Chapter 15: Flapjacks and Bull Riding

"You did phone Grissom and ask if I could come, right?" Nick questioned as Sara unlocked the door to Grissom's townhouse.

Rolling her eyes at her friend, Sara pushed him into the foyer. "Yes, Nick, relax." Only a little white lie, she thought before she glanced around to find, with great relief, that Grissom was nowhere in sight. It would give her a little extra time to explain herself. "Just wait here for a minute, will you? I'll go find him. Be right back."

"Uh, sure," Nick muttered, but she had already disappeared around the corner.

Forcing herself not to worry about Grissom's reaction when she told him who she had brought for breakfast, Sara made her way into the living room.

"Grissom?"

He sat up from the couch with a start, looking surprised. "Hey," he said shyly, standing. Sara couldn't help but smile at the image he presented – completely unsure of himself. She opened her mouth to speak, but changed her words at the last minute when she saw something clutched in his hand.

"What's that, Gris?"

He glanced down, as though just remembering he was holding it, and then tried to hide it behind his back, shrugging as a light blush spread over his cheeks. "Nothing," he muttered.

"Come on, Gris," she teased, "What is it?" Gently, she managed to pry the object from his hand, and couldn't help the grin that spread over her face as she saw that it was a small clock. "So, how long was I gone?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, a little sheepishly. "I only started counting after I called you."

Shaking her head, Sara reached out and squeezed his arm comfortingly. "Well, I'm here now, as I'm sure you can see."

Almost before she had finished speaking, in a burst of confidence, Grissom had pulled her in for a kiss and a tight hug. For a few seconds Sara allowed herself to become caught up in it, but then a picture of Nick standing alone in the foyer of the house jumped unbidden to her mind and she leaned back.

Grissom looked worried, and touched her face hesitantly. "What's wrong? Did I…"

Sara shook her head and cut him off, covering his hand with hers. "I uh, forgot. Nick's waiting in the foyer. I brought him by for breakfast."

"What?" For a moment Sara worried that Grissom was going into shock; he was completely still for a few seconds. Then he glanced around the room with that trapped look in his eyes and Sara knew he was searching for a way out. It wasn't long before he realized that there was no way he was going to avoid this, and he turned back to Sara desperately. "Sara, I can't…"

"Yes, you can, Grissom. I know you can." Taking a step forward, she placed another gentle kiss on his mouth. "And I'm always right, remember?" she added, but he still looked worried, and she brushed her lips across his cheek before pulling back to a respectable distance. "It'll be fine," she told him. He gave her a weak smile, which she returned, before turning towards the door. "Hey, Nick, you can come on in!"

Nick appeared from around the corner in a second, raising a hand in a small wave of greeting to Grissom. "Hey, Gris."

Upon seeing the Texan's black eye and the still visible red marks on his neck, Grissom felt a wave of guilt rush through him, and he looked away. "Hi."

"Sorry about just dropping in on you like this," Nick continued as if he wasn't aware of the sudden tension in the room, "but Sara said she called ahead and told you I was coming."

Sara frowned. What the hell? How did he…? She cringed as she realized. Damn him! Why did he always have to eavesdrop? Grissom, completely oblivious to the fact that their cover had been blown on only the second day, kept his eyes on the ground. Desperately, he racked his brain for something to say to Nick. Luckily, he was saved when the Texan spoke.

"So, now that I'm here," he drawled, "Do you want me to make you breakfast? If I do say so, I'm a wonderful cook."

About to reply irritably that he was perfectly capable of making breakfast for the three of them himself, Grissom caught himself just in time. He only wants to make you breakfast, Gil, relax, he thought. Taking a breath, he gave a small smile.

"That would be nice," he said, and was surprised to find the words were genuine. Plus, he was rewarded with a stunning grin from Sara.

