Author's note: The next two chapters are going to be mainly character/romance stuff, not casefile. After all, they have a few weeks before the killer strikes again... Plus, note that I added chapter titles! Should make navigation a tad easier. Thanks for reading, and please tell me if anything is ever unclear to you. I can tweak accordingly. Keep reviewing! ---Emyn

Brass' fingers flexed nervously as he rounded the corner of the lab hallway, passing offices and individual labs flowing with activity. The Elko police department had been incredulous but cooperative, and agreed to forward all information and evidence to LVPD. Brass thought they had sounded disturbed that a serial killer might already be in their town, yet eager for the media attention. Their cops did not get many chances to be heroes. Sighing, he paused near the ballistics lab, watching the techs test-fire a Glock into a tank of water. Elko P.D. was not worrying him at the moment. Brass swallowed hard, the anticipation of conflict tightening his throat. Taking a deep breath, he turned and walked the rest of the way to Grissom's office. He paused in the doorway, smiling faintly at the classical music drifting out into the hall. Grissom was standing at the corner of his desk, glasses perched on his nose, frowning pensively at the stack of papers in his hands.

"Hey," Brass said quietly, stepping inside and stopping by the tall metal shelves. He glanced at the glass jars, still wondering why Grissom wanted something as bizarre as a preserved fetal pig. "How's Miss Piggy doing these days?"

Grissom glanced over the rim of his glasses. "She had a cold last week, but I think she's feeling better," he replied sarcastically.

"Well, that's good to hear." Brass shifted uneasily, thinking over what to say, as Grissom looked back at his papers. He knew he had no real reason to feel badly, but despite Grissom's emotional shortcomings, they were friends. He also knew that even though Grissom had not acted on whatever he felt, he would react—strongly and illogically—when he realized it was too late. Brass feared that their long-held friendship was in major jeopardy, though he hoped it would even out eventually. Regardless, Brass knew with every fiber of his being that Sara was worth any price, and that he was willing to pay it. Gingerly, he began, "I'm, uh, going out to dinner in a few days."

"That's nice," Grissom mumbled, focused intently on what he was reading.

"Gil." Brass took a deep breath. "It's with Sara."

Grissom's gaze lifted as he slowly removed his glasses. His lips parted slightly, clear blue eyes wide.

"Before you say anything, I'm only telling you this because I'm your friend," Brass added firmly. "I didn't want you to hear it from some lab tech."

An incredulous smile twisted Grissom's lips in a strangely gaunt expression. "You're trying to make me do something about her. This is some kind of joke."

"Gil." Brass' dark blue eyes were solemn and unflinching. "I'm serious."

Grissom dropped his papers on the desk and placed his glasses beside them, his mind choked with a mixture of anger and disbelief as his worst fears were confirmed. He was silent for a moment, rational mind attempting to comprehend what was going on. Despite lingering doubts, he had always considered Sara to be a stable force, someone who would still be waiting once he was ready for her. Though he had vaguely suspected this scenario, he had never expected it to happen. Hand clenching unconsciously, he demanded, "What do you think you're doing?"

Brass sighed and glanced at the ceiling as if for help. "I'm spending time with someone I . . . care about very much."

"So you had to pick Sara?" Grissom spat her name in a venomous tone. "I can't even believe this. What are you doing? What is she doing?"

"Whatever she wants," Brass replied firmly. "Look, I'm not trying to start a war here. Sometimes things just happen."

"Oh, sure. It 'just happened.'" Grissom waved his hand, tightly wound emotions seething so hotly he did not know what to do. He felt his face redden, frustrated moisture in his eyes squeezing out through cracks in his cold veneer. Sara, not Brass, had hurt his fractured emotions in a way no one ever had, but Brass would be the object of his rage. "It's nice to know you weren't plotting to betray me."

"Don't even start with me," Brass growled. "Nobody betrayed you. Hell, it's not like you were dating her."

"Maybe not yet," Grissom retorted, surrendering to illogic. "You should have stayed away from her."

"Sara is my friend, too," Brass stated with an exasperated sigh. "She's lived through a lot—between her childhood, the trials of her job, you, and now this killer—all pretty much alone. She needed someone to believe in her and protect her, so I've been trying my best."

"What else have you been doing, huh Prince Charming?" Grissom spat vengefully, folding his arms. "What else has Sara needed?"

Before Grissom could take his next breath, he found himself pinned against the wall, air knocked from his lungs, staring down with shock into blazing dark blue eyes a few inches from his own. "You listen to me, Gil Grissom," Brass commanded, his low voice barely audible but deadly as a viper's hiss. "Say whatever you want about me. Call me names, curse at me until you're blue, insult everything from my integrity to my haircut. But don't you dare say anything against Sara Sidle's character. You of all people have no right to even think about it."

"That's . . . that's not how I meant it," Grissom muttered nervously, swallowing hard. Brass was shorter and almost three years older than he was, but his strength was startling. Grissom's logical mind took note, and tried anxiously to regain control of the situation. "I was just thinking—"

"No, you weren't thinking," Brass retorted, arms taut as iron bands. "You never use that mighty brain of yours when it comes to Sara. Those neurons don't work too well when your head's up your ass, do they?"

