Remembering Forward

Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update; work has kept me busy. Thanks for all your reviews! This chapter and chapter 5 are the "forward" part of the story.


"There's nothing to watch."

"Honey, its 3 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. Of course there's nothing to watch."

"Did we already watch everything on the DVR?"

"Yeah, we did."

"What about the documentary on the samurai?"

"Doesn't come on till Friday."

It had been a stressful two weeks; every criminal in Las Vegas seemed to be working, putting the nightshift into overtime. Administrative meetings had also been scheduled, forcing Gil to listen to the sheriff and Ecklie. On top of the work chaos, Sara asked him to help her with wedding plans as the date was rapidly approaching. Between lab appointments and crime scenes, he managed to make reservations at a restaurant for the reception, book their honeymoon flights, and picked up his tuxedo.

He sat against the arm of the couch with Sara seated against his chest. She was scanning through the channels hoping for a worth while program to watch.

"Did you make the hotel reservations in South Carolina?" she asked, still working the remote.

This was not what he needed right now. A small exasperated sigh escaped. "I did that, along with the other things you asked me to do."

"Don't even start," she warned, turning around to look at him. "I spent three weeks on the phone getting the hotel for the ceremony, I found a justice of the peace, and I managed to find a dress.

An argument would break out if he continued the conversation, and he didn't have the energy to fight. "Fine," he muttered.

She stiffened a little bit, letting him know she was annoyed. He rubbed his hand across his eyes, ignoring the dull throbbing in his head.

When Grissom opened his eyes, he noticed she stopped on a channel advertising a Cheers marathon.

"Wow, I haven't watched Cheers in a long time," she commented.

"I don't see you as a Cheers fan." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It was my indulgence. I watched it from the beginning all to the way to the series finale."

"What year did it start? 1983, 1984?"

"No…I just turned eleven when the show came on, so that would be 1982."

Eleven? She was only eleven in 1982. He had been twenty-six…with a doctorate, and already a CSI Level 3. He was making a name for himself in the forensic entomology realm and fast on his way to becoming a renown lecturer. During all of this, she was eleven?

He was thankful she changed channels again so the reminder of their significant age difference disappeared. The next station boasted an upcoming episode of Perry Mason.

"Here you go old man," she nudged him with her elbow. "Something right up your alley."

Did she just say…old man?

"I think this was in repeats by the time I was born. Wait, wait let me guess. You probably watched something more like The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, right?" and then she laughed.

The age gap now felt like the width of the Grand Canyon. He actually was fifteen years older.

"I'll be right back," he said quietly and got up from the couch.

"C'mon, Gil. I'm kidding. Come back here," she told his retreating form.

He didn't listen, and continued toward the bedroom. Once inside he closed the door to have a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

Most of the time he never considered the age difference; he was just grateful this beautiful woman loved him. Then there were the few times, like this moment, where he felt every one of those fifteen years that separated them. More doubt crept into his mind. What if she wakes up one day and realizes she's married to an old man?

The dull throbbing from before developed into an intense pain; it felt as if all the blood vessels in his head were pinched shut. The light in the room became excruciatingly bright, and he saw black roses around his eyes. He heard his heart pulsating in rhythm with the aching in his skull. He cursed himself for ignoring the earlier symptoms. Slowly, he made his way to the bathroom.

The second he entered, he regretted the decision; he forgot the bathroom had been recently cleaned, and the stinging bleach odor overwhelmed his senses. The aseptic smell traveled all the way to his gut, creating an incredible wave of nausea. He sank to the floor by the toilet.

Grissom rested his head against the cool porcelain, wishing he got to the medicine cabinet. It would take him at least a few minutes to get up; if he rose too fast, he would likely vomit. He kept his eyes tightly closed and took a few deep breaths to calm his stomach, and braced his arms on either side of the toilet.

Sara's voice came from down the hall. "Gil, where are you? I'm sorry; I was only teasing you."

He listened to her foot steps approaching and then she was down beside him. "Sweetie, are you all right?"

"Migraine," he said hoarsely. As he tried to fight the pounding and nausea, his breath came more rapidly.

"Did you take your pills?" Her hand rubbed gentle circles across his back.

He tried shaking his head, but the dizziness made him sick; he leaned over the toilet as the burning in his throat increased. Her hand left his back, and he heard the medicine cabinet open, the faint rattle of the pill canister, and the faucet running. When she sat down again, her leg brushed against his leg. His eyes opened to slits as he swallowed the tablets and the water, and he immediately closed them again, trying to regain some strength.

After a several minutes on the floor, he finally started to feel the medicine start to take affect; the throbbing began to subside. Sara sat by him, still letting her hand travel the length of his back; he found the action soothing. "Do you feel well enough to get to bed?" she questioned gently. "Yeah," he whispered, thinking how much better he'd feel once he lay down.

Gradually, the pair got up from the floor, with her arm around his shoulders. They carefully made their way to bedroom, and she immediately shut the light off. He opened his eyes to the welcomed darkness; the black roses disappeared. As she closed the heavy curtains, he leaned against the dresser for support. Now the room was completely black, without any trace of the disturbing brightness.

She walked back toward him and put a hand on his cheek. "You doin' okay?"

"Better than before. I'm going to lay down now." He barely saw her nod, then he peeled off his clothes, only remaining in his boxer shorts. Grissom padded over to the bed, and lay down, sprawled on his stomach. The nausea started to diminish. The blood vessels opened again. Just as he was about to relax completely, the door creaked open. "Don't go," he murmured.

Normally when he had migraines Sara would leave him alone to recover, but right now he needed her presence. The door closed, and the bed dipped under her weight. She started to massage his shoulders, gently working out the knots in his muscles. He moaned as she continued to relieve him of tension.

At that moment, Grissom realized the age gap held no significance; Sara had been there to help him through his vulnerable and weak state. She hadn't walked away when he asked for her. He knew she wouldn't regret waking up next to this fifty year old man. With that satisfying thought, he fell into a deep, restful sleep.