A/N: This is a boring "bridge" chapter. Sorry if it sucks. ::yawn:: Teaching kicks ass, by the way, but I am SO tired all of the time.
The next few weeks passed in a blur for Sara and Grissom. They took a week off of work to move out of the townhouse and into their new home. Sara had chosen warm, neutral colors for the house, and Grissom loved it. The great room and adjoining areas were the color of milky coffee, the kitchen was sage, and the dining room was a deep red color somewhere between cranberry and burgundy. Their bedroom was a cheerful, but not overwhelming, yellow color, and their bathroom was sea blue.
They bought quite a bit of new furniture for the house, all in deep mahoganies and cherries. By the end of the week, when they spent their first evening in the house, Grissom and Sara were exhausted and elated.
The townhouse went on the market and sold quickly, and they made a $120,000 mortgage payment on the new house, setting Sara's mind somewhat at ease about the size of the loan.
Sara bought her gown, a gorgeous Vera Wang creation that left her feeling like a princess. She took Catherine to her final fitting and laughed in delight when she came out of the dressing room and watched Catherine's jaw drop.
"Hot…Damn…" Catherine said, shaking her head slowly as she eyed Sara up and down.
"I take it you like it then?" Sara smirked.
"God, Sara, it's perfect. It's like she designed it just for you." Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't actually have Vera Wang design a wedding gown for you…did you?"
Sara laughed. "Are you high, Catherine? I can't begin to imagine how much money that would cost." She tilted her head as she eyed herself in the mirror. "No, actually I was planning on going the economical route with the dress—I couldn't imagine spending that much money on something I'm going to wear once—but I saw it and knew that it was perfect." She shrugged. "What can I say?"
Catherine looked at her appreciatively. The dress was a strapless affair that showed off Sara's neck and shoulders to perfection. It had a delicate line of beading at the top, and it hugged her body as it fell to the ground. There was a slit up the right leg, nothing too obscene, but enough to give everyone a glimpse of Sara's fabulous legs.
The dress was simple and oh-so-Sara.
The dress had a chapel-length train and as for her hair, Sara had opted to pull it back into a low knot at the nape of her neck and tuck sprays of baby's breath around the knot. She had long since chosen a hairstylist, and had had two practice runs already. Catherine had helped her choose a choker crafted of Austrian crystals, with drop earrings to match. The final fitting of the dress was the last step in the long—and surprisingly smooth—process of wedding preparation.
As the seamstress moved deftly around Sara, mouth full of pins, Sara continued chatting with Catherine about preparations.
"So you've taken care of the final details with the caterer, correct?" Sara asked.
"Done."
"Okay, what about the string quartet for the ceremony and the band for the reception?"
"Done."
"O-kayyyy…suite booked at the Venetian?"
"You'll have to talk to your fiancé about that one—that's his thing."
"Okay. Umm…Ooh, nail appointment and makeup artist?"
"Done and done. Seriously, Sara, I'm on top of it."
Sara smiled. "I know you are. I'm just making sure neither of us has forgotten anything in all the chaos. Now, go book yourself a massage—you deserve it."
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A week before the wedding, Sara had her first bad experience with a Grissom migraine. He had suffered the onset of quite a few migraines since they had been together, but once he had his injection of Imitrex, he was fine. This time, however, it was a bit different.
She came home from running one morning to find a strangely silent house. 'Funny, he usually leaves the stereo on while he's sleeping.' Walking into the master bedroom, she found him on the bed, fully clothed, whimpering in pain. She was at his side in an instant. He was drenched in sweat and clenching his eyes tightly shut against any offending light.
"Baby, what is it?" she asked, alarmed.
"Migraine," he ground out. She rushed toward the bathroom for a syringe of Imitrex, but his weak voice stopped her. "Can't find it. Out of refills. Call the doctor."
She stopped. She didn't know how to handle this. He was obviously in incredible pain, and she had to do something, but this was not a situation she had ever been in. Quickly, she came to a conclusion.
"Ok, honey," she said quietly. "You have three choices. I can take you to the emergency room, but you'll have to endure the car ride and the light and noise. Or I can call the doctor, wait for him to call in the refill, and then run to the pharmacy and pick it up, but that might take an hour or so. The last choice is that you can go in the bathroom and try to throw up. You know it'll relieve the pain a bit if you do. I know it's not pleasant, but…" Her voice trailed off.