Grissom's mouth opened and shut, unable to formulate a reply.

"Here's a newsflash, pal," Brass continued firmly. "People don't own each other. Sara deserves to have a healthy emotional life. Evidently she feels you can't give it to her, so she's moved on like any normal human would. It's degrading to Sara to expect her to hang around like a helpless damsel while you're in an emotional coma. I'm informing you of her choice as a courtesy, not because we need your permission. Now you're going to relax and deal with your issues privately, while we're all civil and keep working on the case. Kapish?"

"I . . ." Grissom began hesitantly, back aching against the wall, seeing little choice but to answer. "Fine," he sighed finally. "But could you maybe let me go?"

Brass released him and pulled back in a single smooth motion, squaring his shoulders nonchalantly. He gazed at Grissom silently, lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I'm going to talk to Sara," Grissom stated with forced boldness, his tone almost a threat.

"Then talk to her," Brass replied with maddening composure. "But you'd better make sure you don't hurt her worse than you already have, because I will find you."

"Yeah," Grissom frowned, sizing up Brass in a way he never had before. The entire dynamic of their friendship had changed with three simple words, and at that point Grissom was not interested in repairing it. Until he could make sense of the crisis that had blindsided him so completely, a working relationship would have to suffice. Besides, the more demanding question was what he should do about Sara. For the moment, withdrawal was his natural choice. Grissom took a deep breath, tucking his emotions neatly behind his usual facade of austerity, though feeling them crumble in anger's receding tide. "Are we done now?" he asked coolly, sliding his glasses back on, as if their lenses could hide his screaming eyes.

"Sure," Brass returned quietly. With a faintly menacing nod, he turned and left Grissom's office, a single sarcastic thought in his mind as he marched down the hall. Now, that went well.

Sara sighed with relief as she finished the final processing of the answering machine tape. The background noise only confirmed what they already knew—that the call had been made from a payphone on the same street as Jillian Edwards' apartment. The voice track had not been helpful, either. She found that he had put something over his mouth, possibly a cloth or his hand, and had attempted to distort his voice. After running several algorithms on the track, she had compensated for both, reducing it back to what the killer's normal voice would sound like. The naked ear told Sara that he was well-educated, though his tone further emphasized that he was a psychopath. His voice was of medium pitch, not too high or low, and struck her as overwhelmingly average. Sara thought she would recognize the voice if she ran into the killer, but other than that, she had learned nothing. Listening to the message again had been rough for her, but she had tried to keep her mind above it, paying attention to the sound and not the words themselves. Still, she thought she had never heard such malice. Sighing, Sara removed her large headphones, took the original tape from the machine and slid it in an evidence bag. She also removed a disc that she had burned with the stripped background track, for Archie's final analysis.

"Hey."

Startled, Sara spun around in her chair, hand sliding automatically to the gun at her belt, then rolled her eyes when she saw it was Grissom. "You know, sneaking up on me is not a good idea right now," she frowned, straightening.

"Sorry," Grissom flinched, hands fidgeting almost imperceptibly. "How's the, ah, tape coming?"

Sara shrugged. "I'm done, but it wasn't very helpful. It's the same as everything with this case—no evidence, or evidence that gets us nowhere."

"Yeah," Grissom nodded absently, hesitating. "I . . . I got your message, Sara."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't send you a message."

"Yes, you did." Grissom gazed at her, exhaling in a sigh. "I heard about you and Brass."

Sara attempted to measure his reaction, but his face was a tight mask of composure. "Well, he said he was going to tell you," she ventured.

"He did." Grissom's voice was quiet and taut, as if it took every ounce of his strength to remain in control. "At first I thought he was telling me to get me to do something, but now I think you are."

"What do you mean?" Sara frowned.

Grissom took a deep breath. "It's very common for people who are having difficulty getting a . . . romantic interest's attention to go out with someone else, in order to make him jealous, reexamine his feelings, and react. I think that's what you're doing."

Sara shook her head, lips slightly parted in disbelief. "I can't believe you, Grissom," she remarked, irritation seeping into her voice. "How can you be so arrogant to even suggest that?"

Grissom's forehead creased. "Well, why else would you—"

"You think my relationship with Jim is a ploy to force you into confessing some kind of grand feelings for me?" Sara demanded, startling herself with her firmness. She knew she had come a long way emotionally, and being able to actually say it was both surprising and relieving. "I can't believe, after all that's happened over the past six years, that you can walk in here and twist everything around so it ends up being about you. You couldn't be more wrong."

Grissom's mouth opened slightly, unveiled shock visible in his eyes, faint anger creeping back. "But why . . . why would you want to go out with him?"

"Oh, let's see." Sara leaned back slightly in her chair, amazed at his response and that they were even having the conversation. "He's kind, and respects and listens to me. He's got a great personality, and he makes me laugh and smile more than I have in years. He's intelligent, loyal, tenacious, and dedicated to his work, but not pathologically like someone else I know. Would you like me to go on?"

"No," Grissom said hoarsely, still stunned by what she was saying to him. "Sara, I . . . I thought we were . . ."

