A/N: Thank the good Lord for vacations, or I'd never have time to write. There's nothing like sitting on a beautiful beach to inspire you. It's just too bad I'm writing about people who live in the middle of the desert. :) Oh, well, it'd be a shame to waste such phenomenal memories. Maybe I should write a Grissom-and-Sara-go-to-the-beach story next. :)
Please remember that this story started prior to the beginning of season five, so don't hold its deviation from the canon of the actual show in the new season against me. I really don't want to delve into the myriad of possibilities that Sara's family problems might be. :)
Spoilers: "Play with Fire," "Too Tough to Die," "Invisible Evidence"
Disclaimer: I own a host of CSI:-related entities, in addition to my holdings in Microsoft, Middle Eastern oil, and NASA. And, if you believe that, I've also got some really nice oceanfront property in Vegas for sale. :)
Chapter 12: Dazed and ConfusedGrissom somehow managed to open the front door with four paper sacks of groceries in his arms. Sara waited patiently behind him carrying an additional bag and pulling her rolling suitcase. Using his hip, he pushed the door open with slightly more force than he'd intended, causing it to slam back into the wall. Shaking his head, he led the way into the townhouse quickly, nearly dropping the entire armload twice before he reached the kitchen. When he finally arrived at the counter, he unceremoniously dumped everything onto it and released a grateful breath. She smirked at his less than graceful performance. "I told you that was too many to carry at once."
He shot her a look. "I got them here, didn't I? Granted, it wasn't pretty, but it got done."
"True, but wouldn't it have been easier if you had just made an extra trip?" She glanced up at him with a smug smile as she set her own bag carefully on the breakfast bar and stood the suitcase up next to the counter, pushing its handle down as she did so.
He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right, so he merely grumbled as he walked back towards the door. "No, but it would have been easier if we could have used plastic bags instead of the more environmentally friendly paper version." Her smile widened at the petulant response, blossoming into a full-blown grin when he spoke again. "Now, I'm going to get the rest if you're finished saying 'I told you so.'"
She shook her head as she turned to follow. But, when she got to the door, Grissom stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "There are only a couple of bags left, and I'm pretty sure I can get those in one trip by myself." He flashed her a quick grin before pointing to the door. "Lock this behind me. I'll let myself back in," he said, pulling his keys out of the lock.
She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it when his face darkened. "Sara..." he began with a heavy sigh. He had no desire to argue, but her safety seemed improved with her locked inside the townhouse rather than outside with him.
"OK," she said, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. She'd do anything to keep playful Grissom around, even if it meant making some concessions. The surly version she'd been subjected to lately wasn't nearly as much fun. "I'll just put away the groceries."
He looked conflicted at that, but she didn't give him the opportunity to argue. "No, Grissom," she spoke with a commanding air. "It's really nice of you to let me stay at your house, and I appreciate the fact that you're a gracious host, but you're not going to wait on me hand and foot. You even bought the food today, for crying out loud! Which, by the way, will not happen again." She punctuated her last words by pointing a finger at him dramatically.
Seeing his raised eyebrow, she shrugged and said, "Don't think of me as your houseguest. Think of me as your... uh..." Her voice trailed off. How did she get herself into this? The appropriate word for the situation was, ironically, completely inappropriate. She could only imagine how he'd react to the word...
"Roommate?" he supplied with a mischievous grin. Her eyes shot to his, and she could only stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment. This was certainly not the reaction she'd envisioned, but it made her glad that playful Grissom had stuck around.
She decided to play along. "Just don't expect me to feed your bugs, buster."
His lips dropped into a mock frown. "What good is a roommate if they don't do their share of the chores?"
"I'll do my share, but I draw the line at contributing to the betterment of the insect kingdom. That's your job, and I certainly wouldn't want to take it away from you."
He smirked at her syrupy sweet smile. "Fine, you can start putting away groceries. Just don't mess up my kitchen."
She bit back a sarcastic response to that – something along the lines of how his kitchen was already messy before she ever set foot in it – and opted for a mere nod of agreement instead. He turned and stepped outside, looking back at her sternly over his shoulder with one uplifted eyebrow. "Lock the door, Sara."
"OK, OK, give me a chance," she said with a grin. "It was hard to do with this big entomologist standing in the way."
He turned around to respond, only to find himself face-to-face with the front door as she chose that very moment to comply with his request. He leaned his forehead against the wooden surface, shaking his head with a chuckle when he heard the lock click into place before he turned to make his way down the stairs.
