Title: Awakening of dreams.
Summary: Coffee, a case to haunt them both, the dreams to match. And a breakfast shared both of exhaustion, and something else.
A/N: References to Nesting Dolls
I wasn't sure about posting this for a multitude of reasons. For those who have occasionally asked about this story, and complained about how I shouldn't let it die on the harddrive: Here it is. Thank you for the support.
I
A briefcase sat on the floor, huddled in the shadows of a mahogany colored desk. The locks were in place, its content safe. It stood there on its own, a scuff on the leather the lone witness of an earlier argument with the concrete floor.
Silence reigned, the oppressive non-noise broken only by a discorded harmony of a fire truck's siren and a blackbird's chirp. The lights were off, except for the designer table lamp beside the couch. It cast a soft glow, too eerily romantic for the situation. For he was beside it, reclined and exhausted, solitary. And thinking about the last days, weeks.
He closed his eyes, hoping that his migraine wouldn't blossom this time. A 'once a year' occurrence had rapidly descended into a once-a-week event, stealing what little energy he had left. Difficulty falling asleep wasn't the problem. It was the erratic and rude awakenings that were forced upon him by his subconscious that exhausted him. Dreams convoluting into nightmares woke him up, and seven hours in bed resulted in a maximum of three hours of sleep. The rest was spent awake, with eyes so tightly closed that the landscape behind his eyelids consisted of black and white pixels, and flashes of some unidentifiable color that instigated the migraines even further.
The palms of his hands dug into the sockets of his eyes, irrationally hoping that the pain could be pushed away, that the images hunting him could be crushed into thousands of fragments. He soon gave up and dragged himself from the couch to the percolator. The caffeine helped him on occasion, and he could only hope that this would be one of those times. Sara's expression from months ago still hunted him, even though, when asked, he wouldn't acknowledge it of his own volition. Once again, she had found a way inside of him, except this time it wasn't with a smile or coy glance, or pointed remark.
The stark fear that had been in her eyes had become permanently etched on his mind, and no desperate wishing for it to go away would succeed in rendering it gone. While measuring out the ground coffee beans, images of a ceramic shard pressed against her neck merged with twisted and magnified mental photographs, perpetrators mingling between scenes, and the blood flowed. It flowed so, so much.
Arterial sprays creating chaotic patters were interspersed with scenes where it calmly trickled down her neck, over and around her finger which were powerless in stopping the flow. One moment she would be standing, her neck naked except for the arm Sometimes she would mouth some word, or perhaps a phrase, but his lip reading skills would be gone, and he couldn't understand what she was trying to tell him. He would squint, cursing his age for he couldn't make out the words. Too far away, the glare of the glass hindering him in seeing her drawn mouth. Over and over she would form the same declaration. Oh, how he irrationally wanted it to be 'I love you'. But that couldn't be true; it would be too melodramatic, too final. And then suddenly, he knew what she was saying.
'I hate you.'
Over and over and over again, and the fear was no longer for the ceramic shard that was still pressed against her carotid. It was of him. She was frightened of him.
The last few gurgles of the coffee machine interrupted the images and his kitchen came back in clear view, the normally appetizing smell of fresh coffee not settling well with his frayed nerves. He swallowed against the bile in his throat and blindly sought out a bottle in his fridge, then staggered onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. No aspirin or prescribed drugs would be of help now.
He held up the cool water bottle against his temple for a moment, and then twisted off the cap, letting the water warm a little in his mouth before swallowing it down. As experience had taught him, a gulp of near ice-cold water would only exacerbate his migraine. He took some deep breaths, slowly breathing in through his nose, out through slightly pursed lips. If only he could…
Could what? A tiny huff escaped him and his shoulders sagged, hopelessness surrounding his every fiber. Time travel wasn't an option. Even if it had been, one corrected mistake might spawn ten new 'situations', each possibly far more cruel than the previous. He wouldn't take that risk, no matter how tempting. She had already gone through enough in this reality.
