Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, Rokothepas was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: Sara confronts more than one demon.

Thank you to LittleSidle, LizzySidle, leddy, Eaglesei, CSIFan4Life, Kimber McLeod, september, jbr12476, and TeenWitch for the reviews. It's the nicest way to know you're doing something right, and much appreciated!

Azrael's Wings

6

Powerless

Sara turned the knob of the apartment door cautiously and pushed it open, revealing a small entryway with a slight partitioning wall to the right. Past the entry was a modest living room, lit by an overhead light. She could see a darkened doorway leading probably to the bathroom and bedroom off the far left side of the living area, and another darkened area to the right past the entry wall that most likely led to the kitchen.

The apartment was completely empty, and the carpet looked freshly shampooed. There were no boxes or any indication that the new tenant had begun the process of moving in.

She stepped inside hesitantly, holding her flashlight in front of her. Greg moved protectively to her right side as they stepped into the living room.

"I smell it," Sara's voice wavered slightly. Greg nodded. They moved across the living room and to the left towards the doorway. The smell of decomposition, still fairly fresh, she noted, was obviously emanating from the bedroom. But there was also a smell of iron in the air. She shined her flashlight and the beam went far enough to hit the bedroom wall just beyond. It illuminated a spray of blood on the wall. There was a vague indication of a body further inside, on the floor.

A smell of iron in the air. She remembered what she'd described to Grissom, the day she'd blown up at Ecklie and Grissom had come to her apartment to confront her.

Suddenly she was thirteen again, coming home from school. The house was strangely quiet. She made her way upstairs and down the hall towards her parent's bedroom, puzzling over the smell. She called out, but no one answered. She pushed open the door hesitantly, staring at the cast-off blood on the wall. She turned and saw her father, lying in a wet pool of blood on the floor. Her mother sat on the bed, her back to the body. A knife lay beside her on the bed. She looked up at Sara, her face tear-stained and exhausted.

Sara reeled. "You killed him!" she shouted.

Suddenly the memory augmented.

"I'm sorry," Her mother sobbed. "I did it for you. He was going to come after you next. I did it for you."

Greg touched her arm. Sara snapped back into the present, jerking her head in shock. She dropped the flashlight, and Greg caught it.

Before Greg could open his mouth, there was the whooshing noise of a fast movement behind them, and too late Sara thought, I didn't check the kitchen. She spun to see the flashlight spinning away along the ground, and a dark-haired man running full force into Greg. He slammed his fist into Greg's chin, and Greg fell, slumping into instant unconsciousness.

She went for her gun in a smooth motion, drawing it up and in front of her. Eric Weisman backed away across the room faster than she would have thought possible, drawing a gun of his own as he went. He stopped just in the middle of the living room. And smiled at her.

To her horror, she couldn't fire. All she could think about was the new revelation that she was the reason Laura Sidle had committed murder.

She saw Grissom's face, his expression inscrutable but his eyes making her cry even harder, in her apartment that day, The mind has its filters, he had said.

She waited for the boom that would come too late for her to realize the killer was firing a shot. She wondered if she'd even hear it over the pounding in her ears. But Weisman held steady, still smiling. He licked his lips.

"Hello…Sara," he said, reading the nametag on her vest. "I thought I made it evident that the police were not to incur my wrath, and stay clear."

"I'm not an officer. I'm a crime scene investigator," Sara found herself saying mechanically.

Her phone rang suddenly, and it took all her nerve not to jump. They both stood silently until it stopped. She didn't dare look down at her belt to try and read who was calling.

"Do all investigators have eyes as haunted as yours?" Weisman asked. He smiled again. There was not a hint of sanity or anything reasonable in his eyes. "That's as good a topic as any to start with."

Suddenly Sara remembered Fromansky's words to Grissom, as she checked on Greg, still unconscious, from the corner of her eye.

Someday, you're going to need me or my buddies at a scene – and wouldn't you know it – we all hit traffic on the way.

It was too late to shoot this monster now. She'd missed her chance. If she fired now, he'd kill her and almost certainly Greg too. The only positive was she was certain he knew that no matter how fast he shot, she'd have time to shoot back, and the training to make it count. She searched his eyes, wondering if he cared about dying or if he even thought he was in danger. She couldn't tell.

