Grissom sat silently on his sleek white couch, gazing blankly across his coolly modern apartment. Dusky violet light, left in the sun's aftermath, filtered through the half-closed white blinds, glowing on the painted white brick wall and its collection of glass-framed insects. His eyes were fixed on a morph butterfly, its iridescent wings gleaming in saturated blue hues. Its dead fragility was reflected in his clear blue eyes, stark as blood on black and white tile.
She's gone.
Grissom flinched visibly as the thought came, again, like a death knell in his mind. Five days had passed since his suffocated emotional universe had been destroyed. He had spent them searching through exhaustive records, attempting to find Sara's hypothetical suspect, with no results yet. This time, throwing himself into work had not distracted him, or silenced his gnawing demons. He had been rude with lab technicians and anyone else who crossed his path, avoiding Sara and Brass entirely. A migraine had set in on the second day, but gradually faded after heavy medication. In public, he was silent and withdrawn as a glacier. Alone, he attempted to fill his mind with entomology studies, or the latest forensics journal, all threaded with a ceaseless soundtrack of opera and any other music he could find. Silence was something to be feared, a pit he thought he could not escape. All the emotion he had kept chained up in a corner of his brain had been set loose, tearing through every thought pattern, forcing the rational scientist in him into submission. Sitting there, he felt like he had just slipped over the edge, and was watching it recede into haze beyond his vision.
Grissom stood slowly, walking across the painted cement floor to where the butterfly hung on the wall. Trance-like, he took it down and held it, mechanically analyzing antennae, thorax, forewings. As he tilted the glass frame, his own reflection became visible. He stared, tracing his familiar features, wondering absently why they seemed like a stranger's. Like a tall, grey-haired man, a doctor, with smoothly deceptive eyes that covered a hollow scream. "Lurie," Grissom whispered as he recognized it, his voice corpse-skin cold.
Now you have nothing.
The butterfly slipped from Grissom's numb fingers and hit the floor, its glass frame shattering in crystalline shards across the cement. Torn blue wings were twisted violently between the fragments, revealing their deceptive brown underside. He knelt slowly beside the wreckage, finger tracing the coal-black edge of a tattered wing. His finger caught on a sharp edge of glass, and he stared as a droplet of blood squeezed out, fading light catching on its thick red surface. The tiny drop grew swollen and fell, landing with inevitable precision on the violated blue wing scales.
Nothing.
Taking a rasping breath, Grissom stood and stepped around the pile of broken glass.
Brass stood patiently by the end of the hallway leading from his living room, waiting for Sara, the house's warm golden lights pushing back the growing gloom of twilight. Though they enjoyed each others' company, the preceding five days had been a bit awkward with her staying in his house. He was a gentleman and determined to do things right—Sara deserved nothing less.
Sighing, Brass glanced at his reflection in an old mirror above a bureau in the living room. After much agonizing, he had selected a black dress shirt and pants, simple but sharp—at least he hoped so. He frowned slightly with dissatisfaction at his appearance, wondering nervously what she would think. It was a strange feeling, this happiness and nerves tumbling in his stomach, like a middle-school kid with a crush.
Expression fading into a faint smile, Brass recalled how Sara had come slowly into his life. When Sara first came to the lab from San Francisco, he had been a completely different person. He had been worn to the bone from fighting corruption inside and crime outside, angry at the world and its injustice, all his harshly regimented patterns shattered by the murder of a naive young CSI. The Brass Sara had met was broken inside by guilt and weariness, keeping his vulnerability veiled neatly behind wry wit and a cop's attitude. Even through the strain of Warrick's gambling problem, general conflict with Grissom, and cases that pitted police sharply against scientist, he and Sara had gotten along immediately. His first impression had been one of a bright young woman, possessing a scientist's sharp mind, ferocious dedication to work and justice, mixed with powerful compassion and emotion thinly veiled in her soft brown eyes. Throughout the following years, it seemed that no matter what case or interpersonal issues he faced, he could always find a loyal and nonjudgmental ally in Sara, and she in him. Brass supposed that where they were now was a natural progression, though he barely believe it was really happening. Being wanted was so foreign to him that he thought he was caught in a dream.