He winced at his options and wiped the sweat from his face. Finally, "Call the doctor and have the refill called in. I don't want to get caught off guard again," he murmured. "I'll go try to throw up."
"Do you need help standing up?" she asked as he tried to sit up.
It was a moot point. Sitting up caused his nausea to overtake him, and he rushed toward the bathroom, Sara hot on his heels. As his knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet ('God, that sounded painful. He's going to feel that later.'), Sara opened the linen closet, grabbed a washcloth, and ran cold water over it. She wrung it out just as Grissom's heaves started to subside. He spat a few times, reached up to flush the toilet, then attempted to stand on his shaking legs.
His eyes were dark and clouded with pain and he looked at her. Her heart broke for him as she stepped toward him and pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. "Did that help any?" she asked.
"Some," he murmured, "but I'm still in quite a bit of pain. Will you drive me to the emergency room now?"
She smiled. "I guess you're taking me up on all three options, huh?"
Sara slipped her arms around him, and he leaned his 200-pound frame against her heavily as she struggled to help him to the garage. Once he was situated in the passenger seat, he buried his face in his hands to block out the light that would pour in when Sara opened the garage door.
The ride to the hospital was as smooth as could expected, and just as they arrived in the parking lot of the emergency room, Grissom's nausea overtook him again, and he flung open the door as Sara slammed on the brakes. She had never been witness to anything even close to this severe with him and she knew it had to be killing him to be this humbled and powerless before her.
Three hours, an injection of Imitrex, and some slight sedative later, Grissom slowly climbed back into the Tahoe with Sara, weak and exhausted from pain. Sara clutched the bag of Imitrex-filled syringes that she had picked up at the hospital pharmacy. They seemed more precious than ever now.
As she buckled her seatbelt, Grissom spoke for the first time in half an hour. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, ashamed.
Sara looked at him incredulously. "What on Earth for?" she inquired.
"For not getting my Imitrex refilled. You should have been asleep all afternoon and you had to spend it at the hospital with me. I'm sorry," he mumbled.
Sara was truly hurt. "How can you even say something like that?" she asked in a wounded voice. "Gil, how can you? Do you really think so little of me?"
His head jerked up, unaware of what he'd done wrong. "What do you mean?"
"God, Gil, we're getting married in a week. I love you, for God's sake! My heart was breaking for you when I saw the pain you were in—I would have taken the pain from you and suffered through it myself if I could have—and you think that I'm so selfish that you actually need to apologize for having a migraine?!" Sara's voice was rising in both pitch and volume, and she had to make an effort to keep it under control so as not to re-awaken the pain in his head. Slumping her shoulders in hurt and defeat, she said, "Do you not know how much I love you, Gil? How much I'd give for you?" She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wet. "Why are you marrying me if you don't even know how much I love you?" She knew she was over-reacting, but she felt powerless to stop it. She didn't know why, but his apology had cut her to the core.
He breathed out slowly; she could tell he was turning things over in his drug-muddled mind. He reached out and took her hand and brought it to his face, pressing into her palm. Slowly, he pulled her palm to his lips and kissed it once, twice, three times. Finally, he whispered, "All I know is how much I love you, and how afraid I am—even now—of losing you. Things like today—they remind me of just how weak I am, and how strong you are. They remind me of how much older I am. I abhor the idea of you seeing me for the weak middle-aged man that I am, Sara." He turned his head to her and shrugged apologetically, and she was stunned to see tears in his eyes.
Her anger instantly dissipated; Her own tears spilled over and she reached across and pulled him to her, stroking his soft curls gently. "Gil…" she breathed in the tiniest of whispers. "You will never lose me. I love you for who you are, and next Saturday when I say 'till death do us part,' that is precisely what I will mean."
Additional A/N: Shameless plug for Imitrex here. I have an aunt in Louisiana that I'm incredibly close to, and she has suffered the most agonizing, severe migraines that I've ever HEARD of for about thirty years now. The pain was not even relieved by vomiting, which will usually give most sufferers some respite. She spent an average of two weeks out of every month in bed, and the staff at the local emergency room knew her by name and on sight. Her migraines were truly what you would call crippling. But Imitrex is a miracle drug. I think that she would have given up her first-born child to have the stuff thirty years ago! Kidding, of course. But anyway, I'm incredibly grateful to the researchers at GlaxoSmithKline for this amazing drug! If it works for her, surely it'll work for good ol' Griss.