does he think it's fun to see me like this? Does he like toying with me? Oh, good grief, Sidle, get it together.
"Sara!" Nick barked. Sara's head jerked up.
"Huh?"
"What's up? I've been trying to get your attention."
"Oh, sorry. Just…thinking."
Nick shot her a skeptical look before saying, "I brought your results from Trace. Your mystery substance is cocaine, cut, strangely enough, with generic desert sand." Sara barely heard him, just nodding her thanks as he tossed the folder with her results on the layout table.
(---)
Four hours later, her case wrapped up tightly, Sara decided to leave on time for a change. Still stewing over her confrontation with Grissom, she and her dark mood rolled into the locker room to gather up her stuff. As she was grabbing her purse out of her locker, Nick came in and asked, "You ok, Sar?"
Sara slammed her locker in response. "I'm fine, Nick," she said through clenched teeth. She brushed past him on her way out.
A slow, understanding smile spread across Nick's face. "Grissom?" he asked sympathetically.
Sara looked at him with daggers in her eyes. "Stick it, Nicky," she growled fiercely, shoving the door open on her way out.
Looking at the now closed door, Nick stood with his hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. "Damn it, Grissom, you are going to have to get your shit together and fix this."
(---)
As Grissom stepped out of his office to go home, he spotted Nick in the hallway. He was about to ask him about the evening's case when Nick shot him a look that could only be interpreted as "do not speak to me unless you have a death wish." Shit. Nick knows. Not good. Raising his eyebrows, Grissom respected the younger man's obvious wishes and steered clear.
He shuffled slowly out to his Tahoe, oblivious to the lingering chill in the air. His mind was everywhere at once—Sara's red nose, Sara's smell on his sweatshirt, Sara's fury-filled eyes, Sara's delicate hands, how to fix things with Sara…
As he shut the driver's side door behind him, he huffed out a huge sigh and dropped his head to the steering wheel, thoughts churning wildly. There was really only one thing to do at this point…
(---)
Sara slammed the door to her apartment shut and kicked off her shoes. She dropped her stuff in a heap on the floor and flopped down on the couch, emotionally exhausted, but not naïve enough to expect sleep to come easily. She lay on the couch for a few long moments, soaking in the silence and peace of her apartment. When she finally felt a little calmer, she flipped on the TV and padded into her bedroom to change into something more comfortable. Finding her favorite sheer, soft tank top and a faded pair of Harvard sweats, she tossed her clothes on a chair and changed. She then headed into the kitchen to dig out her emergency stash of Ben and Jerry's (kept on hand for times just such as these). Pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and a spoon in hand, she trudged back to the living room and popped a DVD in. Bridget Jones would cheer her up, hot British men…
Half an hour later, the pint of ice cream was long gone and Sara wasn't feeling any better. Time for the heavy ammunition, she thought. She returned to the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinets until she found what she was looking for—her last remaining alcohol. A fifth of coconut rum. After her "incident," as she had come to think of it, she had abandoned alcohol, for the most part. She still had the occasional beer, but all of her hard liquor went down the drain, with the exception of this one bottle. It had been unopened, and she couldn't quite bear to pour an entirely full bottle down the sink. At this moment, she was thankful for that. She carried the bottle and a shot glass back to the living room and slumped back into the sofa cushions. At least she could kill two birds with one stone—she could drown the thoughts of Grissom and maybe catch some sleep, too.
Well, Grissom, she thought bitterly, you think I have a drinking problem, don't you? Well, if I do, it's because of you. If I had someone to come home to, I wouldn't have to come home to the bottle, would I? Sara stopped herself. That wasn't fair. He may have acted like an asshole to her, but she couldn't hold him responsible for the actions she chose to take. Still, she was only human, and she couldn't help but pin a small part of the blame on him.
Sara knocked back four shots in quick succession and had just poured her fifth when she was startled by a sharp rap on her door. "What the hell?" she muttered as she stood up. She uncharacteristically threw open the door without looking and stood in shock at the sight before her. Grissom. Holding a small, gift-wrapped box.
She didn't say a word. The alcohol was just beginning to hit her, and she swayed—just a bit—as she stood in the doorway. Grissom raised an eyebrow at her and said, "May I come in?" Wordlessly, she stepped back, allowing him entry.
When she shut the door, she turned to face him, and he cleared his throat nervously and glanced pointedly at her attire. She looked down at her shirt and mumbled, "hold on," shuffling toward her room. As she glanced in her mirror, she rolled her eyes in mild embarrassment. This particular tank top did not have a built-in shelf bra, and it was incredibly sheer, to boot. She could see the dark outline of her nipples quite clearly through the cotton. "Good grief," she muttered. She opened a drawer and pulled out a long-sleeved t-shirt and walked back out into the living room as she pulled it on over her head.
Grissom was sitting on her couch, gift in hand, staring at the bottle of rum and the full shot glass. Shit. He sensed her presence and looked up at her. "How much have you had?" he asked.
She just looked at him.
"Sara," he pleaded, fear in his eyes. "How much have you had?"
Her muscles felt like jelly. "Four," she mumbled, humiliated.
"Four shots?" he said incredulously. She nodded. "How fast?"
"Umm, in about five or ten minutes."
He paled and sucked in a ragged breath.
"Sara, how much do you weigh?"
She looked at him blankly. "Sara!"
"One fifteen."
She could see him mentally calculating. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "I'm tempted to take you to the hospital and have your stomach pumped, but I think you'll be okay as long as you quit now. I'm staying with you, though."
Sara attempted to protest weakly, but he silenced her with a Look. He placed the gift-wrapped box on the table, picked up the bottle and the shot glass and walked to the kitchen. Sara heard him pouring the rum down her sink. She was too dazed to be pissed. A few moments later, he came back with a large glass of water. "Drink," he commanded her for the second time that day. She did as he ordered, but after a few ounces, she pushed the glass away with a funny look on her face. Grissom, ever observant, read the look for what it was and quickly got her on her feet. "Hurry, Sara," he commanded gently. He guided her to where he guessed the bathroom was. They made it just in time, and Sara hurtled toward the toilet, Grissom on her heels. She fell to her knees and began retching as Grissom pulled her hair back with one hand and gently stroked her back with the other. As her heaves subsided, Grissom released his hold on her and dug under her sink for a washcloth. He ran cold water over it, wrung it out, and placed it lightly on her forehead. Seeing the beads of sweat on her face, he tugged up on the long-sleeved t-shirt she was wearing, no longer concerned with modesty. He peeled the shirt off of her sticky skin, leaving her in the sheer tank top. "Hang on just a sec," he said. He hurried back into the living room and grabbed her glass of water. Bringing it to her, he pressed it into her hand. She sloshed the water in her mouth and spat it into the toilet as Grissom reached up to the handle to flush it.