"All right," Nick began, rubbing his hands together as he glanced around, looking for the kitchen. Grissom pointed the way. "Oh," Nick tossed over his shoulder, "And I hope you have the right ingredients for pancakes, because that's all I can make."

"So much for 'I'm a wonderful cook,'" Grissom muttered, and Sara punched his arm lightly.

"Hey, mister, don't complain, we have our own chef."

"Yeah, but don't you wish he was from France instead of Texas? I'm surprised he didn't call them 'flapjacks,' or something."


"So, uh, Grissom, how you been?"

Grissom cringed at the question. He had thought that breakfast was going rather well; the pancakes were good, and though things were slightly strained it was definitely a more relaxing atmosphere than others of late. Now Nick had to go and ruin it.

"Fine, Nick," he said pointedly, hoping the Texan would take the hint. But he seemed oblivious.

"I mean, if it was me, I'd have a hard time getting over it. I'd probably…"

"Nick!" Grissom cut in, and the younger man fell silent, though it was a stony, almost defiant silence. And, much to Grissom's consternation, Sara chose that moment to finish up her breakfast and slide back from the table.

"Well, there's a show on TV that I want to watch, so I'll see you guys. Be in the living room if you need anything."

"Sara…" Grissom began, but she was already gone, and he stared after her with irritation and downright anger in his eyes. Damn it.

"I guess it's just us two," Nick said.

"Way to state the obvious," Grissom snapped, and then it was his turn to fall silent as another wave of guilt washed through him. Shit, he couldn't do anything right. Why had he said that, anyway? You're not yourself, Gil, don't take yourself so seriously. Don't take Nick so seriously. And for God's sake, don't freak out at him again.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking away again.

Nick took a deep breath. "Look, Grissom, I don't blame you for what happened. I realize that it was nobody's fault, and while it probably could have been avoided, it wasn't. So that's that. It's over. Can't we just forget about it?"

Grissom didn't respond, and Nick sighed. "Grissom..."

"Look, Nick, if you can forget about it just like that, more power to you," Grissom interrupted, and his voice had a strange quality to it that Nick couldn't quite place. It was a bit disconcerting, until suddenly he realized something.

"Grissom, why do you always assume the guilt?"

At that, Grissom's gaze snapped up from his plate, and his eyes were slightly haunted as he stared at Nick. "Excuse me? I don't…"

"The robbery; you blame yourself for that, and you let that guilt eat away at you when in fact nothing that happened that day was your fault."

"Nick, I…"

"And the incident in the break room," he continued, gesturing to his black eye, "You take all the blame and hold onto your guilt, for God knows what reason. You're like a masochist or something. Why the hell do you do it? Realistically, what happened in the break room was probably my fault. I should have known better than to try and wake up a person having a nightmare like that. I should have just let you wake yourself up. But no, I had to try and intervene, so stop beating yourself up over this, will you? And the whole robbery thing; Gris, the kid who robbed the store and shot those people is to blame, not you. There was nothing you could do; nothing. Why can't you just let it go?"

As soon as Nick stopped talking there was dead silence, and Grissom could only stare in shock, his mouth slightly open, as the younger man stared at him, waiting for an answer. Had Nick actually just said all that to him? Nicky Stokes; the good old boy from the south, who had only ever stood up to him once in the years they had been working together, and used to become flustered every time he had to work a crime scene with his supervisor? And then exactly what the good old boy from the south had actually said started to sink in, and Grissom swallowed hard.

"Why do you do it, Gris? Don't you have to deal with enough at work every night without holding onto these feelings?"

There was a sharp stab of pain in Grissom's chest, and he clenched his hands into fists. Ignore him, his mind screamed, but suddenly he found himself talking. "I'm kind of… stuck on autopilot, I guess," he choked out.

Nick cocked his head to the side. "Isn't everything supposed to run smoothly on autopilot?"

"Maybe mine's kind of messed up," Grissom muttered in reply.

Nick shrugged. "So why don't you let us help you fix it?"

