A/N: You know, this work thing is really getting in the way of my writing. It's just a darn shame I enjoy eating so much. :) Oh, a quick side note to Grissomgal71 regarding your review: No fair peeking! :) I had seriously already planned this chapter – are you clairvoyant? :) And I will take the remainder of your suggestions under advisement for future chapters, though I make no promises! :)
Spoilers: "Burden of Proof,""Sex, Lies, and Larvae," "Homebodies," "One Hit Wonder," "Crash and Burn," "Play with Fire", "Butterflied," "Bloodlines" – I think it would have been easier to list the episodes I'm NOT spoiling with this chapter! :)
Disclaimer: See chapter 1, etc. I don't own CSI:. Because, if I did, this whole work-vs.-writing thing wouldn't be such a dilemma. :)
Chapter 7: Emotional InvestmentOnce she heard the door click shut behind him, Sara took a few moments to take in her surroundings. Grissom's bathroom was much like the rest of his life: organized chaos. She smiled as she surveyed the pile of shaving materials in slight disarray on the vanity, and the sight of towels thrown haphazardly over a rack made her shake her head in amusement. Even his bathrobe was carelessly tossed over a hook on the bathroom door, long since forgotten amidst the cares of the day. The man is nothing if not consistent, even if it's consistently messy, she thought. For a brief moment, she pondered why that thought grounded her, but just as quickly dismissed it as she reached for the hot water spigot with one hand while tossing a washcloth over the soap dish with the other.
Dropping her bag onto the toilet and the towels next to the sink, she rummaged through her things to find what she needed – deodorant, clothes, socks, underwear. Scooping it all into a pile in her arm, she swept the bag off into the floor, replacing it with the mess of clothing and toiletries. Turning back to the shower, she used the cold water faucet to adjust the temperature to a level just slightly below boiling before removing her clothing and stepping under the welcoming spray.
She cringed as the scalding water made its initial contact with her cool skin, but adapted quickly, finding that it was just what she needed. Looking up, she was happily surprised to see an adjustable shower head. Rising on her toes to reach for it, she turned the plastic ring until the water velocity was somewhere just south of a fire hose, then adjusted the angle to its highest point.
Turning slowly under the steaming jet spray, she braced both hands against the back wall, allowing the water to cascade over her head and massage her back and shoulders. As the hot water fell painfully into her eyes, she closed them but remained firmly in place. Even as her skin began to tingle from both the heat and the force of the water, she stayed where she was, enjoying the cleansing feeling despite the pain. The thought occurred to her that this must be what the plates in her dishwasher felt like, and she relished the sensation of the powerful stream knocking away the grime and dirt of the past day.
After a time, she moved out of the direct path of the water, grabbing the shampoo from the rack at the back of the shower. Allowing the satiny liquid to caress her fingers for a moment, she then massaged it into her hair, coaxing the lather through the strands before finally affixing the entire sudsy mass atop her head. Eyes closed against the sting of soap, she groped upwards for the shower head, readjusting the water into a less vigorous stream and angling it downward so that she could rinse her hair without bathing her face.
When the suds were gone, she opened her eyes to find the conditioner. She was slightly annoyed but not really surprised that there was none to be found. Men, she huffed silently. It will never cease to amaze me how they seem to manage so well without things I consider to be essential. How does he get his hair to look like that without conditioner?
Reaching for the washcloth, she lathered it with soap, using it to finish the job the high-powered water had started. Turning to face the front of the shower, she ducked her head under the spray and watched as the water swirled down the drain. But, as she watched, her breath hitched in her throat as her mind was drawn into memory.
XXXXXXXXX
Grissom considered himself to be fairly accomplished in the culinary arts – certainly far better than most men his age – but his creativity in that arena was somewhat lacking. He cooked what he liked which, unfortunately, revolved to a great extent around meat. Normally, that wasn't a problem, but he was aware that Sara was a vegetarian. Only too painfully aware.The memory of her near departure from Las Vegas two years before came to his mind. At the time, he enjoyed their interactions – the harmless flirtations, the playful banter, the casual touches – and was carefully oblivious to the depth of her feelings... and his own. A relationship without the emotional investment. That is, until she called him on it.