He picked up the two remaining grocery bags from the interior of the Denali before grabbing the plastic bags from the produce stand, wrapping the two of them carefully around each hand. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he ensured that they were in his hand before he shoved the truck's door closed.
Opening the townhouse's door was easier this time with the slightly less unwieldy burden. Closing the door with his foot, he made his way to the kitchen, setting the bags down on the counter and pocketing his keys. He then reached into the closest bag before an irritated voice halted his efforts.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" Sara stopped pulling groceries out of her own bag to place her hands on her hips and glare at him.
For a moment, Grissom was cowed at her anger. That is, until he remembered he was in his own house. "What?" He cocked his head in slight confusion, his own voice tinged with annoyance and the slightest hint of condescension. "Um, I'm putting away groceries."
"Did we not just have a conversation on this very subject?" Exasperation permeated her tone. "Not five minutes ago? Right over there?" She pointed in the direction of the door. "Any of this sound familiar?"
"Sara-"
She cut him off. "Don't 'Sara' me. Put down the groceries and step away and nobody gets hurt." She smiled as she spoke, but her tone was serious. "I'm doing this, Grissom. Go in the other room and... I don't know... feed your bugs or something."
"They don't need to be fed. But this ice cream does need to be put in the freezer," he responded with a slow smile of his own, holding up the frozen dessert.
"I know. And that's exactly where it's going," she said, taking the container from his hand. "You, go, watch television or something," she commanded, pointing into the living room.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she put her free hand on his back and shoved him lightly toward the indicated space. "Go, Grissom. I've got this."
He took only a small step before stopping to look at her, the indecision flickering across his face, and her irritation returned full-force. "Geez, Grissom, I can't possibly learn that much about you just by putting away the groceries, so I really don't see the need for this level of concern." She regretted the bitter words as soon as they left her mouth, and the flash of hurt she saw on his face didn't help matters any. She turned away, suddenly tired of the entire situation.
Reluctantly, he nodded slowly and backed away from the counter. As he moved, he felt the edge of her suitcase brush against his leg. He glanced up to see her putting the ice cream into the freezer and, figuring she wouldn't mind, he picked up her luggage. He needed to make up the guest room anyway.
Once he left, Sara breathed a sigh that was a mixture of relief and sorrow. Why couldn't he just let me do this? She shook her head in anger, pulling food out of bags without any pretense of gentleness. I am such a jerk. He was just being a good host, and I have to say something mean-spirited like that. When exactly did I become this bitter, angry woman? But, on some level, she had meant every word and she could pinpoint the exact moment she had become that woman. It had happened when he had turned down her offer of dinner so flatly, and the sting of the rejection – delivered without any pretext of softening the blow – was still fresh in her mind even after all this time. She supposed it always would be, and she hated the undeniable fact that she couldn't seem to let go and move on.
Forcing away the unwanted thoughts, she fell back on her coping mechanism: burying herself in work. She busied herself with putting away their purchases, enjoying the menial task that prevented her thoughts from running amok. Categorizing the groceries quickly into groups of refrigerated, frozen, nonperishable, and bathroom/cleaning supplies, she then opened the refrigerator. She spent a few moments organizing its mostly cluttered contents, surveying her handiwork and feeling a slight rush of pride when she finished.
Turning back to the remainder of their provisions, she realized she had no idea where anything belonged. After sweeping the bathroom supplies – all hers save the toothbrush bought to replace the one she was using – into one of the bags and dropping it into one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, she spent the next several minutes familiarizing herself with his kitchen. And, despite her best efforts to the contrary, she found herself relishing the small discoveries that revealed a little bit of Grissom to her. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of a full set of china carefully tucked away on the top shelf of a cabinet that also held everyday dishes. She suppressed a knowing smile at the sight of generic brands of nearly everything except Kraft macaroni and cheese. And she caught her breath at the sight of a vegetarian cookbook lying in a drawer next to the refrigerator.
She pondered the cookbook's significance for a moment, curious as to why he had it at all. From the contents of his refrigerator, it was obvious he did not partake of those particular food preferences. Wondering if he had some vegetarian relative that he cooked for from time to time, she picked up the book, feeling only a slight twinge of guilt at her nosiness as she flipped a few pages. But it only took a cursory look at the volume to discover it was not exactly well-read and more than likely had never been opened at all, leaving her to speculate on whether he owned the book for her benefit. And, though she cursed herself for even having that thought, it was nevertheless there.
