Title: Dreamers on the Rise
Author: Cropper
Pairing: GSR
Rating: Mature for Profanity, Graphic Imagery, and Adult Situations
Disclaimer: See Prologue
A/N: Thanks to Cheryl for the outstanding beta work on the G/S relationship snippets and holding my hand through some of the more intimate moments.
Summary: "I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves."Also Sprach Zarathustra Freidrich Nietzsche
Chapter Two
I Stood Upon A High Place
I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
And carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said, "Comrade! Brother!"
Stephen Crane
"Jesus said, 'Let him who seeks continue seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will become troubled. When he becomes troubled, he will be astonished, and he will rule over the All.' "
The Gospel of Thomas (2)
Dance, if you must, my brethren, on the edge of a blade, for a season of joy is upon us. You will see my power and rightness encompass all earthly creation. My magnificence shall outstrip and outshine even the gaudiest of neon glows. I am the beacon, the lighthouse gleaming in the desert. Look into the blackness and see the light.
Dance, if you must, on the edge of a blade. I have shown your philosophers and your ministers and your judges to be nothing more than misguided prophets spreading an unGodly gospel of servitude and enslavement. Mine is the word, the holiest of all doctrine, the one true sermon to enlighten the masses. I give you freedom. I offer you chaos. Hear my music and be gladdened.
Dance, if you must, on the edge of a blade. Go into the wilderness and unclothe your worthless shell. Feel the rhythm of my song and worship. Let your naked feet scrape freely across the hot sand. Let the harsh, barren earth abrade your tender flesh. Let the desert drink your bloody sacrifice and belch her thirsty satisfaction, for you will be reborn in my image, you will see what I have seen and know that I am righteous.
Dance, if you must, on the edge of a blade.
Red Lion has come.
Fear me.
Hollis and Cheryl Thompson looked like any other middle-aged couple lured to Las Vegas by the promise of a possible million dollar slots payoff and chance to see Wayne Newton perform live. Hollis was a small man, roughly 5'6" with thinning, graying, limp brown hair worn in a severe comb-over that started just above his left ear and traversed his entire head to lie in a flattened fringe tickling the top of his right ear. His blue eyes were watery, his prominent nose ruddy, and his thin, harsh mouth was set into a permanent frown. The golf shirt he was wearing, a tacky polyester knit decorated lavishly with palm trees, bright red parrots, dancing monkeys and other outlandish tropical characters, was stretched tight over his sizable paunch and tucked firmly into his crisp, well-starched, black Bermuda shorts. Black dress socks cranked to mid-calf and brand new pair of gleaming white walking shoes completed his ensemble.
Cheryl, small and slight with reddish-orange hair piled atop her head in a modified, modernized, bee-hive-type style, had large hazel eyes and glossy, pouting lips. She was dressed in a stylish linen pair of aqua capri pants with a matching top and wore white sandals. Her nails, both finger and toe, were well-manicured and painted a garish, glowing shade that perfectly matched carefully teased hair. Her reading glasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck and bouncing silver kittens suspended from thin wires danced from her pierced ears.
The Thompsons has seen the news reports about the Judge's kidnapping on the local news in their hotel room and had come forward to offer information. They had neither requested, nor received, legal council for they had done nothing wrong. Their only crime was the fact that they were just good people who had been attempting to assist a stranger in need.
Brass began the questioning by verifying a few facts. "For the record, you are Hollis and Cheryl Thompson and you live near Atlanta, Georgia, correct?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Thompson, smoothing a few wrinkles in her blouse. Her husband sat mutely in his chair, scowling, and allowed his wife to answer for them.
"Can you tell us exactly what happened?" Catherine asked.
"Well," began Mrs. Thompson, drawing out the word in her lilting southern accent, "Hollis and I were out for a little stroll, trying to walk off our big breakfast and see a few sights. Those casinos have wonderful buffets, but I guess I don't have to tell you that, do I. Anyway, we were walking by the courthouse when this man ran up to us..."
"Can you describe him?" interrupted Brass.
"Well..." began Cheryl.