His cellphone rang, the sound quickly overpowering the silence, save for the groan that came from its owner. He was tempted to leave it be, let it play out its melody until the caller simply gave up, but who knew how long that would take. Best to pick it up, answer gruffly and hope that the resulting 'talk' was brief and to the point. No such luck, he supposed. Not with the woman on the other end.
"Catherine, how may I help you." Tiredness crept into his voice, and the greeting came out less friendly than it should, he supposed, when talking to a long-time friend.
---
A multitude of bugs and larvae had infested the weathered tent, and the body which once was wasn't any longer. The heat and carnivorous/carrions had done a terrific job of mutilating the corpse. And here he was, dropping samples of different types in scalding coffee or jars with beef jerkies, preserving them for further study. Dead or alive, they each had their uses. The medication he took before heading out here was slowly starting to kick in, and Grissom hoped he would be able to keep focused on the categorization and observation of their maturity cycles.
He left after having gathered what he needed in order to produce an accurate time line, leaving the others from swing shift behind in their search for further evidence.
---
He deposited the array of bugs and larvae in his office and entered the break room, fully intent on finding another bottled water and fresh, prime coffee. And for once, luck was in his favor. Partially, at any rate, for the subject of his dreams and nightmares was there too, crime scene pictures splayed out in front of her on the coffee table. He poured both himself and her a generous cup of coffee and carefully made his way to the couch.
"Here." Setting the cups down, he tore open a sachet of sugar for both their coffees. "Didn't I ask you to go home this morning?" He held up one of the photographs and glanced at the woman on it.
"You did." She blew a little on the hot liquid and then sipped it, grateful for the caffeine and sugar boost. " Thanks for the coffee." Knowing what he was about to ask, she continued. "Mary-Ann Landsworth. She had a habit of tripping down the stairs, walking into walls. Terribly clumsy, according to her husband who, coincidentally, has inherited the entire estate and four million dollars in life insurance."
Grissom pursed his lips and looked up at her for a moment and she let out a sigh. "Just look at this, Grissom. Facial fractures, broken ribs, torn ankle tendons, even internal bleeding. They all knew, and just let him get away with it. Even their daughter has been in the hospital with bruised ribs and a broken nose. Where was Child's Services this time 'round?"
He sat back in the couch and propped an arm up on the back. With his thumb and index finger supporting his temple, his gaze was soft and inquisitive, but not demanding. Or expecting. Just… kind.
"Sara, you…" His jaw shifted a little and narrowed his lips, obviously deviating from his initial train of thought. "Okay, what else have you got? You have established a possible motive, but for the moment, not much else."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't shift away from him or his gaze.
"I'm not discounting your theory; with their past history, it seems more than likely, and I trust your instincts. But you know that we need more if we want to convince a judge. Go home, cut back on the caffeine," he winked, "and come back next shift." He stood, the fatigue becoming more apparent to him all the time.
"You okay?"
Concern was evident in her eyes; those deep, expressive chocolate eyes that showed her soul even if she had tried to blanket it. And as he looked at her, he wavered between voicing the standard reply of 'I'm fine' and some excuse, or perhaps saying what he really was feeling. Exhaustion, desperation.
And hurt. Clenching, squeezing, needle-sharp pain that had wound its way around his heart, it seemed, keeping it in a vice-like grip so that he couldn't breathe properly. Not here, not with her standing before him, looking so soft and delicate and tenacious. Not when all he could remember were her eyes looking at him with terror inscribed, and venom spilling from her lips. Not when he wanted to grab her and beg, plead for her to say that she still… cared.
In the end, his common sense prevailed, but his hand rested on her upper arm in a silent caress. "I'll be fine, nothing that a few hours of sleep won't fix." As he reached the doorway he turned and looked at her in silence for a while, seemingly memorizing her features." Go home, Sara. Please." And gone he was, leaving her wondering about his intentions once more.