Chapter Four

II

Gil Grissom dreamt.

She was in his dream, beckoning, teasing, haunting. Radiant and dark at once, a dark star in his sky. He was drawn to her and in her embrace he did burn, but the pain was pleasure and he kissed the flames from her lips. In her presence, his defences turned to ashes. Her skin was velvet and marble and shadows played across it, dancing softly to a hidden tune. Her fingers were touches of lace, binding him to her, promising rest. Rest in her, her offered warmth. The sun on a blazing summer day and the shade too. Sara. Sara, Sara, Sara.

'Sara,' he thought and awoke panting, for a moment missing the touch of her skin as if she had really been there, a ghost of his dream made tangible.

Another dream, only.

He untangled himself from the sheets and the slow wind of the air conditioning was for a moment cold, lightly brushing his skin. The floor was cool under his feet, but he stood still for a time, merely breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Each breath one breath further away from the dream and nearer the closed borders of his life until he was safely within. Secure. Safe. Protected.

'The illusions we do cling to,' the analytical part of his mind thought dryly and he knew it to be true.

The bathroom was bright as he entered, an onslaught of light against his eyelashes. The mirror was a window and he looked into himself, eyes dark with sleep still. His hair was tinged with grey and his skin felt like leather when he touched it. He let water flow through his fingers and washed it over his face, softening his skin. The grey of his hair he could not hide so easily and his eyes betrayed it all.

He was growing older.

He breathed, feeling his lungs contract and expand, a wonder of biology as always, even old.

He had not dreamt of her for a while. Perhaps he had thought this time the dreams would be gone for good, chased away by life and the resolve of his mind. But the mind was treacherous. It resolved on one thing and desired another. And in the dream, the scientist could not hide from the evidence.

The air conditioning seemed to breathe with him, humming in the quiet. His silent home. His silent life. And Sara, the roar in his blood.

Why had the dream returned now?

"People travel far for the possibility of love," she'd said and he could feel it echo in his mind still. She had travelled to Las Vegas for him. But he... He couldn't even take the few steps into her embrace. He'd made himself unable to, making all the logical reasons not to echo in his mind over and over. They worked together. He was her supervisor. She was younger. He was older. She had issues she needed to resolve. He was detached. She could hurt him. He could hurt her.

She could leave him.

Easier not to act. Easier to stand still and watch her, easier to be the bastard. At least then it would always be his, this attraction never acted on and thus never killed.

The sun could warm him. He didn't need her flame.

'Liar,' his treacherous mind whispered, a voice of seduction to echo hers.

He shivered and turned the water off, listening to it gurgle and sweep away. After his surgery, he had spent days merely listening to everything, making himself familiar with a world he'd thought he might lose. He'd listened to the wind in the trees, the hum of heat, the scream of cars, the language of dogs. And he'd listened to her, her world of sounds. And now they haunted his dreams. Her soft sighs, just audible and still loud in his mind. Her slow inhale when thinking, her fast exhales when excited. The tiniest moan when she ate well and the frustrated groans when she saw a piece of evidence didn't pan out.

He let out a slow breath and padded into the living room, watching the light filter through the blinds. On the table, pictures of Anna Jensen were arranged carefully, just as he had left them before going to sleep. He tilted his head as he regarded them, letting Anna chase Sara from his mind.

In Norway waited a killer, he was sure of it. And he intended to help catch that nameless shadow.

Anna had probably not known who or what had killed her. She must have felt sick; she had taken the Histamine. But she might never have realised she was dying; perhaps not even at the very end when she must have known not all was as it should. Perhaps it was better that way, to go without knowing someone would desire death upon you. And murderer unseen, she would still be able to help him catch her killer. There would be traces in her life, evidence in her death. She still spoke to him.

All he had to do was figure out the words.

And perhaps that would bring some closure to her family and help them keep the haunts away. If anything ever could. Sometimes the presence of the dead was stronger than of the living.

Anna would make a beautiful haunt. Young, pretty, sleeping in her death. The younger the victim, the stronger the haunt, it seemed most of the time. The young always seemed so immortal, so untouched by death. Their life was still all in tomorrows.

Tomorrows became todays became yesterdays and he felt old and cold as Anna smiled up at him from a visa photo.

'I'm sorry you didn't find what you sought,' he thought and realised he wasn't even sure who he thought it of. Sara? Anna? Himself?

Sara had not been what he sought. But she had become what he desired, an allure even in his mind. Desires were dangerous. Desires could kill.

He wondered what had killed Anna. A mistake? A desire? A danger of discovery? Was it perhaps linked to the mysterious father, whom they had found no traces of? Did he even exist?

The evidence would tell. If it could be found and laid bare. Not all evidence could yet be found, even with all the technologies at hand. But every case was a new learning experience. Every case made it easier to solve the next.

At least so he told himself. The convenient illusion. And like the best illusions, always with a hint of truth. He did learn. He did evolve.

But humans also forgot. Sometimes they learned anew. Sometimes... He let the thought die, futile as it was.

He smiled as he lightly touched the book Greg had given him. "The Fellowship of Ghosts: A Journey through the Mountains of Norway" by Paul Watkins. Greg had seemed quite enthralled with the rumours of heading to Norway. Perhaps he was looking forward to being the teacher, knowing things that Grissom didn't. A chance to shine.

Greg would learn soon enough that you shone all the more when you didn't try.

And Sara… It would be good for Sara to get away. Perhaps it would return some of that comfortable working relationship between them, which he did desire having back. And yet he feared it. The more comfortable he was around her, the more his heart whispered her name and the mind felt treacherous.

The refrigerator hissed as he opened it, the light blinking on so fast it seemed it had always been on. But Grissom knew it hadn't. When he was young, it had been one of his first experiments. He had wondered and then planned and finally proved that the light in the fridge did turn off when the door closed.

He still remembered the euphoria of discovery even then.

The puzzles had changed. His methods had sophisticated. But the beautiful simplicities of the solutions were the same and they still thrilled him. And so, here he still was. Another murder, another solution.

The water tasted slightly metallic as he sipped it, sleep still on his tongue. His body was slowly awakening; he could feel the hairs on his arms stand up in the cool air, protesting his rise from the warm bed. Outside, it would be hot, but humans built shelters and set their own temperatures and seasons within.

'The illusions of nests,' he thought and watched the silence of his house. A nest of solitude he had built.

Or perhaps it was merely a nesting spot, with him trying to attract a mate to it as a human double-crested cormorant, flashing his wings.

'Now who watches too much Discovery,' he thought wryly and allowed himself a smile. The mating behaviours of birds were easy enough. Humans flashed their wings and made their mating calls too, but they never did follow the same predictable patterns or seasons.

Or perhaps he merely didn't see it. Patterns could be invisible even as you lived them.

His exhale felt loud, his heartbeats silent. Sometimes, he wondered if he was his own greatest puzzle still unsolved. His patterns sometimes felt unfamiliar to even him. His mind was never merely a tool of biology as a lung. Always, it had a voice not quite of his will.

And he still dreamt of that which he'd resolved not to seek.

The fridge door slipped shut, turning the light off even if unseen. He left the bottle of water on the counter and instead headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Another shift of work beckoned. Another puzzle, another murder, another solution.

Perhaps even Sara beckoned, dark and fair and bright.

But he hid that thought with the memory of the dream where they would be safe, secure, untouched. Forever.

Until the mind whispered.