Writing on a Blank Slate

Disclaimer: I still don't own them, but I've been a good girl this year. 'Dear Santa…'

Rating: M

Chapter 12: "Tell me what's wrong."

Sara should have slept peacefully that night, but the strong emotions of the day combined with the cheesy pizza and sugary soda to drag her into a half-waking nightmare of old hurts and fears.

Part of her mind was aware that she was lying safely in a motel room with Nick sleeping peacefully only a few feet away, but part of her was drawn back into black memories of her past…

She was a frightened child again, hiding under the covers as her parents argued in the next room, listening to the first blows fall. She was a lonely foster-child being driven away to yet another new family, or lying in bed waiting for her older foster-brother to creep into her room and stick his hand up under her nightie while with his other hand he pulled her hand down into his pyjamas: "If you ever tell anyone…" The threat was never completed.

She was a college sophomore pushed up against a wall in the shadows of a building: "Come on Sara, I showed you a good time, now you show me one."

She was a grown woman, her smile faltering as Grissom rejected her yet again, her confidence shattered once again by the knowledge that she had been Hank's other woman…

One by one the painful memories of the life that she so desperately wanted to escape paraded before her eyes and she began to cry without being aware of it, broken, hurt whimpers coming softly from her throat between the sobs.

In the bed next to hers Nick woke up, aware that something was wrong. At the sound of crying from the next bed, he came fully awake.

"Sara?" he called in a low voice. Receiving no answer, he tried again. "Sara?"

He sat up, pushing back the covers, aware that his hand was throbbing again.

"Sara?"

He walked over to her bed and sat down beside her.

"You okay darlin'?"

That got her attention, and she rolled over to face him, wiping away her tears.

"I'm fine, Nick. Go back to bed."

He shook his head.

"You are not 'fine', Sara," he contradicted her gently. "'Fine' is not lying awake in the middle of the night crying your eyes out."

He stroked her hair back from her tear-dampened cheek. "Tell me what's wrong sweetheart."

The endearment was her undoing. She sat up and leaned into his embrace with a louder sob, letting him hold her as she cried helplessly for all the years of pain and loneliness.

He rocked her and whispered softly, uncertain whether she was even hearing his endearments and reassurances, but whispering them anyway, giving what comfort he could. Gradually her sobbing eased until she was leaning quietly against him with only the occasional sniffle.

"Tell me what's wrong," he asked again. "Please, Sara. Have I done something-"

"No!" She cut him off sharply. "No, Nick, it's not you. Please believe that. You're the nicest guy I've ever known, please don't think-" she hiccoughed, and he nodded.

"Okay, so it isn't me. Is this about your past? Did something happen to you while you were in foster care?"

She gave a bitter laugh.

"Foster care. Yeah, that's part of it." She sighed. "Let's face it; my life is just one long sob story."

Nick forgot about his hand, and about how tired he was.

"Please tell me what happened?" he asked.

"Are you sure you wanna hear it?"

"Yeah." He nodded. No matter how bad it was he wanted to know; he needed to know. "I want you to tell me, Sara."

She drew a deep breath and pulled away slightly, leaning back against the wall.

"Okay, then. I guess it started a while after my Dad got out of prison. He was drinking a lot and beating up on us - on me and my mom. One day this social-worker came to see me in school: they took me out of class to talk to her. I remember I was mad 'cause we were in the middle of a science lesson."

"Your favourite, right?" he asked, and she smiled slightly.

"Yeah, my favourite." Her smile faded and she went on. "Anyway, she seemed really nice, really interested in me. I wasn't used to that.

"When I got home that afternoon there were all these emergency vehicles outside my house. And no-one saw me. No-one realized I was there, so I stood there and watched while they led my mother out of the house in handcuffs. She was covered in blood."

She stopped to draw another deep breath. She had hunched down, drawing in on herself, and no longer seemed to be aware of Nick's presence. He remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her.

"See, when the social workers came to interview my parents, mom got scared that they were going to take me away. After they left she and my dad had a huge fight. I guess this time mom fought back. She stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife."

She seemed to remember Nick's presence for the first time, and turned to look at him.

"You said you didn't think arson ran in the blood. What about murder?"

He opened his mouth to say that he'd never believe her capable of killing, but she turned away and went on.

"Anyway, I spent the rest of my childhood being shunted from one foster-family to another. Some of them were nice, some of them… in one place I had a foster brother who molested me." She swallowed. "That was the worst; even being hit is better than that."

Nick nodded.

"I know."

She glanced at him sharply and started to ask a question, but he shook his head and indicated that she should continue. She cleared her throat and went on.

"The only thing that ever made sense to me was science. It was the only thing I could count on, you know? The rules never changed, the outcome was always predictable. When I was eighteen I got a physics scholarship to Harvard. That's where I met Grissom for the first time, but you already know that bit.

"It was also where a frat boy raped me in my sophomore year." She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt him tense beside her, but continued before he could say anything. "We were on a date, so I was too ashamed to report it.

"The rest I guess you know. I'm a workaholic, I live alone, and all my relationships are disasters. Story of my life."

She turned to look at him, afraid of what she might see in his face. She had laid all her cards on the table: the rest was up to him.

He was crying. He couldn't help it: he had always felt certain that something terrible must have happened to Sara – the way she lost it on certain cases was proof enough for him– but he hadn't expected this. All he wanted to do was to hold her close and protect her, to make sure nothing bad could ever happen to her again.

"Oh, Sara," he whispered, reaching out his hand. "Come here darling."

She let him wrap her in his arms, crying once again, but these tears were tears of relief. He was still there. He still wanted her. And for now, nothing else mattered.