Her stoic husband look at Brass and muttered, "Just a dude in a suit."
"Now, Hollis, they need a little more than that," Cheryl chided. "He was tall, and seemed to be fairly well built but it was hard to tell for sure. His suit looked like it cost a small fortune and the way those nice suits are cut it is sometimes hard to tell how the man inside is really built. At least, that's what my magazines all say."
Catherine rolled her eyes at Brass while their "witness" continued her breathy narration.
"I couldn't see his eyes because he wore sunglasses and he had on some kind of hat so I can't remember what his hair looked like. He was just a very nice, polite man who asked up to help him out, that's all."
Brass was frustrated with the couple's lack of description, but nodded, indicating that she should resume her story.
"Like I was saying, this man ran up to us and asked us to do him a favor. You could see that he was in a really big hurry and needed some help."
Catherine rested her arms on the table and leaned towards Cheryl. "Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, he was all sweaty and out of breath, like he had been running and running and trying to get something done. He was carrying this shopping bag from an expensive store and a Coach briefcase. He must make a pretty penny to afford things like that. See, I'd love to .have nice things like that but we just can't afford them. It took us a year of saving and penny-pinching to save for this trip. But, you don't really want to know that."
Brass smothered a smirk and shook his head gently. He was amused by her candor, it was rather refreshing after so many interviews where people told him nothing but lies.
"As I was saying," said Cheryl, "he was in this real big hurry and asked us to help him out. Now, Hollis and I believe that it only takes a minute to do a good turn so we were more than happy to help him. He told us that his wife, I believe he said that her name was Muriel Stremming, was a prosecuting attorney in the middle of a really big murder case. She spilled coffee all over her blouse while she was driving to work because she had to slam on her brakes so that she wouldn't hit some poor dog that ran out in the road. Plus, she was in such a hurry when she left that house that morning that she grabbed his briefcase instead of hers. She must be a really important woman."
Catherine and Brass exchanged a look. Both were very familiar with Muriel Stremming as they had worked with her on numerous occasions and both knew that Ms. Stremming was single.
"So, this man, I guess his name would be Mr. Stremming, now wouldn't it, asked us if we would take the shopping bag and briefcase into the courthouse and put it outside the door to Courtroom Three. Either his wife or one of her assistants would grab the stuff at a witness change or a recess. He said that he would do it himself but he was double parked and late for a client meeting. Hollis and I took the stuff inside like he asked and then went on about our business. That's it."
Cheryl finished with a flourish of waving hands and bouncing earrings.
"You didn't happen to see his car," wondered Catherine, knowing that they hadn't."
"Nope," grumped Hollis. "The wife has told you everything we know."
Brass and Catherine nodded at each other and stood, indicating that the interview was over.
"Well, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," he said while motioning them through the door and into the hall. "You've been very helpful. This officer will escort you back to your hotel."
They turned and left the Georgians in the capable hands of Officer Jackson, walking to meet Warrick and Sara who had watched the interrogation from behind the two-way mirror.
"They're telling the truth," sighed Brass. "Their story matches what the security footage shows. All they did was put the briefcase outside the door and leave. There was nothing suspicious about them or the way they were acting. And, they have a taxi receipt to prove that they were on their way to the Liberace Museum when the kidnapping took place."
"So," said Catherine, picking up the narrative, "they put the briefcase, which had passed through a metal detector and an x-ray machine, outside the courtroom. A security guard wanders along a few minutes later, finds it, picks it up to examine it and notices that it is ticking."
Warrick picked up the story next. "The security guard calls 911 and the bomb squad and the courthouse is evacuated."
"Pretty slick," muttered Sara.
"Oh, it was slick all right," replied Catherine, "especially since the ticking was not more than a microcassette recorder playing a tape of a ticking clock. But we don't really have anything new to go on, do we. I suggest we all get back to the lab and try to come up with something that will help find Judge Simmons."
Sara and Warrick remained in the hall following the departure of Catherine and Brass. Warrick looked puzzled and gave voice to the thoughts that were bothering him.