When he had first seen her request for a leave of absence, he had acted as though it were some sick joke, ridiculing her wish to check out other labs, scoffing that theirs was the best facility in the country. Then, when she had remarked that he did not respect her, he had treated it as some passive-aggressive attempt at manipulation, trying to convince her that she was being childish, reducing the situation to its lowest common denominator of Sara and her issues with meat. Finally, when she had threatened to quit outright, he had begun to see the gravity of the situation, pulling out his trump card, taking a deep breath as he told her solemnly, "The lab needs you here."
Her sarcastic, "Great," was far from the joyfully submissive response he had expected, and confusion was his predominant emotion in the moments immediately following her departure from his office. But he recovered as he always did, by throwing himself wholeheartedly into his work and denying that there was a problem, chalking up Sara's outburst to her overly emotional personality.
In the end, it had been Catherine – semi-intoxicated after one too many screwdrivers and either unwilling or unable to leave well enough alone – who had convinced him that he really did have a problem and that he needed to do something, anything, to solve it. That was what had prompted his call to the florist that evening. It was a clumsy attempt at an apology, but she accepted it. She had never mentioned the plant or the request that prompted it. And he was grateful for both her forgiveness and her silence. For they had given him what he wanted: Sara without the emotional investment.
Staring forlornly at the mostly carnivorous contents of his refrigerator, he shook his head in frustration as it dawned on him that, two years down the road, he still knew no more about her than he had when he sent her that plant. He still had no idea what foods she liked, what her favorite movies were, what kind of music she enjoyed. He should know those things, but he didn't. And he wanted to. He just didn't know if he had the emotional capital to make any sort of investment, let alone the kind she needed and deserved. And he had no idea why he was thinking of his relationship with Sara in financial terms. What relationship? he chided himself. You're her boss. She's your employee. End of story. But his traitorous heart didn't seem to want to leave it at that.
He finally decided on omelets as a relatively safe bet and was pulling out ingredients when he heard his cellular phone ringing from its cradle on the counter. Closing the refrigerator door with his hip, he dropped tomatoes, cheese, and an onion next to the stove before reaching for the phone. "Grissom."
"It's Jim," said the weary voice on the other end. "Got some bad news."
"What's that?" Grissom asked warily.
The cop sighed. "I've called several guys and can't seem to line up anybody to stay with Sara tonight. Not enough notice. I'd pull rank, but I feel bad making guys give up plans with their families to work bodyguard duty. And the ones who are free this evening are a little green for my liking. I'd do it myself, except I'm on tonight and Vartan called in sick, so we're shorthanded anyway." He finished in a rush, wanting little more than to be done with the whole thing. Utterly exhausted and unable to think anymore, he cautiously hoped that Gil would offer some solution that hadn't crossed his own mind. And, yet, he was amazed when he did just that.
"She can stay with me." Even as he suggested it, Grissom questioned his own sanity. But some part of him needed to do this – for her.
"Gil, are you sure?" Brass may have been tired, but he certainly wasn't convinced that this was the answer. "You're not trained for this, and you have your own work to do. You're not exactly the best man for the job."
Something about the detective's words pricked at his pride. "I can hold my own at the firing range. I think I can handle looking out for her."
Brass was in no mood to argue his firearm accuracy, so he chose another tack. "And what about when you go to the lab tonight?"
"She'll go with me."
Jim was incredulous. "You didn't see that threat, Gil, but I did. The perp knows where she works. It's possible he could attack her there. I might even go so far as to say it's probable."
For the briefest of moments, Grissom reconsidered. Then, he made his choice. "It will kill her to not be able to work. I can't punish Sara because some psycho chose her as the object of his fixation. But," he said when Brass started to speak, "I'll tell her she can only go to the lab on the condition that she has to always be accompanied by me, you, Warrick, or Nick. Fair enough?"
Brass considered that. It seemed reasonable enough, except for one thing. "And she can't go out in the field." This time it was his turn to interrupt when Grissom began to protest. "No, Gil. You can't protect her out there, and neither can I. At least the lab is a controlled environment," he said pointedly.
The scientific reference hit its mark. Grissom's analytical mind ran through the multiple variables at each crime scene, and he reluctantly conceded. "OK."
Brass heaved a resigned sigh. "I'm not really convinced but, at the moment, I don't have much choice. This is just until I make alternate arrangements, though."
"Sure."
"OK. I've gotta get some shuteye. See you tonight?"
