Chapter Thirty-Four

II

In the madness that was his mind he clung on to the sound of Sara's voice. As long as she was speaking, she was alive, he was alive, time went on. A little bruised, a little battered, but she was alive.

It was the only lifeline he had any more.

He watched Warrick quietly take care of Catherine, the latter seeming still in shock as Warrick held her, cleaned away the blood, waved away nurses and finally drove her away. Grissom could only feel envy. He wanted to do the same for Sara, kiss her hands which had touched him only hours earlier, hold ice to her bruises and hold her as in a safe womb, protected from everything outside. But all he could do was hover, feeling awkward and helpless and old.

He'd almost lost her. And he felt guilty for almost wishing he hadn't sent her there, as if it would have been better if only Catherine had been. Guilty for only being able to stand there when they'd burst in and confronted Alan, Warrick having done all the talking, leading. Guilty for loving her too much, guilty for not loving her enough. Guilt, guilt, guilt, until it seemed to be in his blood, bones, mind.

He shouldn't have sent her. He shouldn't love her. He shouldn't have smiled at her across a seminar room, even then feeling a strange kinship to her. They were the same, her and she, for all their differences, darkness and brightness in different places, a symmetry of souls.

It felt like a pathetic thought, a claim on her when the only claim that could be laid was one she'd allow. And then she would have one on him and he could never walk away.

Never be his father.

He clenched his fists, feeling his fingers against his palm. For a moment, he felt like Alan, ready to tear into flesh for the hurt against what he perceived as his. Just a moment in a murder's skin, a moment of Alan, of Dr. Lurie, of Grissom.

"Grissom?"

He looked up to see Sara stand up, her eyes dark and tired as she watched him, scrapes and bruises on her skin that he could not erase.

"Could you take me home?"

"Yes," he agreed, fighting the word out. "Yes, of course."

She smiled softly at him, a smile he hadn't deserved. "Thank you."

She leaned against him for a moment as they walked to his car, the coroner just driving off. Grissom found himself wondering for a moment if Frank Brinning would have a father to miss him too, someone to weep at his passing. It seemed important that it was so, somehow. If humans could be killers then killers could be human and their passing should be grieved.

Perhaps even Alan's would when the day came.

Sara closed her eyes in the passenger seat as he drove, her eyelids fluttering now and then. He wondered if she was reliving what had happened already, or if her mind was elsewhere, deeper into blood and memory. Sometimes, he wondered why she had chosen this work, knowing what he did now about her past. Here, she would never be free of the ghost of her mother and father.

Perhaps that was the point.

"What are you thinking of, Grissom?" she asked in a low voice, eyes still closed.

"About the legacy of murder."

"How scientific," she muttered, slight sarcasm in her voice.

'I'm thinking about the legacy on you,' he thought and watched the road, cars passing, lives touching each other for a moment, then gone. Like bug's lives were short to a human, a human's life was short to the earth, the hills, the sky. But the traces remained. Humans to bugs to earth to the sun's swallowing to the sun's death to the universe returned. Always traces.

Her fingerprints on his skin leaving traces in his mind.

"I'm sorry," he finally dared and she opened her eyes, staring at him.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I panicked," he said quietly. "I've never... Not like that. All I could think about was losing you and I almost did."

She frowned. "Catherine or Warrick would have shot him if it came to that."

"They might not be there next time."

"Next time? Why must there be a next time? You think I fling myself into danger every chance I get?" She stared at him. "You do, don't you?"

"You have been..."

"Reckless? Driven? Look in the mirror, Grissom!" she snapped and he winced.

"I know," he admitted after a moment, pulling up in front of her house."Do you need... I mean, you didn't need to go to the hospital?"

"Just a few bruises. They'll heal."

On her, they would. He wasn't so sure about himself any more. Perhaps they never had, he only got better at hiding them, hiding in them.

"Want me to come in?" he asked, feeling torn between daring and retreating to where he might find some sense in it all.

Her face softened just slightly. "Yeah."

Her flat was much the same as last he'd been there, but the last time he hadn't been her lover, hadn't been Gil to her Sara and the air of it felt different. Or perhaps it was merely who he had changed and breathed differently. A faint layer of dust was around, and her fridge displayed a few Viking magnets. He smiled faintly, remembering when they'd been out buying souvenirs, mainly at Greg's insistence.

"I'm just gonna change," she said and he nodded, sitting down at the edge of a chair. The fading daylight was filling the room, exposing the slowly twirling dust that would eventually come to a rest. A suitcase was still in the living room, an empty glass was still on the table. A lived in home, her home.

She'd come to Las Vegas for him, but she'd made a home on her own.

"You look deep in thought," she said softly and he looked up to see her dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, the t-shirt reading 'Land of the Midnight Sun'. Another souvenir, another trace of the time they'd spent together.

"I didn't see you buy that," he said, standing up.

She smiled slightly. "Maybe I wanted to model it for you."

She walked towards him and leaned her face against his chest carefully, the bruised side out. He touched the swelling carefully, pushing her hair away.

"He hurt you."

"Doesn't matter," she whispered, closing her eyes.

But it did, Grissom wanted to scream. She was hurt and Grissom the CSI had become Grissom the human, filled with fear and rage and winter. He'd failed her by loving her, exposed himself by loving her.

"You should get some rest," he said after a heartbeat, withdrawing slightly.

"You're leaving?" Her tone held hurt, accusation, resignation and he could feel it almost mirror within himself, as if she had come inside him and he could feel what she did.

"Yeah," he said evenly, feeling the betrayal in his own words. "I think we need some time to... Sort everything out. Get back on our feet."

She stared at him, crossing her arms. "I'm standing. I've been standing a long time. I didn't fall when my mother killed, when my home was lost, when I made mistakes. I'm not going to fall now because a killer touched me."

'You cannot promise me that,' he thought and caressed her arm. And he couldn't promise her he wouldn't fall. No guarantees, no promises, no control. Only demons and the fight every breath of life.

"Why do you look at me as if I am your world and then refuse to let me into it?" she asked, taking his hand, as if the lines on his palm would tell her.

"Because I look with my heart and act with my mind," he replied before he could think of a guarded reply and winced at how cheesy it sounded.

She nodded slowly, as if expecting or agreeing with it. "The two can be the same, you know. If you let them speak to each other."

He stared, and her lips curved into a smile.

"We're talking like characters in a romance novel, aren't we?"

He nodded and she laughed, the laughter slowly becoming muted sobs and she leaned against him again, her breath ragged and uneven. He wondered if she cried for Anna, for herself, for him, for Alan - or perhaps for everything and nothing, tired and frustrated and battling away the fear. He remembered all too well what Syd Goggle had left with him and said nothing, just held her.

All touches left traces.

And soft as hers was, it could still break the barriers he'd so carefully constructed. No control, no Grissom. And he felt too old to build anew that which might crumble to dust. And if it did not work, he would always know it couldn't have worked. No illusion to cling onto, no illusion to look back on when he was ancient and take comfort in.

Could he risk it? For her, for this? Work and himself too?

He didn't know and so he just held her, watching the dust twirl, twirl, twirl... And fall.