"Were what, Grissom?" Sara tilted her head, feeling stronger with every word. "Since I've known you, you've pulled me back and forth like a puppet on a string. My response to you was based on my past and my flawed emotions, leading me to be loyal even when you ignored me, which is almost constantly. Hanging on to you and to my past was destroying me inside, driving me to seek release in alcohol and extra work. Not like there was much to hang onto—just empty insinuations and a glance now and then." She shook her head, thankful that it had become clear to her. "You rejected me when I asked you out to dinner. You've seen a handful of other women. You told a murderer that being involved with me was a huge risk and you "couldn't do it.""

Grissom's mouth twitched with anger. "Brass told you."

"No," Sara replied, her tone hardened suddenly. "He didn't tell me anything. I was there."

His eyes flickered at the realization, feeling suddenly exposed. "It . . . it was relevant to the case. I was trying to get him to confess, to get inside his head."

"You didn't need to get inside his head," Sara replied, her voice cool. "You were already there." Grissom stared at her in silence, mouth opening and closing. She had hit a nerve.

"That's why you stayed at Debbie Marlin's house for so long," she continued quietly. "It was easier to channel whatever you felt into solving her case. That's how you've always dealt with me—through cases and outlets beyond the lab. But you expect me to be sitting somewhere, waiting patiently for you until you're ready to act."

Grissom's eyes lowered as he tried to come up with a response. Simply talking to her about anything remotely related to the situation made him feel like a stranded fish, gasping for oxygen. It was painfully uncomfortable and went against every fiber of his being. The scientist in him could do nothing, leaving his stifled emotional side helpless. "Maybe . . . maybe we could . . . you could give me a chance to make it up to you."

"Never." Sara shook her head, her voice calm but unyielding. Saying it lifted a weight that had haunted her for years. "I'm not interested in committing emotional suicide, and nothing you can do is going to change my mind."

He felt like his body had turned to ice, his ability to reason paralyzed. After Brass spoke to him, Grissom thought he had figured out what she was doing. Now Sara was telling him that he was wrong, and that she would never want to give him a chance in the future. Mechanically he filed the facts in his mind, still unable to assimilate them into his view of reality. Sara was sitting in front of him, but she was beyond his reach forever. The thought overloaded every circuit in his brain with blinding darkness.

"Listen," Sara said when Grissom did not speak, noting the irony of not wanting to hurt him. "I'm always going to be concerned for you. We've had a connection, and nobody can deny that. You're a good person, Grissom. You're intelligent, clever, dedicated—the greatest CSI I've ever seen." She shook her head slowly. "But you're married to this lab and your work, and you know it. Even if you wanted to change, you'd still be distant. I think that every moment of true feeling kills you, because you can't analyze it and put it in some neat, controlled little box. Too many variables in relationships, right? Too much risk. But I desperately need someone who is available and unafraid of emotion, someone stable and caring without being possessive." She paused, then added sincerely, "I really want us to be friends and work together, but there can never be anything more."

Grissom straightened, blocking out the truth of her words, attempting to salvage what was left of his tattered austerity. "Friends," he stated, as if speaking the word for the first time.

"Yeah," Sara replied quietly.

His body trembled imperceptibly. Choking in a maelstrom of shock and conflicting suppressed emotions, Grissom turned numbly and left.

Sara stared silently at the blank computer screen as every old emotion came whipping at her in a stinging backlash. Her grip tightened on the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white and bloodless. In her mind, she knew she had chosen correctly, and she did not regret it for a moment. Still, severing the final thread of something she had held onto for over six years hurt her beyond words. Her attraction had been constructed of every rotten brick of her psychology—seeking validation, self-destruction, men who were unavailable. Though she knew they were slowly killing her, those patterns were familiar and comfortable in a bitter way. After living so long in a dark chrysalis of sorrow, breathing clean air burned her lungs. She wanted it more than anything, but that did not lessen the pain of the transition. Taking a ragged breath, Sara covered her face with her hands, body wracked in a tearless sob that mirrored the cold hollowness in the pit of her stomach.

In that broken moment, Sara felt strong arms gently envelop her, and a kiss brush her hair with warm breath. Slowly she lowered her trembling hands to see Brass beside her, the same brokenness in his dark blue eyes, a tear gleaming against his worn cheek. "We're gonna get through this, sweetheart," Brass whispered, his low voice raw with emotion. "I promise you."

Sara gazed at Brass in silence, emotion welling in her chest at his simple honesty and understanding. Lashes lowering in a slow brown fringe, she leaned forward, pausing as his scent and all its memory flooded her senses. In a breathless eternity, their lips touched in a soft kiss. It was gentle but lingering, with an undercurrent of fire, her skin warming as his hand slid tenderly across her damp cheek. As they separated slightly, eyes fluttering open, Sara thought the expression in his eyes was the purest thing she had ever seen. "You know," she said quietly, finger tracing his weathered skin, "you make me feel alive again."

"That's funny," Brass smiled warmly, breath escaping in a faint sigh as he gazed into her soft brown eyes. "I was going to say the same thing about you."