The bedroom door opened, and Sara stepped out and walked down the hall toward him. She was wearing a sleek, sleeveless dark red dress, a gleaming strand of red beads around her slender neck, her dark hair smooth, lips shining with tasteful gloss. On her tall, slim frame, the effect was strikingly beautiful simplicity. "The man in black," Sara commented appreciatively as she stopped in front of him, then tilted her head with a coy smile. "What?"
Brass blushed as realized that he had been staring. "I, ah . . ." He sighed with a warm smile, glancing down, still amazed at what was happening. "This has got to be a dream."
"Then don't wake up," Sara said softly, playfully tapping the end of his nose. He looked up at her, light in his dark blue eyes, flinching slightly at a few still visible scars along her arms. Sighing, he gently took her hand, their fingers lacing together. She shivered imperceptibly at his touch, and as the cool fabric brushed her skin.
"Time to cash that raincheck," Brass smiled as they went out the door.
The sickly golden glow of artificial candlelight stung Grissom's hazy vision as the battered door swung open into the drunken night. He blinked at the red lipstick and leather that peered shamelessly out at him, his nose twitching at the foggy scent of nicotine and stronger drugs. Silently he handed his money to the white-skinned woman, feeling every dirty fiber of the greenish paper as it slid across his hot palm. Grissom stepped inside, the persistent analyst in him meticulously registering the stained wallpaper, faded carpet, and garish Victorian architecture. It was not Heather's, but the numbing soundtrack of whipcracks and moans was the same. Trance-like and mute, he drifted down a winding wooden staircase that creaked like the spine of a dying thing, into the dimness and dark techno of the basement. He selected a room drenched in a bloody red glow, something in his brain shutting off as the door closed.
"Don't speak," Grissom commanded the bound white flesh before him, voice coming out in a disembodied croak. He leaned in closer, face nearly touching the black leather hood, clear blue eyes glazing. "Only speak when I tell you." Mechanically he proceeded with the usual trappings, cinching leather, snapping iron. The scent of sweaty leather and cold metal chains assailed his senses as he stumbled back and pounded the CD player, breathing deeply as a slow, icy piano melody penetrated the swollen air. He gripped the woven handle and spun around, every nerve tensing as memory shot through his brain in a gnashing fever.
"Will you . . . do something for me?" he asked in a throaty whisper, unbalanced by her darkly exotic perfume and clear white skin.
A slow smile crossed her full lips and pale blue-green eyes before his vision vanished behind black velvet. "Just say the word."
He inhaled raggedly, skin tingling as her long hair brushed his arm in a silken wave. Relentlessly his imagination drifted to a pure smile that left him speechless. "Could you say a few things . . . like I tell you to say them?"
He shivered as her hand traced his chest. "Theatrics," she remarked with understanding, her tone like the velvet over his eyes.
"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything." The woman's recitation was muffled by the hood, impersonal enough for him to almost believe. Leather cracked in answer, his brain fashioning a surface of pale freckled skin to receive it.
"Since when are you interested in beauty?" she asked, burning him with the perfectly captured innocence in her voice. Leather cinched firmly around his wrists, his head lowering as he began to surrender, displacing emotion.
"Since I met you," he recited hoarsely, half-feeling the cold of the icy rink, and the startled fire in soft brown eyes.
"You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be too late."
Grissom caught his breath, the piercing memory of sunlit feathery hair and a bandaged hand hanging wraithlike before his tortured vision. His mind spiraled down, tracing through every fragment of the battered tapestry that was his life. With each seething image, leather cracked against flesh, resonating in his tangled memory with fatalistic rhythm. It pounded with every cold note of the piano, like measured footsteps across pale carpet in a darkened house. Grissom's breath came out in haggard gasps, his vision drowning in an unspoken realm of dream, nightmare and memory.
"Pin me down," the woman recited quietly, the memory slashing knifelike through his tattered consciousness.
The whip fell from his numb hand and clattered to the concrete floor with the finality of a gunshot. Shaking in cold sweat, his hand barely brushed her scarred flesh, seeing only sweetly freckled skin. "Sara," he groaned faintly, breath grazing the strange woman's skin in a ghostly chill.
Grissom's eyes snapped open and he sat forward sharply on the couch, slumping back as a headache attacked him with throbbing intensity. Disoriented, he glanced around and discovered that he had not left his apartment. It had been a dream. Mind climbing slowly out of broken fantasy, he realized the bottle of liquor was still clutched tightly in his hand. Absently he put the bottle on the end table, noting the irony of having selected Sara's drug of choice. He flinched, lip curling as his scientist's mind surveyed his darkest dreams with horror, forcing them back behind clear blue rationality. Mechanically he glanced at the large wall clock across the room. 11 PM.