"I don't get it. He snatched the first two victims with no witnesses – one at night and one during the day. He could have easily grabbed the Judge when she arrived that morning. Why the elaborate ruse? He obviously doesn't need it. It's almost as if he is trying to prove something."
"Maybe that's the point," said Sara thoughtfully.
"Damn, girl!" he exclaimed, shooting her an odd look. "You've been spending too much time with Grissom. You're starting to sound just like him."
Sara merely smiled, more pleased than she could ever attempt to explain by the compliment.
Warrick took in her cheshire grin and asked, "Things good at home?"
"Yeah, they're great. Why?"
"Just asking, just asking. Both of you seem happy these days."
With that observation, Warrick left Sara alone in the hall, lost in thought, while he wandered off in search of lunch.
Life with Grissom was good, Sara silently mused, very good. Theirs was a simple, easy existence that might not have been possible before the accident. They had their ups and downs like any couple learning to live together and adjust to each other's idiosyncrasies and peculiarities. At first, Sara assumed that Grissom would be more difficult and require an over-abundance of patience since he had lived alone for so long that he was unaccustomed to having to share himself and his space. However, as it turned out, Sara had to admit that she was definitely the more temperamental of the two and much more baffling to live with than Grissom. She still occasionally reflected back to when her irritability had erupted and a simple misunderstanding, a few words spoken in a flash of unreasonable moodiness, had very nearly ended their burgeoning relationship.
It had been a shitty shift. Sara had been literally forced to wade through the human sludge that formerly constituted three fraternity brothers who, after a bout of heavy drinking, stole secretively into a storm sewer for a little illicit exploration. No one was really certain as to what had happened, but the soupy mess discovered by a Department of Public Works employee guaranteed that Sara's night would be a long, nauseating affair. Catherine seemed to delight in assigning Sara and Greg to the most horrific and disgusting scenes that popped up and the duo could do nothing more than grin and bear it.
Sara was in a frightfully evil mood when she arrived home after shift. Even after showering three times and using about six gallons of lemon juice, she still felt dirty, grungy. Her skin still had that creepy-crawly feel and she was generally bitchy; pissed off at the world in general and any person foolish enough to cross her path or look at her the wrong way. Grissom was aware of her foul temperament and did everything in his power to make her feel better. He made no attempt at small talk, prepared her favorite breakfast and gave her the space that she so desperately seemed to need. When he joined her on the sofa to watch television after tidying the kitchen, he kept his distance and sat on the opposite end, saying nothing, respecting her unspoken wishes.
They sat in silence for awhile, until she stretched out to recline with her head in his lap. Grissom was pleased, for he interpreted her movement as an invitation to offer a little comfort and support. He started gently combing his fingers through the still-damp strands of her silky hair, knowing that Sara was very responsive to scalp rubs for they relaxed her and helped her unwind enough to slip into slumber after a grueling night's work. While Grissom's thoughtful massage was something she would normally welcome, she was uncharacteristically annoyed by his attention. The more he played with her hair, the angrier she became. Her mood, combined with the fact that she still felt filthy, caused something deep inside of her to snap.
"Damnit, Gris! Knock it off!" she growled menacingly. "Get your paws off me and leave me the hell alone. Better yet, just leave!"
She ended on a furious note and could not help but see the wave of pain that crashed through Grissom's eyes before he willfully hammered his features into a carefully blank, smoothly stony mask. He muttered a hoarsely choked, "If you will excuse me," and struggled from the couch cushions, limping slowly to his study and quietly closing the door.
"Oh, fuck," Sara breathed. "This is so not good."
Sara knew the moment the awful words, bitter vetch, had left her petulant lips that she had inflicted some serious damage. The absolute anguish Grissom had momentarily displayed was truly heart-wrenching for he had done nothing wrong. She knew that all of the blame lay squarely upon her slender shoulders, for she had been the one spoiling for a fight, was not especially fit for human consumption and had lashed out at the last person in the world that she wanted to hurt. She knew she should go knock on the study door and talk to him but thought that they could both benefit from a little cooling off period. She wandered off to bed and had disquieting visions of Grissom drowning in a whirlpool of lemon-scented sewage.
