Intervals In Broken Time

A.J. Breton

GSR-angst. Grissom is left reeling from a personal tragedy. Can Sara help put him back together? Can he forgive himself for what he can not fix? Mature rating for a few dark scenes, language and sexual situations.

Disclaimer: you got it, they ain't mine, nor do I profit from the misdeeds described below.

A/N: It's not getting any less dark, I promise there will be some action in upcoming chapters. Thank you to the reviewers, I do love the attention.

Chapter title from Roberta Flak's song "Killing me Softly"

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Chapter 2: I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on…

The Next Day:

Grissom had not come to work that shift. Sara told the others about the call, actually she only mentioned the part about his father dying, leaving out the drunken rage part. Catherine had been a bit miffed that she wasn't the one called. Sara side-stepped any further questions about the conversation. Catherine, in her typical motherly style, had declared in the locker room that the others should not call Griss, they should let him have his room. But Sara had heard Cath leaving messages when she thought she was alone in lab.

"Grissom, call me back, let me know you're alright."

Sara had dialed Grissom's number, too. Only to hang up as soon as she heard it rang.

Dawn was breaking and Sara stifled a yawn. Sleep had been fleeting after Grissom's call and marred by bizarre nightmares rooted in memory and fantasy. Grissom had made an appearance in a few of them. Her nightmares tended to come in spurts. She could go several weeks without a single bad dream, only to be suddenly plagued by vicious nightmares night after night for days on end.

She finished her paperwork and filed it away. She was too physically tired to work out, as she often did after shift. She took comfort knowing there was an almost full bottle of vodka in her apartment. If the nightmares got too bad, she knew how to make them go away. She hated the peace that thought brought her. She'd come a long way in identifying some of her many issues, even started to deal with some of them in a constructive manner. Alcohol seemed like the old standby, the wobbly crutch she always leaned on when she was feeling emotionally crippled.

She slid her sunglasses on as she exited the building. In minutes she was at her apartment, stripping off her clothes as soon as the door latched shut behind her. She stepped into the shower, hoping to find relaxation under a pounding stream of hot water.

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The water from the shower was hot and flowed in heavy steaming streams down her back. Sara rinsed and swayed under the water softly singing a tune to herself. Gil watched. He could actually see her pretty clearly through the steamed shower door, not much detail but that he left to his imagination. His eyes caressed the form in the shower thinking of the graceful curve of her neck sloping into soft shoulders, supple breasts caressed by rivulets of water…oh how he wished he could be water, sliding over every inch of her body.

All too soon the shower was over and Gil stepped back out of the doorway keeping in the darkness of the unlit bedroom as Sara stepped out and began drying herself, humming softly. She had a beautiful voice.

She turned away and bent back down into the shower again, perhaps to clear the drain, this was the moment. Gil slid quietly into the bathroom and stood behind her, inches away. Sara stood. He could smell the fragrant soap on her warm, moist skin, honeysuckle. Before she could turn back around, before she could make any further move, Gil was swift. He thrust his left arm around her neck, jerking her head up and to the side. Sara's hands flew upward and nails dug into his arm. She took a great gasp of air for a scream, but only a choking noise emerged as Gil drew the blade of his knife across her neck, deep, in one swift motion just as he had rehearsed in his mind. She immediately collapsed, sliding down his body into a heap on the white tiled floor. Blood had run down in streams across her chest to her abdomen, splatter stood out starkly against the shower door and on the walls of the shower, already mingling with the water and streaking down in silent witness to Gil Grissom as he bent over his girl Sara one last time.

"You should never have left me."

Grissom sat upright gasping for breath. The image of a bloodied Sara collapsed on a white tiled floor still burned into his mind. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was home, in Vegas, on the couch in the living room of his townhouse. Looking at the clock on his stereo he saw it was midday.

He stood and took the short walk to his kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the sink and filled it with water, hurriedly pouring it down his throat, gulping like a man dying in the desert. He refilled and emptied the glass twice more, until it felt like his stomach might burst before putting the cold glass back down again.

Damn that dream. It came to him every now and then, when he was overly tired or stressed about something. He'd never seen Sara naked, except for in that dream. He'd never been so close he could smell the scent of her skin, except for in that dream. That case, with Debbie Marlin killed in her bathroom, had gotten under his skin. Every time he turned around in that dead girl's house, he saw Sara there. Every story he heard about the victim's lovers and their escapades, he'd thought about Sara writhing and sweating on that bed. And when he'd finally connected the crime to Dr. Lurie, he'd seen himself. As their prime suspect had walked away Gil saw himself walking away from his own desires. That could be me. If she ever left me… I can't take the risk, better to not let it come to that at all.