A ghostly smile. "I'm still here."
Grissom tilted his head, a frown twisting his face in a dark tremor as he remembered Lurie's words. Breathing in the humid air, he closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in sleep.
Sara's evening flew by in a whirlwind of good food and better conversation. Brass had selected a small but excellent restaurant that specialized in vegetarian versions of classic Italian dishes. Against a backdrop of deeply golden walls, sleek dark furnishings and smooth blues guitar, they talked about everything that came to mind. Sara found herself wrapped up in layers of Brass' personality she had only glimpsed before. Despite his straight-shooting cop exterior, Brass was interested in literature and philosophy, and especially in his old college major, history. She listened as he animatedly described the stylistic aspect of a film noir he had recently seen, smiling at his excited grin and the warm light in his eyes. They had enough similarities to fit together, and enough differences to keep each other intrigued. As they finished eating and headed back to Brass' house, Sara was amazed by how quickly the time had passed, and how much she had enjoyed herself. It was refreshing to simply enjoy someone, without angst or pressure.
Sara sat on the couch in Brass' living room, legs folded up beside her. She had changed into grey pants and a deep rose cap-sleeve t-shirt—more comfortable, but still attractive. Brass was in the nearby kitchen, humming absently to himself as he finished making coffee. She tilted her head with a lingering smile, studying the strong outline of his shoulders.
"The house special, café á la Jim," Brass smiled as he walked over and handed her a steaming mug of coffee, insulated by a slightly worn woven coaster. He sat down beside her on the couch, holding his own coffee.
"Thanks," Sara returned with a smile. They were quiet, cautiously testing their hot coffee, comfortable with each others' silence. After a moment, Sara said, "Tell me about you."
Brass tilted his head. "What about me?"
"You know, your . . . your history," Sara explained with slight hesitation. She was curious to know more of his emotional aspect, without seeming intrusive.
"Ah," Brass nodded, smiling wryly as he understood. "Burn comparison."
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," Sara smiled playfully, though her eyes were serious.
"How can I resist?" Brass returned with a slight mischievous smile, leaning back in his chair. He sighed with faint bitterness as his smile faded, gazing at her. "I was married for . . . too long. For the first few years it was okay, but with my job as Jersey's friendly local iconoclast, home life just wasn't happening. Those cops were dirtier than a Sopranos episode." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "About ten years in, I started to suspect that something was going on with her. When I found out she was pregnant, I knew."
"Ellie," Sara said softly, nodding slightly with understanding. The nobility of his attitude toward Ellie struck Sara even more strongly, since the girl was not Brass' biological daughter.
Brass nodded, forehead creasing in a frown. "My life had become insanity. Alcohol, an affair, the general sleaze of Jersey Vice—I looked for an escape wherever I could. Especially drinking. You think if you "medicate" enough it will all just go away, but it only gets bigger, you know?" He hesitated, remembering. "Ellie was growing up, and I missed almost all of it. I remember waking up one morning in some hotel, not sure how I got there, and realizing that I'd missed her birthday." He paused again, as Sara sipped her own coffee, listening quietly. "I was old-fashioned. I thought it was better to be married, to weather the storms of life—you know, like they write about in cheesy poetry and greeting cards. But, to use one of my daughter's expressions, it was way too late. My marriage was destroyed, Ellie despised me, and if I stayed in that cesspool department any longer I was going down with it. So, I bailed. We filed for divorce, and I got the hell out of Dodge and came to Vegas." Brass sipped his coffee and sighed. "You know, sometimes I look back and wonder where I went wrong, how I could have fixed things. But it's over and done with, and no amount of Scotch or trips down memory lane could convince me to go back. That was another world, another me. The only thing I still try to hold onto is my daughter, no matter what happens or what she does to herself." He fell silent, nursing his coffee.
"Warrick told me about your exploits in L.A. last year," Sara commented quietly. "You did the best you could, Jim. You're a good father."
"Ah," Brass mumbled, blinking hard to dash the moisture from his eyes, "I don't know. I mean, nothing's changed. Ellie hasn't contacted me. I guess she's still out in Hollywood, picking up johns." He shook his head slowly. "And after all Warrick and I went through, LAPD didn't even file charges—because, of course, the suspect was running for mayor. Politics." His lip curled distastefully. "I hope there's a special place in hell for politicians—right next to the lawyers."