"I'm certain you will at some point." And, with that, Grissom hung up, still not completely sure why he had done it but entirely positive he had made the right choice. Whistling some random Mozart tune, he returned his attention to gathering the makings of their meal.
By the time he had dropped the last of the diced vegetables into the nearly-cooked egg in the bottom of the frying pan, it finally occurred to him that his guest had not rejoined him. Glancing at his watch, he was startled to find it had been nearly 45 minutes, and he felt an increasing uneasiness as he listened to the continued sound of water running in the shower. Is she OK? Did she fall? Most home-based accidents do occur in the shower. Get a hold of yourself, Gil. She probably just takes long showers. But he couldn't shake the growing apprehension. Who takes this long in the shower? Having no idea what he would say once he got there, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel before turning down the heat on the stove and heading off towards the bathroom.
XXXXXXXXX
She had entered the Ellis crime scene alone. She saw him sitting at the kitchen table. "Daddy!" she called, giving in to her initial impulse to run to him. At first, she didn't know why he didn't respond but, when she reached him, she saw the vacant, staring eyes and felt her own fill with tears. Ever the investigator, she noted the piece of paper on the table, knowing without looking that Kim had left it for her. She reached frantically for the pulse in her father's neck. Frustrated with her inability to feel it through the thick latex, she ripped the gloves off, only to find her hands covered in blood. Unable to stop herself despite knowing she shouldn't tamper with evidence, she ran for the sink, needing to get rid of the blood.
She held her hands under the water, scrubbing at them vigorously to remove the red stains, watching the clouded water swirl down the drain. But, the harder she tried, the more there was. So she scrubbed harder, like some modern-day Lady MacBeth, with tears pouring down her cheeks. It was then that the apparition grabbed her from behind, his hand grazing across her forehead in his attempt to destroy her. And she fought back.
Desperate to escape his grasp, she felt pure animal gratification when her blow connected with his shadowy body, but his hold on her did not lessen. She raised her bloodied fist to hit him again and was horrified when he grabbed her, his fingers interlinking with her own like some macabre lover. She fought with all that was within her, the slippery blood working to her advantage as her digits slid from his hold.
She raised her hand high above her head to strike and, when he raised his own arm, she seized it and held on for all she was worth. She gripped hard, digging her fingernails into the flesh, desperately needing to win this battle. When he ceased his struggle, she moved her fingers towards the pulse. And she followed it back to reality.
It was a trick her mother had taught her. When the nightmares had started in the days following her father's death, rousing her from sleep night after night with her own blood-curdling screams, she would sob onto her mother's shoulder until she was too exhausted to dream. Finally, anxious to end the dreams that haunted her daughter's sleep, the elder Sidle had told her, "Honey, nightmare villains aren't real. They don't have a heartbeat, but you do. That's how you can tell it's a dream. Find your pulse, and follow it back to reality."
So she tried it. The next night, when she saw her father's staring eyes and felt some unseen phantom grab for her, she found the pulse in her own arm. And she followed it back to reality and away from his deathly grip. The trick had worked for every subsequent nightmare, albeit in different ways. Sometimes it metamorphosed into something less sinister, sometimes it merely dissipated into peaceful slumber, sometimes she awoke in a cold sweat. But it always worked.
It worked through the really tough cases that brought the nightmares with them. Through Kaye Shelton's death, through Suzanna Kirkwood's rape and murder, through the countless rape victims that tore at her very soul. It worked through Melissa's betrayal, through Hank's cheating, through Grissom's rejection. It worked through his exhausted confession of his feelings for her, through her own near-arrest for DUI. The trick always worked with the nightmares. But it couldn't help with a reality that was sometimes infinitely worse.
The knock at the door roused her from her thoughts, and she lifted her head from the water to hear the muffled voice that now spoke to her. "Sara? Are you OK? You've been in there a long time." He sounded tentative, concerned and, for a moment, she felt remorse that she had been the cause.
"I-I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute," she called, hoping it sounded more confident than she felt.
When he responded with a cautious, "OK," she sighed and waited a few minutes for him to retreat before turning off the water and reaching for a towel.
XXXXXXXXX
"Hey, Griss?"
Her voice came from around the corner and down the hall, and he leaned back from the stove to catch a glimpse of her as he responded. "Yeah?"