She pursed her lips as she dropped the cookbook back into its drawer, sliding it shut quietly before turning back to the task at hand. Absorbing herself in her work once again, she forced away the unwelcome thoughts, grateful for the distraction of manual labor.
Grissom returned just as she started on the last handful of foodstuffs, clearing his throat to announce his presence. "Am I allowed back into my own kitchen now?" His tone was neutral, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, trying to judge his mood so that she could adjust her response accordingly. But his face was impassive, and she weighed her options.
"Not yet," she replied, trying to keep her tone light and teasing.
"I'm hungry, Sara," he whined. "You can't keep me out of here forever."
"Not trying to," she laughed. "Just a little bit longer, and your hunger will be satisfied, I promise. Now go." She pointed to the living room with a look that told him she meant business.
Grumbling in mild aggravation, he turned on his heel and walked into the living room, dropping onto the couch as he picked up the remote control. He flipped idly through channels, not really expecting to find anything outside the realm of talk show or soap opera on morning television. But he was pleasantly surprised when a black-and-white film caught his eye, and his thumb paused on the remote. It only took him a second to recognize the movie and, when he did, he dropped the clicker on the couch next to him and settled back in contentment, quickly becoming engrossed in the story on the screen.
So absorbed was he that he didn't notice the mingling scents of coffee and cinnamon raisin bagels wafting into the room until Sara thrust a plate and mug into his face. Startled, he looked up to see her smile as she said, "I thought you were hungry."
"I am," he agreed, taking the proffered items. "But I didn't expect you to feed me. Thank you." She shrugged it off, and he settled the plate into his lap as he watched her walk back toward the kitchen to get her own breakfast. Raising the steaming mug to his lips, he sipped it cautiously, not wanting to burn his tongue.
He returned his eyes to the screen, looking up when Sara came back into the room with a plate and mug in each hand and a case file tucked carefully under her right arm. His eyes narrowed at the sight, and she caught his concerned look but glanced away quickly, not in the mood for yet another lecture on finding a distraction.
Eyes sweeping the room in indecision, she paused momentarily at the entrance to the living room. Grissom's large frame occupied half of the relatively small couch, and the recliner didn't afford a great view of the television. What the chair did have to offer was a safe proximity from Grissom and the frightening effects he always seemed to have on her treacherous body. Decision made. But, before she could take a step toward the recliner, he called her name. Seemingly sensing her hesitation, he patted the cushion next to him and moved over slightly onto one side of the sofa. "Come sit here."
She tensed slightly but did as he asked, perching towards the front of the couch and setting the case file across her lap as a sort of makeshift table. After blowing on the mug, she took a small sip of the steaming liquid before placing it on the coffee table.
Grissom watched her with faint amusement. "You can sit back, you know. I won't bite."
She glared at him, irritated that he had picked up on her discomfort. "I'm fine." Wanting to shift the focus away from herself, she gestured toward the television with her head. "What are we watching?"
He dragged his eyes back toward the film as he responded, "City Lights. One of my favorite movies."
"City Lights? Charlie Chaplin?"
The excitement in her voice was unmistakable, and he looked at her with interest. "Yeah. You like Chaplin?"
"Yes!" she answered quickly. "Well, maybe," she amended, her face reddening. "I've never actually seen one of his movies. Just heard about them all my life."
Seeing his growing curiosity caused her to flush even more, and she returned her attention to the screen as she explained. "My grandmother used to tell us these great stories about how she and her friends would go watch Charlie Chaplin movies when they were teenagers. Four girls in the... what... late '20s, early '30s?" At his nod, she continued, "Yeah, well, movies were evidently the thing to do back then. They'd go every Saturday. It's where she met my grandfather. At City Lights, as a matter of fact." The last part came out in a rush, and she bit her lip, hoping he wouldn't take it as some sort of hint. She hadn't really meant to tell him that story at all but, as she'd told him before, she seemed to forever be overtalking around him.
He turned back to the screen in silence, soaking in the information and reveling in the fact that she had trusted him with such a personal treasure. His voice was shy as he told her, "Well, I can certainly see how your grandparents would enjoy this one. It's pretty romantic."
She could only stare at the screen in shocked silence for a moment but soon recovered her voice. "Real-ly?" Her tone was teasing. "I never knew you were a closet romantic, Grissom."
Eyes still glued to the television set, he shot back, "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Sara."