"And the overzealous reporters," Sara smiled gently, laying her hand on his arm.
"Right," Brass smiled back, taking a deep breath. "Your turn."
Sara sipped her coffee, adjusting her legs on the couch. "You know the old song that says 'looking for love in all the wrong places?' That's pretty much my life story." She shrugged slightly, sighing. "I've had a few guys over the course of my life, mostly when I was younger. I couldn't deal with . . . what had happened to my family, so I looked for escape, too. None of them ever said they loved me." Slowly Sara pushed back a strand of dark hair. "I guess I was just searching for anything that looked like affection—like normalcy. Something other than being the little girl whose mom killed her dad. I buried myself in science textbooks, advanced physics, Harvard, work. I don't remember when exactly I started drinking. It kind of crept up on me, trying to fill in the empty spots. It only worked for a while, and when it wore off, everything seemed worse."
"Alcohol does that," Brass nodded with a knowing sigh as he put his empty mug on the end table.
"Yeah. More problems than answers, right?" Sara paused with a faintly bitter sigh. "So then we have Grissom. He was like a mentor, and any attention he gave me I eventually misinterpreted. I saw what I wanted to. Just ask my shrink at the lab. At this point, I guess I wasn't hallucinating and some mutual things were going on, but it was just all wrong. And you know, the one time I try to have a fun, casual relationship, I'm actually being used as a no-commitment movie date by a guy cheating on his girlfriend. It just can't be simple." She hesitated, sipping her coffee, and gazed thoughtfully at him. "So how much did you know, about what was going on with me?"
Brass tilted his head, hands folding thoughtfully. "I'd figured out the general dynamic between you and Grissom by just watching. You gave, he took, and then wondered why you weren't giving more. I could see how you were being worn down, but since Grissom was my friend, I didn't get involved. I guess I just tried to look out for you, trying to do everything I was afraid Grissom never could."
"So what made you change your mind?" Sara asked softly.
"Miguel Durado, to start," Brass replied quietly, jawline hardening at the name. They gazed at each other, each remembering that perilous moment in the blood-red apartment.
"I was stupid," Sara confessed. "The lab explosion had thrown me so off-balance, I felt like I had nothing to lose. I didn't think."
"You weren't stupid, just taking too big a risk," Brass disagreed. "When I . . . talked to you after, I wasn't angry. I was just scared out of my mind." He paused, eyes tracing her profile. "In that moment, feelings I'd been nursing half-unconsciously came over me so clearly, I . . . You'd gotten inside me, Sara." He sighed, a soft half-smile flitting across his face. "I made it my job to protect you, even more than before, but not imposing my own feelings on you. After the Marlin case, and everything over the past two years . . . I'd been watching you lose yourself, and I couldn't do that anymore. So I lectured Grissom a little bit, to try to get him to realize what was happening, and what he was losing."
"You did that for me?" Sara asked softly. "Why?"
Brass sighed, his eyes dark with emotion. "I . . . want you with me, but more than that, I want you to be happy. I know what it feels like to die inside, and I'm willing to give anything to save you from going through that."
Sara lowered her eyes, blinking to push back the moisture. For some reason, his simple action struck her as incredibly sweet and selfless. It was completely the opposite of what Grissom would do. After everything that had happened, she wondered with bittersweetness why she had not looked at Brass this way sooner.
"What's wrong?" Brass asked gently after she was silent, slipping his arm around her.
"Nothing," Sara sighed, a smile spreading faintly across her face as she wiped a few tears from her eyes, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Everything's right. That's why I'm crying."
Brass smiled back gently, his eyes lit by a softly smoldering fire. He gazed at her silently for a moment, brushing back a strand of her dark hair. "What are you thinking, Sar?"
Slowly Sara reached up and ran her hand down his cheek and neck, resting it against his chest. Lashes downcast, she caught her breath as she felt the rhythm of his heartbeat, strong beneath her hand. She met his gaze, the flame in his dark blue eyes mirrored in her own. "I was thinking how easy it is to fall in love with you."
Sighing, Brass cupped Sara's face in his hands, dark blue gaze running across her skin with gentle hunger. Their eyelids slid closed, breathing matched as their lips touched in a fiery kiss.