When Sara awoke, she immediately went in search of Grissom so they could straighten out this whole mess. She had a ton of explaining and apologizing to do for she had ruthlessly punished him for no reason. Had Sara been that ugly to any of the guys at work, they would have rightfully snarked something nasty in return and that would have been the end of it. But Grissom? Grissom was an entirely different creature. Part man and part child, he had suffered third degree relationship burns so many times that he had no confidence whatsoever in his ability to fulfill any expectations in the significant other department. She knew that he would take all of the blame upon himself and add this supposed failure to a long, long list of abandonment and rejection.
She strode purposefully into the kitchen, expecting to find him preparing dinner. All she found was the small table set for one and an excrutiatingly polite note explaining where to find her dinner. Grissom was conspicuous in his absence, but, Sara had to admit that she was enjoying the unexpected solitude. This was the first time since Grissom had been released from the hospital that she had some time all to herself. However, by the time she had to shower and get ready for work, Sara found that she was lonely. She missed talking to him and wanted to cuddle a bit before facing whatever new horrors awaited her.
When Sara arrived home after shift, her resolve to straighten out the whole mess strengthened, she found her breakfast waiting but no Grissom. The kitchen was immaculate, as was the bathroom and she noticed that the bed linens had been changed. Those were the only signs that he had even returned to the house.
And, so it went, for a full week. She neither saw nor heard from Grissom, but she knew that he was close as he was still taking care of her, still loving her. Her meals were always waiting for her, the laundry was freshly washed and folded and the bathroom and kitchen were spotless. It was as if nothing had changed save for the fact that he was nowhere to be found.
By the end of the week, Sara was seething with anger. She was tried of Grissom's infantile behavior, tired of him thinking that he had some silly point to prove. Yeah, she had treated him like shit, but hiding from her and refusing to talk to her would not resolve the situation. She left the breakfast sitting on the table and went out in search of her wayward child.
There were not many places Grissom would go and Sara searched the usual haunts with no success. She was about ready to give up when she remembered the koi pond near the town house where Grissom like to sit and watch the sun set. As she made her way down the paved path to the pond she spotted him sitting alone a bench, his face tilted toward the horizon as if trying to absorb the last tinge of warmth from the waning daylight and seeking the secrets of the universe from the pink and amber tinted sky. His shoulders were slumped and he appeared, at first glance, to be just another broken man disillusioned by the glitz and glamor of Sin City, another hapless victim who had fallen prey to the salacious siren call of Lady Luck. She stealthily stole behind him and grasped both of his shoulders to get his attention.
Grissom jumped at the unexpected contact and whipped his head around so fast that his sunglasses nearly flew from his face. Sara saw a flash of unguarded joy in his features before the shutters fell firmly into place rendering his expression carefully neutral. He pulled his shades off and Sara saw that his eyes were red-rimmed and a little swollen. She swallowed a huge lump in her throat as she, for perhaps the first time, fully realized the extent of the pain she had inflicted. She had made him cry.
She sat next to him on the bench, purposefully allowing her thigh to rest snuggly against his. He bowed his head and stared at the ground, his hands tightly fisted and hanging between his splayed legs.
Sara's voice was soft when she finally found enough courage to speak. The raw emotion he had let her glimpse humbled her and washed away all of the anger and frustration she had been harboring. She was worried, afraid that she had shattered him beyond repair.
"Where have you been?"
He merely shrugged his shoulders in response.
"Are you ever coming home?"
He did not look up when he whispered, "I can't."
He was not going to make this easy for her. She was going to have to work for every word, every thought. "Why can't you?"
"You…you told me to leave." There was no accusation in his tone, just despair so rich Sara could practically taste it on her tongue.
"Grissom," she began, trying hard to squelch a rising tide of annoyance. "I didn't mean it and you know it!"
He finally raised his head to look at her and one quick glance into his eyes told her that he did not know, that he had no idea that she had not meant any of it. Like the innocent child clothed in the trappings of a man that he was, he had believed every awful word she had said.