Her mouth fell open at his lack of denial, and an unbidden image of a kneeling Grissom proposing to her swept across her mind. Don't I wish? She quickly shook her head to clear the thoughts, and he smiled slightly, catching the movement in his peripheral vision. Picking up her bagel and raising it to her lips, she leaned back on the couch and questioned, "So what have I missed?"
"Not much," he replied, draining the last of his coffee before kicking off his shoes and settling back next to her as he put his feet up on the coffee table. Gesturing toward the screen, he said, "It's only about 10 minutes into it, so I think you'll be able to pick up on it easier if you just watch from here rather than me telling you what you missed."
She nodded, quickly becoming absorbed in the story. She chewed her bagel absently, moving her plate to the table when she finished and draining the last of her coffee. Mimicking her companion's position, she propped her legs up on the table and relaxed back against the cushions. The position was much more comfortable and, for a moment, she was thoroughly enjoying herself, completely engrossed in the monochromatic saga of the tramp and the blind girl he loved. She didn't even notice when her eyes closed as fatigue overtook her.
Grissom was riveted to the screen, a faint smile crossing his face as he watched the film's famous boxing match. He had nearly forgotten he had company until he felt a slight weight pressing against his left arm. Glancing in that direction, he saw Sara's head leaning against him, her face relaxed and angelic in slumber. He smiled, barely suppressing the urge to press a kiss against the top of her head. "I thought you never slept," he whispered, lips hovering just above her head.
"Hmmm?" she breathed, her voice groggy and only half-awake as she shifted to find a more comfortable position.
"Shhh," he whispered, suddenly desperate for her to stay near him and knowing she wouldn't if she awoke. On impulse, he moved his hand over hers, softly linking their fingers. "Go back to sleep."
He smiled when her body relaxed and her breathing returned to the deep, rhythmic sound that indicated sleep, and he watched her for a few minutes more before returning his attention to the television. The moment seemed fantastically surreal to him, something he'd dreamed of a thousand times – holding hands with the woman he loved while she slept next to him. And when the characters on the screen mimicked the action, he reached for the remote control and switched off the TV.
He sat silently for a long time, relishing the sensations of the moment – her warm fingers entwined in his, the smell of her hair when he turned his head slightly in her direction, the sound of her breathing intermingling with his own. But, too soon, the reality of their situation invaded his mind. There was a very real killer out there, one who seemed intent on getting to Sara. What did that note say? "I have special plans for you in the future"? What does that mean?
He breathed out a heavy sigh as he turned the words of the note over in his head, not even the slightest bit surprised when his rage returned with a vengeance. "...agent... enjoyed working with you... special cases... bloodhound... special plans" Who is Kim? He had no answers, and it was frustrating beyond belief. It had only been two days, but he felt as if they were further from the killer with each passing minute. Whoever he is, he'd better hope I never meet him.
Trying to calm his stormy emotions, he reached for the case file in Sara's lap, gently pulling it into his own. Picking up his glasses from the end table next to him, he opened the file and began to read about Allison Shea and the circumstances surrounding her untimely demise. Giving little more than a cursory glance to the cover sheet, he saw that N. Stokes and W. Brown were the CSIs assigned to the case. The police report described the state of Shea's apartment – no sign of forced entry, victim found in her bedroom next to the bed, hands bound with fishing net in a figure-eight pattern. Flipping to the crime scene photos, he studied a close-up of the victim's bound wrists, mentally comparing it to the digital photographs of Marilyn Ellis he'd viewed earlier. The similarities were striking.
Reaching onto the end table absently, he found the notepad and pen he always kept nearby and brought it into his lap. With his free hand, he quietly flipped the pad open to a clean sheet and wrote the victims' names across the top of the sheet. On the left side of the page, he wrote "Age" and then neatly printed 28 under Allison Shea's name and 48 under Marilyn Ellis'. The word "Bindings" started the next row, followed by "fishing net" and "nylons" under the victims' names. He continued in that studious manner for nearly two hours, softly turning the pages of the file and copying down various details about the Shea murder alongside what he could remember of the Ellis case.
Delving further into the Shea file, he discovered that she'd had a live-in boyfriend who had been ruled out as a suspect in the case. At the time of his girlfriend's death, Jeremy Rankin had been at his office working steadily on a case with three other associates at the law firm of Foreman, Thomas, and DeLoach. He was the one who had discovered Ally's body when he arrived home sometime around midnight that evening.
Dr. Robbins had placed the time of death at about 10:00 pm. He ultimately determined that Shea died as a result of sodium chloride poisoning. Grissom shook his head. The similarities in the two cases were uncanny. This had to be the same killer. But there was still something that was bothering him.
