A/N: Sorry for the delay cats and kittens. I have this thing mostly written but the ending was all wrong so I tore it apart. I should have it all finished for you soon though. In the meantime, I'll stop jabbering so that you can continue reading. Thank you all for your comments, they tickle my writer's ego pink.
Grissom was looking at her. With that look – the one he got when he was piecing together a scene. A memory of Warrick saying to her, "You've got that Sara look." And her correcting him with, "You mean that Grissom look." So many ways they were similar, so many ways they could reach out, so many ways they could hurt. Now on the receiving end of the look, Sara found herself feeling nervous that it was being directed at her. She shuffled her feet in the doorway where she had just paused before leaving for the night.
"Anyway, I'm…ah…I'm going home. My report is on your desk…somewhere. At least, it was." She cast her eyes over the buried desk and found herself relaxing as she entered the banter of friendship past. "If a report is placed on your desk, and you don't see it – did it exist?"
"If something is felt, but not stated – does the emotion still burn in your soul?"
Sara's jaw dropped, the slight mocking smile wiped off her face as she wondered when the hell Grissom had been replaced by a pod person. "Ahh," she managed to eke out before he was talking again, the arm of his glasses caught between his teeth.
"The question of a being's existence and the awareness of it's existence might also be applied to the existence of things within ourselves. By not acknowledging the presence of something, might we not hope to someday eradicate from within ourselves? Traits passed on through our genes, emotional dispositions because of environment. Could these not be removed through the simple exercise of willpower?"
Oh sweet gods above, Grissom has burned out. "I have to believe that there are things we can change about ourselves – things that would only bring us harm, or harm others." She thought briefly of her mother but suppressed it, as she always did, and continued. "But those are things that were imposed upon us – we can't control our environment as a child, we can't control our genes. You can't believe that you are only the sum of your genetic makeup, to discount the years of building up good experiences…." She tried to sound as though this wasn't something she had agonized over her whole life – always wondering if she bore more than a striking resemblance to her mother. If she bore the taint of a murderer as well. She shook her head and realized that Grissom had said something and was expecting an answer from her. His mouth twitched down, the rest of his face impassive, as he let out a small sigh. He stood up and spoke softly, his gaze running across the terrariums of bugs – anywhere but her.
"It was foolish of me to think that you would wait this long. You were right, I couldn't realize it until it was too late."
And he walked out the door. No. No, no, NO. He couldn't do that – it was his office. That was a trademark Sidle move. What had her turbulent past caused her to lose now? She wracked her brain – surely the words were cached away somewhere, if only she could draw them out. She stood there for half an hour, her nails gripping into her palms, willing herself to remember. All she got were images of him – at the ice rink, knelt over her hand, across his desk telling her the lab needed her. She glanced down at her palms, she hadn't drawn blood, her nails were too short, but they would be bruised tomorrow. No one would notice through the latex. She walked out of the office, gently shutting the door behind her. She placed her bruised palm on the door a moment and then walked to her car. She should go home. That's where she had been going.
She found herself in her parking spot, not really remembering how she got there. It was all a blur of lights from the lab to there – not the safest way to travel. She got out and made her way to her apartment – feet wandering down hallways by rote. She only looked up from the doorknob when her keys failed to unlock the door. The number on the door was not her own – it figures, the state you're in – unfortunately, it wasn't her next door neighbor's either. It was Grissom's door and the knob was now turning. Oh god, it was turning and she was just standing there and she was supposed to go home. Too late – now who's too late? – the door was open and there was Grissom with a glass in his hand.
A glass that didn't have much ice and more than two fingers full of amber liquid. She opened her mouth and heard herself say, "I'm lost."
His face was blank a moment and then he said, "You're tired Sara. You should go home."
She whispered, "I thought that was where I was going."
He took a couple steps into the apartment and came back without the glass. He gently took her hand in his and she barely noticed that it hurt. He shut his door behind him and led the way down the halls, trailing her behind him – tethered by his soft, strong grasp. He stopped at a door, took the keys out of her other hand and used them to open the door. He stepped inside and placed the keys on the counter carefully, they made almost no sound. Just like him. He finally released her hand, turned and walked out her door – shutting it softly behind him. She put her hand on the door, as she had at his office, and wondered when mental barriers had suddenly become so solid she could feel them beneath her bruised hands.
Sara went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Cracking it open, she gulped the first few pulls before grabbing a second. She leaned against the door and slid to the floor. Halfway to her lowest possible center of gravity. She would have less distance to fall now. Maybe she would keep falling forever, and her anchor would never be there again. Her eyes were so dry they hurt – it seemed a miracle she could swallow beer around the lump at the base of her throat. But she could and she did. And she stayed there, leaning against the door – hoping it would crumble under her weight and let Grissom back in.
--
Grissom woke up feeling foolish, nauseous, and like a mold experiment had run rampant in his mouth. Running a fuzzy tongue along dry lips, he rolled over onto his back. The ceiling pressed down upon him and he let his head loll to the side and stared at the white base of the toilet where it met, surprise, beige linoleum. He groaned as he got up, stumbled into his bedroom and sat gingerly on the bed. He picked up the phone and called Catherine, trying to decide what the odds were that he was still drunk.