"We just came here because they got a report about the smell," she said, avoiding his earlier question.

"Oh, that," He waved the gun slightly off Sara towards the bedroom, and brought it back to aim at her chest. "I didn't like the motel, and my funding is limited. I thought it more logical to rent an apartment rather than pay exorbitant fees for a fancy hotel. I'm going to be here a while, in your fair city. There's a lot of work to do."

Sara nodded dumbly.

"She's a fresh kill, I'm surprised she's so full of stench already, but I suppose I shouldn't be. It's just an indication of the severity of her sin, and a confirmation she was a proper target." He watched Sara closely, but she didn't react.

"I was tired," he almost whined. "It's been a long couple of days, the work here is prolific but exhausting. I just slept for the first time since I got here. Next thing I know, some nosy officer is banging on the door, cursing to himself about a little smell."

"He didn't come in, did he?" Sara couldn't help but ask.

"No, he knew better, unlike you. You know, your organization should be grateful. I'm making all of your jobs easier, your city safer. Not to mention I've been appointed by the highest authority. My background of being tormented by the scum known as humanity perfectly qualifies me for the job, and I take my appointment very seriously."

Sara didn't know what to say to that. Greg groaned and made a slight movement on the floor. Weisman's gaze didn't waver from Sara's gun, but his mouth tightened.

"Greg, listen to me. Stay quiet and don't move," Sara commanded. Greg stopped immediately. She didn't risk a glance to see if his eyes were open or not. They were. Greg's eyes moved to Weisman, then up to Sara, but he didn't move.

"You look so sad, Sara. There's fire in your eyes, but a great sadness too. Why is that?"

Great, he was back on that. "Everyone has good and bad in their lives," she said.

"Where is the bad for you? I'm curious."

"It's in the past," she replied. "Your um, work, here, it's brought up some bad memories for me, but that's all they are. Just memories." Saying it made it feel true, and Sara felt strangely better for the moment.

"I'm sorry for that. You strike me as a lesser sinner with a quest for truth, and I respect that. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. However, I don't know if I can extricate you without harm from this situation, Sara, you and your companion. It's beyond my control."

"Please don't hurt him. He's just a kid doing his job."

"You would rather I hurt you and let him go?"

"I don't want you to hurt either one of us."

"Where is the good for you, Sara?"

She sighed. Weisman watched her, and she found it odd that he wanted to know about anything positive; in fact he was almost impatient.

"There's a lot of good in my life. I have good friends, a good job…" she knew any attempts at a feeling of identity with this nut probably wouldn't work, but thought she might as well try. "My job stops a lot of bad people. Sinners, you know? Like your job, in a way."

He waved the hand not holding his gun dismissively. "You're nothing compared to me. But you are beautiful. Tell me, do you even deign to speak to someone like me, or do the men have to be perfect?"

His eyes glittered, and Sara knew she was on dangerous ground. "I'm speaking to you now. I'm not condescending to you. And no, the men don't have to be perfect."

"Is there a non-perfect one for you?" he sneered.

"Yes," she replied. "He's not perfect. Neither am I."

He seemed to consider her words suspiciously, but presently he smiled again.

Sara's arms were getting tired, and she fought to keep any trembling from being obvious. She concentrated on her finger, resting on the trigger, her aim, and kept her gaze on Weisman, but she was wearing thin fast.

"I find your ruminations fascinating," Weisman smirked. He didn't look tired at all. "Tell me more, and perhaps I'll share my thoughts with you. I know that sooner or later your co-workers will notice your absence. Perhaps I'll let you and your friend here go before the sirens reach us. If I like what you say."

They were stuck. This insane killer was obviously starved for conversation and wanted to talk. Sara found herself absurdly philosophical, reflecting that even six months ago, she probably wouldn't have cared and would have shot him anyway, diving towards Greg to shield him. Now, she was just wondering how she could survive. She thought of Grissom, forcing her to eat breakfast before they went to work that day, his only recognition of her sleep-deprived grumblings a raised eyebrow as he pushed the plate towards her. She suddenly wanted, more than anything, to be able to fix breakfast for him tomorrow.