He's read the form four times, and he is no closer to understanding it than after the first.
She has given him no warning. There is no explanation. He wonders briefly if it's some sort of family emergency, but in the three years he has known her, he has never once heard her mention her family. And what kind of family emergency would necessitate a year of her time?
He hears footsteps approaching and looks up, relieved to see it is her.
"What is this?" he asks, waving the form in the air. The question comes out a little harsher than intended. He's just surprised. He's just…trying to imagine the lab without her, and his chest is suddenly feeling a little tight.
"It's just what it says," she replies, her face impassive. She takes a few steps into his office. "It's a request for a leave of absence. Six months. A year maybe?"
"Why?" He asked immediately. He knows what it is. It's the why he doesn't understand. She's being obtuse on purpose. Her eyes are hard and cold, and he does not understand this game.
"I was thinking about checking out the federal government system. FBI."
He laughs, relieved. There's nothing she could learn at the FBI that she couldn't learn in their lab. And she would hate it. All the red tape and bureaucracy.
"We have the best lab in the country," he says, and his voice sounds patronizing even to him. But this whole conversation is ridiculous. She should have just asked him about the feds. He could have told her it wasn't worth exploring. Saved her the hassle of filling out the form.
Her eyes shift to the side, before meeting his gaze again. "I need a different work environment."
His stomach plummets. This has nothing to do with the feds.
"What does that mean?" he asks, already dreading her answer.
"One with, um, communication. Respect."
He has no idea what she is talking about. She must have had a fight with Warrick. Or Nick, maybe. Whatever it is, he's certain she's blowing it out of proportion. He is not interested in playing principal to a bunch of spatting children.
"Everyone here respects you," he says, brooking no argument.
"You don't," she says immediately.
It's him, she's mad at. He did not see that coming.
Things between them have cooled some lately. Settled a little. They don't flirt like they used to, and he doesn't lay in bed at night aching for the wrong decision he made. They are friends. Colleagues. They work well together. Just like they always have.
Their case is going great. Sara can get emotional sometimes, and she gets frustrated with him when he tries to keep her on an even keel – when he reminds her to stay professional and compartmentalize. But this case hasn't been like that at all. This case has been fascinating. He's had a great couple of days. He got to visit the body farm. He got to make bullets out of frozen hamburger meat.
The hamburger meat.
He knows she's a vegetarian. Of course he knows. He notices everything about her. Of course he noticed when she stopped eating meat. And he knows she stopped after they stayed up all night with the pig. He remembers every second of that night, including the part where she muttered that she was never eating bacon again.
He didn't forget.
He just didn't understand why she was asking him how many meals they've shared together. They've shared so many. During breaks on shift. Group breakfasts after work. And their dinners. From before. When she asked how many meals they've shared, he was thinking about those dinners, and he didn't understand what she wanted from him.
Her being a vegetarian has nothing to do with asking her to clean up an experiment using raw meat. He wasn't asking her to eat it. It was just a part of the job. He asks her to dig for body parts at the garbage dump. He asks her to sift through liquified human decomps. She never complains about that.
It never for one second occurred to him that she would be opposed to handling a chunk of hamburger. And when she complained, he immediately told her to have Nick do it. He wouldn't have done that for anyone else. If Warrick or Nick had complained about the hamburger, he would have rolled his eyes and walked away.
He doesn't understand what she wants from him.
"Is this about that hamburger thing?" He can hear the incredulity in his voice. She's not going to like that. But he cannot believe this is why she's so upset.
"No, Grissom. This is not about that hamburger thing. I- I- I don't believe you. How can you reduce everything I've said to some kind of single quirk? You think the problem here is just about me?"
Everything she's said? She hasn't said anything.
He's staring at her, mouth hanging open. He's so confused. He hates it when she is angry with him, and this time he genuinely doesn't even understand why.
"If you don't sign my leave, I'm going to have to quit," she says, calmer now, but no less determined.