In that moment, in his kitchen, he wanted her. God what he would give to have Sara in his house right now. He closed his eyes and mentally shook himself. There was only pain down that road, pain for both of them. He turned around and looked at the open plan of his townhouse, as if seeing for the first time. This was him. Plain and empty. No warmth, the only color coming from dead butterflies encased in glass on the walls. This was him. Dead things and silence. He sighed softly and tried to put the day in order in his head.

He had gotten home early that morning, leaving his hotel in California after only a few hours of fitful sleep. His clothes still reeked of the bar he'd gotten drunk in. When he came home he collapsed on the couch, only now did he realize just how much time had passed. He missed an entire shift. He groaned when he thought about how many messages he must have.

Wobbling over to the end table by the couch, he picked up his cell. Eighteen messages. He scrolled down the list. The majority were from Catherine, two from Nick, one from Doc Robbins, and one from Ecklie. Ecklie? Probably chewing him out for not checking in. Grissom pressed a few buttons and deleted the messages without listening to them. He'd talk to them tonight at work. Right now he didn't feel like talking. He needed a shower. He got halfway down the hall when his phone rang. He almost answered his cell instinctively, but stopped himself, it was his home phone ringing. He considered ignoring it, but in spite of himself picked up the receiver.

"Grissom."

"Hey, Griss, it's Sara."

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40 Years Earlier:

"Mom, please don't send me. I don't like Uncle Danny, he smells bad and has yellow teeth."

"Gilbert, don't dare say such a thing about your Uncle." Her hands were fast, signing to the boy, he knew the body language, she was upset with him.

Ever since the neighbor lady had caught him cutting open the corpse of that dead dog with his pocket knife, 10 year-old Gilbert had been under constant supervision. He didn't know why. The dog was dead, it didn't feel pain. Gilbert just wanted to see what the insides looked like. He cut open fish after catching them, what was different about this? He wanted to know if a dog's insides were like a fish's insides. But apparently what he'd done was wrong, and this just seemed like punishment, though his mother insisted it was not.

After being told what Gilbert had done, his mother had fussed over him, and through letters had made arrangements to send her son to the northern part of the state for the summer, to spend time with his gnarled-toothed, laughs-too-loud, hugs-too-tight, Uncle Danny. It will be good for you, his mother had explained, to live with a man's influence for awhile. Gilbert couldn't comprehend why that was important. But he accepted that if his mother said it was important, then it was. Which only lead to one question.

"Why can't I stay with father?"

The boy knew that the question hurt his mother, and he immediately was racked with guilt for asking it. His mother never answered it, only continuing to pack her son's things. His mother was a fair woman, she wouldn't send him anywhere that wasn't safe, anywhere he didn't belong. Two weeks later when Uncle Danny started coming into Gilbert's room in the middle of the night, whispering, undressing, touching…this was punishment, he must have deserved this.

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Back in the moment:

What ever had possessed Sara Sidle to call Grissom's home phone number was beyond her. But she had. Even more surprisingly, he'd answered. The conversation had been brief and awkward. The things that really wanted to be said still hung in the back of their minds.

"Just calling to check up on you." (Dear God, are you alright?)

"Thanks, but you didn't need to." (I've been longing to hear your voice.)

"Everyone at the lab is worried about you." (You scared me. I had nightmares about you.)

"I'm sorry I didn't call them, I'll be in tonight." (I love and dread the moments I see your beautiful face.)

"Griss, you called me while you were in California, do you remember?" (Don't say you don't remember, don't say it was nothing.) There was a long silence.

"Vaguely." (Yes, I remember, if I'd been in Vegas, I would have been in your apartment…I would have drowned myself in you.) His voice was quiet.

"You were drunk." (Do you always get drunk when you feel bad? Do you always get angry when you drink? My father did that…) Another long silence.

"I hope.. I hope I didn't say anything… I mean…" (Ten fucking minutes, such a short interval has wrecked me… Did you know I look just like my father? I didn't.)

"You told me your dad died. And then you got angry, started yelling." (You said you wanted to hear my voice… why my voice…what do I mean to you?)

"Oh, Sara, I'm sorry…I didn't mean…" (I was lonely…I am lonely…dear God, this house is so empty…my girl…please…)

"No, no, I just… are you okay?" (Please say no, give me an excuse to come see you…)

"Yeah." (Don't believe me… I'm lying to you…)

"Do you want to talk about any of this?" (I'm a fool to think you really need me, aren't I?)

"No."

"Okay, then."

"See you at the lab."

There was silence after the call ended.

I am my father's son.

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TBC...