There was no response as Grissom looked away. It was a few seconds before he finally turned back, and his gaze was unsure. "I don't know," he murmured.

"Or you know and you just don't want to tell me."

The way Grissom's jaw muscle twitched, and his hands clenched slightly gave Nick his answer, and he shook his head.

"Well if you won't tell me, at least tell Sara, will you? Maybe she can sort you out."

"Why would I tell Sara?" Grissom said defensively, and Nick grinned.

"Oh, give me a break, if I was deaf, dumb and blind I might not notice." Then he ducked his head, as though expecting to get something thrown at him as he continued. "Plus, I heard you guys talking earlier."

With Grissom once again caught speechless, Nick quickly pushed back from the table and took his opportunity to escape. "Uh, you know, I think I just might want to see that show that Sara's watching." With that, he disappeared into the other room and Grissom was left to try and sort out his thoughts as he pushed his half-eaten pancakes around on his plate.

"Damn it, Nick," he muttered.

He doesn't know what he's talking about, Grissom thought then. He's never seen a little boy shot point blank in front of him; never had the blood of innocent people spray over his face and cling to his skin for days afterwards.

But Sara said the same things that he said, came that annoying little voice. Is she wrong?

Grissom did not want to think about that. If Sara was right, then Nick was right, and he wasn't. He couldn't be right, because if he were right, then Grissom wouldn't feel pain every waking second of every day. If Nick were right, then Grissom would never have had the thought that the only way for all this to end was to die.

Suddenly angry, he stabbed at his pancakes viciously. By the time he realized the absurdity of what he was doing, his breakfast had been annihilated and the soggy pile of mush before him looked highly unappetizing. It was enough to turn his stomach, and he grimaced as he got up and scraped the remains into the garbage can. Setting his plate in the sink, he sagged wearily against the kitchen counter. He was unsure whether he was angry with Nick because the younger man had butted in where he wasn't wanted, or because he had assumed the guilt for the incident in the break room and then shed it with such ease.

You're like a masochist or something.

Nick's words rang in his head, and Grissom gave a soft, humourless laugh. Yeah, that's right, Nick, he thought sarcastically, I really enjoy feeling like this all the time. I really enjoy seeing the faces of dead people every night, and hearing their voices every time I let my guard down. It just brings me so much pleasure. Jesus Christ. His hands were shaking again, and he glanced down at them in anger and fear. It'll stop, he told himself. It has to stop. And then he remembered telling Greg the same thing, after the lab had exploded. He also remembered that he had made a mess of that conversation; made it sound like all he cared about was Greg's work, and telling the younger man that the shaking would stop had been a last ditch attempt to salvage the conversation.

But now it was different. Now it wasn't Greg's hands that were shaking, it was his. Stop it, he thought, gritting his teeth. Just stop thinking about it.

Gathering his courage, he pulled himself upright again and made his way into the living room.


Nick sat on the sofa next to Sara, watching the TV, but Sara stared right at Grissom when he walked through the door; it was then that he realized she must have been waiting for him all along.

"Hey, Gris," she said, flashing him a grin, patting the sofa on the other side of her. Nick glanced at him, smiling a greeting, but then turned his attention back to the TV where the PBR World Finals were airing, live. As Grissom sank down on the couch beside Sara, she leaned over and rolled her eyes. "I figured I better let him pick the show, because he made breakfast."

"Hey," Nick protested, wincing as a cowboy almost got trampled by an angry bull, "This is good stuff. It's the world finals, for God's sake. It's gonna be a long time before they're in Vegas again."

"What?" Grissom glanced at the younger man in confusion. "Nick, if the show's in Vegas, why are you watching it here in my living room?"

Nick shrugged. "Tickets sold out."

"Uh huh," Grissom muttered, so quietly that Sara had to lean closer to hear. "That's nice. It's encouraging to know that people will pay to go watch men get their skulls bashed in by a one tonne animal."