A wave of panic shoots through him. She cannot quit. He cannot let her quit. He needs her.
It's only been a year and a half, but he cannot imagine this lab without her. He cannot go back to a life without her laughter wafting out of the DNA lab, without her victorious fist pump when he assigns her the most outrageous case of the night, without her insight into their shared cases, without her impish grin when she makes a clever pun. The lab will be so empty without her. He will be so empty without her.
He wants to tell her. He wants to be eloquent and passionate. He wants to tell her it will break his heart if she leaves. He wants to tell her that even though he chose wrong, he's come to terms with it and made peace with it, but only because he still gets to see her every day — gets to hear her laugh, gets to breathe in the scent of her when she reaches past him for a slide, gets to feel the warmth radiate off her body when she presses against him to look over his shoulder. If she takes that away, he'll have nothing left. Now that he's had her, he can't live without her.
She starts to walk away, and he calls her name. She stops and turns back to him, waiting. But his clumsy tongue doesn't know how to say those things without making this situation worse. And so says the only thing he can think of that might make her stay:
"The lab needs you."
She scoffs and shakes her head, disappointed. "Great," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. And then she is gone. And his heart is empty.
He leaves the form on his desk, unwilling to sign it, unsure how to fix this, and throws himself back into the case at hand.
It's a heartbreaking case, the kind he doesn't like to think about, when innocent children are hurt by the people who should be protecting them. And though nothing he can do will ever fix the damage that has been done, his work can ensure that this little girl will never be hurt again by this man.
Catherine invites herself over for breakfast after they close the case, after they listen to a man confess to the kind of atrocity that turns his stomach. And because he knows this case has been harder for her than it was for him, he allows it.
He's not comfortable with people in his home, but Catherine is immune to his discomfort. She makes herself at home, and he offers her what comfort he can, reminding her that it is only human to be bothered by cases of this nature.
"I heard about you and…Sara," Catherine says, apropos nothing, and then raises an eyebrow and waits for his response.
He deflects automatically, smiling awkwardly, shoving down the discomfort and fear her inquiry invokes. "Sara, you know…she gets very emotional."
"Are you in denial?" Catherine asks immediately, her voice incredulous. "No, no. That's way too analytical. Wow. You got burned bad, huh?" He says nothing, but she continues anyway. "Welcome to the club. It happens to everyone. I got third degree burns from my marriage. Everybody just moves on."
"Good," he says. "Let's move on."
He does not want to discuss Sara with Catherine. He did not want to discuss her back when she was the girl who sent him too many emails and whose voice over the phone lines made his heart stutter in a way that was unfamiliar and scary. He did not want to discuss her when she was newly hired, and he could not stop himself from flirting with her no matter how hard he tried to be professional. And he most certainly does not want to discuss her now, when he is terrified she is about to walk out of his life.
But Catherine is not going to let him off the hook that easily.
"But you have to deal with it!" she demands. "You have to deal with it before it goes away!"
His stomach drops. He does not want her to go away. Of everything he has ever wanted, he wants this most of all: for her to stay.
Catherine is droning on and on about him being the supervisor and people building a family and the Grand Tetons, and he is not listening to any of it, because all he can hear is "You have to deal with it before it goes away."
And he knows. He knows that if he does not do something, Sara is going to go away.
He does not know what to say to her. He tried, and failed, already with words. He told her the lab needs her, and he hoped she would hear the hidden message in his words – that he needs her. But she didn't. Couldn't. Or wouldn't. And his poor attempt with words only made her more upset.
If he cannot use words, maybe he can use actions. So he reaches for his address book and dials his phone. He is hesitant, awkward, when his call is answered. "Yeah. Uh, hi. I'd…uh…I'd like to get some flowers for a girl," he says. Then he second guesses himself. "No, no. Not flowers. A plant. A living plant. She…likes vegetation."