When he continued, his voice was unbelievably sad and broken. "I don't know what I did to make you hate me so much. I want to fix this, I want to make this better, but I don't know how. I can't…"
"Gris, I don't hate you, not even close. I said a lot of things that I shouldn't have and that I didn't mean. I was just blowing off steam." She reached out to rub his back. He stiffened at the contact but made no other move. "Baby, listen to me. I had a bad shift and I took it out on you. I should not have yelled at you and I apologize."
He did not respond but Sara knew he was listening.
"You have to believe me, Gris. I was just in a really pissy mood and I guess I just wanted you to feel as rotten as I did. I honestly did not think that you would take me seriously."
"Sara, I take everything you say very seriously. All I want is for you to be happy."
"Baby, I am happy, with you. I am happy, because of you. I have been happier in the months I have spent with you than I have ever been in my entire life. YOU are what makes me happy, Gris, you and no one else."
He stared deep into her eyes for long intense moments, seeking the truth behind her words. He finally was able to see the love and need shining back at him and nodded once, indicating that he believed her.
"I can't stand seeing you so miserable, Grissom."
"Misery and I are old companions, Sara. I am used to her company."
As they walked slowly back to the house, Grissom was careful not to touch Sara. The hand not holding his cane was buried deeply in his jacket pocket and he left a respectable amount of fresh air between them. They fixed dinner together, cleaned up the kitchen together, watched television together and even went to bed together. Throughout the evening, Grissom had kept his distance, making sure that he did not brush up against her while clearing the table or doing the dishes and opting to sit in a recliner instead of on the couch with her.
Sara glanced up from the book she was reading and sighed wearily as she set her book on the nightstand and clicked off her light. Grissom lay on his side facing away from her and she could literally see the tension dancing a gleeful watusi up and down his spine as he tried to go to sleep. Grissom was a cuddler, a great warm teddy bear of a cuddler, and this hands-off policy had to be killing him.
"Are you ever going to touch me again?" Sara asked softly.
"I want to." His whispered response was a sad combination of pain and longing. He was waging a bitter war with himself over what he so desperately wanted, needed, and what Sara might allow.
"What's stopping you?"
His answer was a simple truth with no hint of recrimination. "You."
"Me?"
"Sara, you told me to stop and I stopped. I don't…you…you…"
"What, baby?"
"You haven't give me permission to touch you again."
"Roll over." As he settled on his back, Sara gently kissed his lips before unbuttoning his pajama top and snuggling down on his chest, sighing happily at the sound of his reassuring heart beat. She had missed this, the closeness, the scent and taste of him, the feeling of his smooth skin rising into tightly pebbled goosebumps beneath her searching fingers.
Sara realized, as she slid towards slumber, that Grissom was holding himself absolutely rigid. His hands were clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were practically glowing white in the darkness of the room. His eyes were screwed shut and sweat was beading along his hairline as his lips moved soundlessly in an endless litany. It took her a moment to figure out what was wrong, why he was playing statue. She had not yet given him permission to touch her and without a blatant invitation to do so, he would not lay a finger on her.
"Please, baby. Please touch me."
Grissom slowly uncurled a fist and shakily raised his right hand to stroke tentatively along her back. His caresses were furtive, as if he expected her to change her mind at any moment and banish him back to his own personal corner of hell. Sara kissed his neck and nuzzled his beard, her actions encouraging him to grow a bit bolder. Soon both of his hands had slipped beneath her t-shirt and were roaming ravenously along her spine. She could feel the hunger in his fingers as he left friction ridges along her skin, but knew his appetite was of the spirit and not the flesh. He was reacquainting himself with the splendor of holding her once again and could only marvel at the sense of contentment.
And twice, we said we'd begin again
And we made a vow that we'd remain as friends
And, falling down we said we shall rise again
Ah,that's a long time you know
For that kind of wind to blow
Long time ago we were dreamers on the mend
Long time ago we were dreamers on the mend
To Be Continued...