When she rounded the corner into his line of sight, he nearly lost his balance, mentally blaming it on the awkward angle but knowing better. Her hair hung in loose wet tendrils, framing her face and leaving dark splotches where it touched the fabric of her shirt. Sara with wet hair was a sight he did not believe he'd ever see, and he struggled to regain his steel control as he looked at her.
"Do you have a hair dryer?" The look on her face was hopeful, and he wanted so badly to respond in the affirmative, but it would have been a lie.
He replied meekly, "No." Raking a hand through his own salt-and-pepper hair, he shrugged as he told her, "Mine dries fast."
She bowed her head in defeat. "I should have known. I guess it's just as well. Without conditioner, I'll just be a huge mess anyway."
"I don't see how either conditioner or a hair dryer could make that much difference to a woman who has never been anything less than stunning a day in her life."
She shot her head up sharply at that comment. What did he just say? But he had returned his attention to the omelets and was busily scooping the last one out of the frying pan and onto a plate. I wish I knew how it is that he says these things that just knock me on my butt, but they faze him not at all. Give it up, Sara. He means nothing by them. Just let it go. It's par for the course. She sank wearily into the leftmost chair on her side of the breakfast bar.
Grissom, for his part, was glad he had something to focus on besides Sara's startled expression. The words had left his mouth before his brain had the opportunity to censor them. He had just been so thunderstruck that Sara actually believed she could ever look bad. "Stunning?" Geez, Gil, what are you, 14? Could you have sounded any more like a lovesick teenager if you tried? I cannot believe I just said that.
Having fully regained his composure, he pulled the second omelet from the oven where it had been warming and placed the freshly cooked one in front of her. After setting his own down on his side of the counter, he turned to pour coffee into two mugs, placing one in front of each of them. Scrutinizing the area carefully, he decided that all of the required elements were present and rounded the breakfast bar, reaching up for the dishtowel on his shoulder as he did so. "Breakfast is served, mademoiselle."
A slight smile gracing her features, she happened to glance up at him at that instant. Her eyes widened in shock as she noticed the large bruise on the back of his arm when he took the seat next to her. "My God, Grissom," she said and, without thinking, reached out to pull his arm toward her for a better look. Turning the injured limb over with gentle hands, she found more bruising on the underside, along with four distinct indentations where the skin was broken, a slight crusting of dried blood crowning each spot. And she knew exactly what had caused it. "I did this to you, didn't I?"
He didn't know how to respond to that. He couldn't lie to her and, yet, it hadn't really been her fault. He settled on a neutral response. "It's not a big deal, Sara. It's fine." Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, he tried to pull his arm from her grasp. But she tightened her grip on the extremity with her left hand, running the fingers of her right carefully over the tender areas near his wrist. And he found he was lost in her touch.
As her fingers wandered softly over the injuries she had inflicted, her mind raced. She knew she owed him some sort of explanation – for this, for last night, for everything. And she wasn't sure how to begin. "I'm sorry, Griss. I never meant to hurt you." Her voice was so soft he barely heard it, so mournful he thought his heart would rend itself in two.
"Hey," he said, shifting around in his seat and lowering his head to get a better look at her face. He moved his right hand to cover hers, trying to get her attention. When she raised her eyes to meet his, her sorrowful expression drove a dagger into his soul. But, somehow, he managed to speak. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Drawing a great, shuddering breath, she nodded nearly imperceptibly. Her hand remained on his arm, his other hand covering hers, and she drew on his proffered comfort as she began to tell him about the nightmare. His grip over her hand tightened slightly at various points in the narrative, when her body language conveyed an increasing fear, and his strength calmed her. She poured herself into the tale, confessing her fears, telling him about the guilt she'd felt when her father died, about the need to be strong for fear of falling apart completely, about the absolute necessity of being in control. And, when the story was complete, she ventured a look at him, wanting to see his expression though she was terrified of what she might find.
What she saw in his eyes was not what she expected. Not mere tolerance, not condescension, certainly not pity. Not even the normal emotionless mask he typically wore. No, this was something akin to sorrow and empathy and... the slightest hint of something she couldn't quite place. But it made her bold. She had poured out her heart to him, and she felt freer than she had in a while. She wondered what more he would give her, if he would open himself – ever so slightly – to her if she asked, and she decided to reach for the brass ring. She had confessed her fears to him. She wondered if he would do the same. "What scares you the most, Griss?"