"Willows."
"Catherine, I'm not able to come in today. I've got some bug. Can you have Warrick or Nick cover for me?"
Catherine snorted. "You know, if you didn't sound so miserable, I'd suspect you and Sara were up to something. But she sounded like shit too. So I'm guessing you've done something stupid." A brief pause. "Again. Your microscope isn't there Gil, unless you've stored it up your ass which is where your head has been lately, and I don't think a plant is going to help this time. Work it out – we'll cover for you tonight."
Grissom was still trying to figure out what she had said when he realized the only thing on the line was a dial tone. He hung up and let himself fall back onto the bed. Sara had called in sick? And Catherine had thought that something might be going on between them? It was for just these reasons that he didn't want to date Sara. Except that Cath had thought that even when there wasn't anything going on. Clearly she was more of an optimist, if one with a sailor's mouth, than she let on. He sighed. So there were rumors and he didn't even get any of the benefits of dating Sara.
He snorted, Catherine thought it was so easy to just "work it out"? Who did she think she was talking to? He knew he lacked interpersonal skills. Granted, not that he really used them all that much – he preferred to observe although that got him into trouble at times as well. Emotions were a volatile substance that was rarely labeled correctly. Controlled conditions, not necessarily sterile, were what he preferred. For all Cath chastised him about having his head in a microscope, couldn't she see the allure of it? He realized that the one person who would understand was Sara, and she thought he was worth stepping away from the microscope; worth the bigger picture. Maybe he should add 'mentally unstable' to his list of reasons why he couldn't be with Sara. After all, it was as viable as the rest of his reasons. This, of course, left him on rather shaky footing.
He had stood outside her door long enough yesterday to hear her slide to the floor. He had decided that it was a good idea for him to leave before he did something more foolish than asking her if he still had a chance with her in his office. He wished he could remember how she looked when she rejected him but all that came to his mind were glass cages and hissing cockroaches. It was one of the first times in Grissom's life that he regretted paying more attention to bugs than people.
Catherine's assistance had come with a sword balanced over his neck, but he wondered now whether it hadn't been there since he woke up. Catherine had said that Sara sounded like shit, he should go check on her. It wasn't because Cath had told him to – it just gave him a good excuse.
--
Sara woke up the second time because her phone was ringing. She held the phone close to her face to make out the caller ID – "STOKES" flashed at her. She flipped open the phone.
"Hey Nicky." Hearing her own tired voice made her feel more tired. Who had known that could be possible?
"Hey Sar." Amazing how concern could travel through a phone line and envelope her. "I just wanted to let you know that 'Rick and I got your back here tonight. And if you need anything – some saltines, juice, a shoulder, someone to hold Grissom down while you bitch slap him…I'll be there for you."
Sara gave a tired laugh at the last item on his list, but it was short and she couldn't smile.
"Thanks Nicky, but I think I've got everything I need right here –" She heard a knock on her door. "Aw, you didn't have to come over." She crawled out of bed and slung on her robe as she walked to the door.
"Well, it's not like I didn't think about coming over but I decided I should call first in case you needed anything…." His voice trailed off. It was okay because she had reached the door by that point and once she glanced through the peephole she had stopped listening. Of course it was Grissom; he was like the Frisbees that always smacked her in the head when she walked in a park. No matter how much she watched out for them, they left her dazed and seeing stars while the owner offered an embarrassed apology.
"Oh." It could have been a comment, an answer, a back channeling noise of acceptance of new information or even a sigh. She sure as hell didn't know which.
"Sara?" Nick asked, just as Grissom knocked again.
"Yeah. Yeah. Can you hold on a sec Nicky?" She placed the phone against her chest, the terry cloth muffling the sounds of her opening the door.
She glanced over him, noting the puffy eyes, the mussed hair, and the half untucked slate colored polo shirt. He was wearing the same clothes from yesterday and his slacks looked definitely worse for the wear. The leather man sandals were endearing until she remembered that she shouldn't find him endearing. Apparently growing uneasy with the silence Grissom asked, "May I come in?"
"I learned something from Anne Rice's novels," she rambled. "Always know who you're inviting in. So, who are you? Supervisor Grissom? Friend Grissom? Lover Grissom? Professor Grissom?"
"What about Gil? Is he allowed to visit?"
She stared at him for a moment before nodding and stepping aside. She brought the phone back up to her ear and said, "Nicky, I'm going to have to call you back."
"Well, alright Sar. But remember, if you need anything – all of my offers stand."
She smiled a bit at the resurgence of big brother Nicky and said, "Thanks, I'll call you if I need anything."
"Uh huhn. You tell Griss to play nice. I'll talk to y'all later."
Sara smiled again as she hung up the phone. She slipped it into one of the large pockets on her robe and tied the belt around her waist. She felt exposed enough without him seeing her in her worn pj's.