He sees Catherine smirk and knows he sounds like a fool. He is so bad at this. This is why he chose the way he did, so he would never have to do this. He knew if he chose to kiss her that night in the diner parking lot, they would end up here: with his inability to live up to her expectations, his failure to understand her needs, and his pathetic attempts to keep her from leaving him.
He chose the job instead of the relationship because he is good at his job. And still he is here, fumbling on the phone with a florist, talking about vegetation and perseverating over the sentiment on the card. From, Grissom.
He is an idiot. She is going to leave him.
But she does not leave him. The next day, at the end of shift, she's back in his doorway. This time with a large plant in her arms, two white blooms erupting from a forest of green.
"Grissom?" she says softly, her question clear.
"I was going to send flowers," he says. "But I thought you'd prefer something living. You deal with enough dead things."
His heart is beating out of his chest. She steps inside his office, closes the door, and walks over to him. She sets the lily on his desk and sits in the chair, facing him. Her form is still on his desk. It lays between them, silent and taunting.
"Why?" she says finally.
He breathes slowly. He reaches for the words to tell her how much he will miss her, but they elude him. He braces himself for her anger, but today she is all softness and wistful gazes.
"Remember how much fun we used to have?" she says softly.
He doesn't say anything, but he does remember.
"Do you even want me here anymore, Grissom? You asked me to come, and I came. And now we hardly ever work together, and when we do, half the time you ignore me. I can't tell if you just…lost interest in me, or if you want me to leave but want it to be my decision."
"Sara," he says, looking up suddenly to meet her gaze. His voice betrays his horror. Whatever he intended, it was never that. Never to make her feel like that.
She looks at him with those big brown eyes, and he forgets every reason why they can't be more than friends; more than colleagues. Rules be damned. Reputations be damned. He doesn't care about anything but making that look go away and making her smile again. His gaze goes to her mouth, and he wonders if that is the only way to fix this. If being friends and colleagues is too hard because it's not enough for either of them.
She bites her bottom lip, waiting for his response, and he is back under that pier. This time, she's not gazing at him in adoration. But she's still waiting for that kiss.
He can't do it now anymore than he could do it then. But it hurts more now.
He sees the disappointment in her eyes when she realizes it's not going to happen. She shakes her head sadly and sighs.
"Spathiphyllum," he says.
"A peace lily," she replies. He nods. When the florist suggested it, he knew immediately it was the perfect choice. They need more peace in their lives in general, but mostly he wants them to be at peace with each other.
"They're cleansing," he says. "They remove toxins from the air, including formaldehyde and ammonia."
He wonders if this plant can filter the other toxins between them. Doubt. Jealousy. Disappointment.
She stands and reaches for the plant. "It's beautiful," she says. "Thank you."
And then she's gone.
The next day, he assigns her to his case – a body found by hikers on a seldom-used trail high in the mountains. He listens to her theories and walks her through the process of collecting the insects. He lets her pin them to the board and create the timeline. He encourages her to go through the process outloud, and praises her when she walks him through the whole thing flawlessly. She gives him a shy smile then, and his heart breaks a little. It takes so little to make her happy. She asks so little of him.
He has been denying himself the pleasure of her company, self-flagellating for the sin of cowardice. He realizes now that she also has been paying for his transgression.
For two weeks, he chooses her again and again. As often as he can get away with it, he says, "Sara, you're with me."
He remembers how much fun they used to have.
On the fifteenth day, the form disappears from his desk. She never mentions it again.
A week later, they sit side by side in the empty bleachers of an ice rink, discussing the death of a hockey player. He scoffs at the violence of the game, the never-ending string of penalties, and she teases him that he just doesn't like sports. He disagrees, offering his lifelong love of baseball as evidence.
"That makes sense," she says, her voice light and playful. "All those stats."
"It's a beautiful game," he counters.
She raises an eyebrow skeptically, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice as she asks, "Since when are you interested in beauty?"
And for once, he knows exactly what to say to her. The truth. He leaves her speechless with his response.
"Since I met you."