He took off his glasses and leaned his head back against the couch, careful not to disturb his sleeping companion. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he sighed. What am I missing? Serial killer. Two murders, two years apart. What do they have in common?
He continued to mull over the problem in his head, and there were moments when he felt as if he almost had the elusive piece. He could nearly reach out and grab it, but then it would move just beyond his grasp and disappear. After the second time that happened, he clenched his jaw tightly, the frustration making its presence felt in the strong facial muscles.
And, suddenly, as if sensing his mood shift, Sara repositioned herself against him, turning more in his direction and drawing her legs up underneath her body. Her right hand remained cradled in his left, but she wrapped her left arm around his midsection, the fingers lightly touching the starched fabric of his white shirt under his right arm. And he could not breathe.
All ideas on the case were crowded from his mind as his brain was suddenly filled only with thoughts of Sara. He closed his eyes, cherishing the feeling of being held by her and treasuring every second he sat there with her. And though he knew he shouldn't allow this to continue, he couldn't seem to make himself move.
But suddenly, the elusive thought was there. Right at the forefront of his mind where all he had to do was reach up and pick it like some overly ripe grape. There's got to be another case. A case that Sara worked. The perp said he'd "worked" with her before the Ellis murder, but Nick and Warrick were assigned to the Shea case, and that's the only other one we know about.
His mind raced with the implications of the thought. Sara always remembered the unsolved cases. They ate at her, and he had learned firsthand about her violent nightmares. Maybe this time they could use that to their advantage. She should remember this case. He looked down at her, and his breath caught in his throat. He always found her beautiful, but there were still times when he was surprised at just how much it affected him. Removing his hand from hers carefully, he gently touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, calling her name softly as he did so.
"Mmm-hmm," she acknowledged without opening her eyes.
"Why don't you go to bed?" His voice was smiling.
Her brow crinkled slightly as her sleep-addled brain puzzled over his question. After a short hesitation, she responded quietly with her eyes still closed, "Because you're in my bed."
It was his turn to be confused. "What? I'm not in your bed."
"Uh-huh," she replied, and he smiled at the childlike tenor of her response.
He resisted the juvenile urge to reply, "Nuh-uh," opting instead for, "Open your eyes, Sara."
Grissom had injected just the right amount of authority into his voice, and she reluctantly obeyed. Blinking in the dim lighting, her eyes widened in mortification when she realized her position. This made the second consecutive day she'd awoken with her arms wrapped around her boss. It was a wonder she still had a job.
Withdrawing her arm and moving away from him quickly, she could only stare at him in horror. And, though he missed the loss of her touch immediately, he couldn't help but chuckle at her expression. She began to stammer, "God, Grissom... I-I-I ... am... so sorry..."
He cut off her apology with a wave of his hand. "It's OK, Sara. But you'd be more comfortable in a bed, don't you think?"
She tilted her head at him in befuddlement. She had assumed she'd be sleeping on the couch. Though her brain was still somewhat groggy, she distinctly remembered sleeping in his bed last night, and there was no way she was taking his bedroom from him. The couch was fine. "Grissom, I'm not taking your bedroom."
"Huh?" It was his turn to be puzzled. Narrowing his eyes at her, he spoke slowly, "You're right. No, you're not."
When she only appeared more bewildered, he amended the blunt statement. "Well, you could have it if you really wanted it, I suppose. But I was thinking you'd take the guest room."
She blinked at him. He has a guest room? Why didn't he take me there yesterday?
Suddenly, he realized the source of the confusion and laughed quietly. Standing, he took her hand and pulled her up with him, not letting go when he turned to lead the way down the hall. "You want to know why I didn't put you in the guest bedroom yesterday, don't you?"
She answered with a quick nod, but Grissom didn't have to turn to see it. Pausing at the door, he pushed it open and released her hand, gesturing for her to go inside. "It wasn't a good time for you to meet Nathan," he answered cryptically.
Sara was definitely feeling sluggish, and she had already walked a few steps into the room, intent on just falling onto the bed and allowing sleep to overtake her. But that response was intriguing enough to stop her in her tracks. She turned partway to face him, raising one eyebrow in silent question.
He grinned at her response. "You'll meet him later. Get some sleep, Sara."
And, with that, he shut the door quietly, still smiling at her expression. "Pleasant dreams, sweetheart," he whispered to the air before shuffling off in search of his own bed.
TBC...