"What was that, Gris?" Nick asked, glancing distractedly at his supervisor.

Grissom shook his head, and glanced down at his still shaking hands. "Nothing, Nick. It's nothing."

For a few long moments the only sounds were those of the cheering crowd and the bull, slamming its body against the sides of its pen as the cowboy tried to mount it. Grissom frowned, and his gaze drifted towards the window where the bright sun spilled into the room. It wasn't enough; he still felt cold. And then, suddenly, he felt something warm on his skin, and he glanced down to see that Sara had taken his hand in hers and was gently rubbing her thumb over his palm. She gave him a little smile, and then rested her head on his shoulder as she turned back to the TV. Grissom didn't even notice when his hands stopped shaking, he was so busy trying to memorize the feeling of having Sara leaning against him like that.

It wasn't until he felt eyes staring at him that he glanced up to meet Nick's gaze. Caught staring, the Texan just grinned sheepishly and turned away, hoping Grissom wouldn't get upset. But Grissom was far from upset; he felt as though suddenly a huge weight had lifted off his shoulders and as warmth seeped into him he wrapped his arm around Sara's shoulder and pulled her closer. And suddenly he realized that this was what he needed - to be able to sit here with Sara and hold her and watch ridiculous things on TV for absolutely no reason at all. To feel warm and comfortable and know that for once there was nothing wrong.

As another cowboy slammed into the dust, Sara snuggled closer, and Grissom kissed the top of her head. His hands were shaking again, but it wasn't from fear.


He was surrounded by nothingness – black nothingness. But this wasn't right; it wasn't supposed to be this way. Sara was supposed to be here. Frantically, he looked all around for her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Sara!" he screamed. Where was she? She had promised she would be there for him. She had promised.

"I'll be here… Promise."

"Sara!" He began to run, but he didn't know where. He couldn't see anything; the darkness had completely consumed him, and suddenly he felt a shot of terror. The shadows; it was always what was in the shadows that got you.

"Sara!" And then the ground gave out beneath him and he fell, tumbling head over heels as though rolling down a hill except there was no grass under him; no warm sun overhead. "Sara!"

Later that day Grissom woke screaming her name, the feeling of his sweat-soaked clothes against his skin and the sheets tangled around his legs bringing him back to reality faster even than the warm sunlight that leaked through the blinds to bathe him in a warm glow.

Without even thinking he pulled the phone on the bedside table to him and hit speed dial; a second later her voice came, sounding sleepy.

"Sidle."

He couldn't speak. "Sara…"

"Grissom? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just…" he paused, and in the patient silence that followed a verse from an old Paul Simon song slipped into his mind.

This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain

"I… I had a dream. It was dark, and you weren't there, and I… I kept thinking 'she promised. She promised she'd be here.' I just… got scared, and I started running, and then suddenly I was falling and I… guess I thought that if I screamed your name enough times, you'd be there."

"I'm here, Gris," she soothed him. "I promised, and I intend to keep that promise. Don't worry about it, all right?"

"Ok," he muttered, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to wake you, I just…"

"Hey, Grissom, you don't have to apologize, it's not a big deal. Honestly. I'm here, whenever you need me."

And for some reason Grissom couldn't find it in him to doubt her. "I know," he whispered.

"So, anything else?" she asked, and Grissom heard her yawn.

"No, I'm all right, thanks," he responded, a smile coming to his face. "I'll, uh, see you…"

"Tonight," she mumbled sleepily. "I'll come by tonight before shift. Love you."

Grissom's eyebrows shot up at her statement. "Uh, yeah, I, uh…" he began, and then he realized that she had already hung up. She's just tired, he thought, slightly flustered as he replaced the phone on the table, it's just because she's tired. She's been up all this time taking care of you; of course she's a bit confused. But as he lay there he kept hearing her say those words over and over again. Love you.

Yeah, he thought as he drifted off to sleep again, I love you too.