Grissom dropped his gaze to the breakfast bar, studying it intently as though his response could be found on its Formica surface. She was asking for an openness he was not ready to give, for a trust he wasn't prepared to provide. And, yet, there was so much he longed to tell her. What do you want me to say, Sara? That I love you? I do. That I can't imagine my life without you? I can't. That I'd give you the world if I could? I would. But what would any of those confessions accomplish?
Chancing a glance up at her, he was startled by the jolt of emotion that rushed through him when he met her eyes, and he immediately dropped his own back to the counter. "Sara, I..." His voice trailed off when he realized he still didn't know what to say. How is it that I can rattle off the Latin names of every insect species known to man, giving great detail about most of them, yet this one female Homo sapiens reduces me to a babbling idiot? He heaved a world-weary sigh as he wiped a hand across his face.
When he didn't finish the statement, she knew she had asked for too much, and she closed her eyes against the disappointment. When he had made eye contact with her, she had allowed herself to hope that he could open up to her. Now she realized it was too much to ask of him. And it probably always would be.
Exhaling heavily, she pushed herself away from the counter and grabbed up their untouched omelets. Carrying them to the oven, she turned back to face him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, saying with feigned cheerfulness, "Thought they'd be more appetizing if they were warm." He returned her smile with a wan one of his own, nodding his agreement at her pragmatism.
They ate in silence, both lost in their own thoughts and carefully dodging the elephant in the room. When they were done, Sara shyly thanked him for breakfast. "It was really good. I never knew you could cook."
With a dismissive wave, he shrugged. "Gotta cook or starve when you're a bachelor at my age."
That comment could easily have led into another awkward conversation, but she simply changed the subject. "I'll wash the dishes while you take your turn in the shower. If you want, that is."
He gratefully accepted, needing the time alone to collect his thoughts as much as he needed the shower itself. "OK. I'll be out in a bit." Waving his hand across the living room as he ambled towards the hall, he told her, "Make yourself at home."
Closing the door to his bedroom, he gathered the necessary items, carefully compartmentalizing his thoughts and locking away the ones he did not want to deal with at the moment. It was easier to remove Sara from his thoughts when she wasn't staring him in the face. He was just beginning to feel better about the situation when a harsh reality came slamming down on him. How am I going to handle having her in my home every day?
XXXXXXXXX
The shower had made him feel better, soothing away aches and pains, massaging knotted muscles, and cleansing the grime of his overburdened mind. When he emerged from the steamy bathroom, he felt like a new man. Rubbing the damp towel over his tousled curls, he glanced casually at the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, pausing to examine his own appearance.
What could she possibly see in me? I'm pushing fifty. I'm not exactly Brad Pitt – or whoever it is the women find attractive these days. I'm not even the physical specimen that paramedic she used to date was. I'm a socially inept loner who has no idea how to relate to people. I have no idea why she's ever shown an interest in me. He shook his head in self-deprecation as he ran through the familiar argument. And he found himself more frustrated than ever that his logic could not seem to beat his emotions into submission. He wished his colleagues were right, that he really didn't feel anything. If that were the case, he wouldn't have to face this constant inner turmoil.
Banishing the thoughts from his head, he glanced at his watch. 5:00. He had not the first clue how he would manage to entertain her until it was time to go to the lab. He knew she'd be more than happy to go to work early, but five hours early was probably pushing it.
Knowing he couldn't hide in his bedroom for the remainder of the evening, he sighed and put on his scientist persona before throwing open the bedroom door to seek out his houseguest. He was surprised at the silence he encountered and, for a moment he worried that she had left. Walking down the hall, he glanced into the kitchen first – finding it cleaner than he normally kept it – before he looked into the living room. And that's when he saw her.
She was asleep on his sofa, stretched out on her right side, knees bent slightly, both hands under her cheek lying on the cushion. Her beauty nearly took his breath away, and he lost all concept of time as he drank in the sight before him. He idly wondered if this was how the Prince felt just before he woke Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. When that dangerous thought came to the forefront of his mind, he tore himself away from acting on it by reaching for the throw lying across the back of the couch.
"What scares you the most, Griss?" Her unanswered question crept across his thoughts as he gazed down at her in peaceful repose, and his voice was barely audible as he draped the blanket over her sleeping form. "You do."
TBC...