A/N: I cannot say how much I appreciate all of your kind reviews. I am truly overwhelmed!
And, geez, I need to apologize six ways to Sunday for how long it's been since I've updated. I hope I still have readers after two weeks! :-)
In response to La Kitt: Hang in there! We're getting there slowly but surely, I promise. (I won't commit to bedroom scenes, though – I like to leave those to the imagination! :-)). Think of it this way: In music, the longer a dissonant chord is sustained, the more satisfying its resolution. But providing resolution too early would be inconsistent with the build-up and, in this case, out of character for both Grissom and Sara. Perhaps I've been remiss in making this story entirely too detailed, but I can't change it now without being completely incompatible with the rest of it.
Spoilers: "XX", "Crate and Burial," "Sex, Lies, and Larvae," "Primum Non Nocere," "Scuba Doobie Doo," "The Hunger Artist," "Bloodlines"
Disclaimer: I wish I owned Grissom, I wish I owned Grissom, I wish I owned Griss... oh, ahem... yeah... sorry... um, I don't own CSI:. Heh. :-)
Chapter 13: Waiting for Good ThingsSara awoke refreshed in the middle of the afternoon. Stretching lazily as she glanced at her watch, she sat up with a yawn. She still wore her clothes from the previous night's shift but, amazingly, she didn't feel grimy and wrinkled, although she was fairly certain she looked it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror set atop the adjacent chest of drawers and was somewhat surprised to see that, though her hair stuck both away from and to her head in random fashion, the conspicuous absence of the gaunt cheeks and dark circles under her eyes that had recently been her constant companion did wonders for her appearance.
She swiveled her head slowly around, soaking in the atmosphere of Grissom's guest room. She'd been so exhausted earlier that she had barely made it onto the bed before she collapsed and was immediately and soundly asleep. She hadn't even bothered to turn down the covers but had merely draped herself across the bed fully clothed, burying her face in the pillow as she fell headlong into somnolence.
Now she studied the spartan surroundings with an investigator's eye. The room was utilitarian at best, and it reminded her a little too much of the visit she and Nick had recently made to a women's prison outside Vegas. The bed, the chest, and the night table next to her were the only furnishings, and the walls were an austere white. Other than the brown oak of the bureau and the golden sheen of the brass bed, the only significant color in the room was supplied by the shiny black plastic and glowing red numbers of the digital clock radio on the night table. The pastel yellow in the bedspread made a valiant effort to add a springtime flair, but it was all for naught against the stark whiteness of the walls and ceiling. She wondered if Grissom had ever had a guest, and the fact that the thought had even crossed her mind made her sad for him.
As her mind wandered to her housemate, her thoughts flew back to their last conversation. 'It wasn't a good time for you to meet Nathan,' he had said. Who the heck is Nathan? Her brow crinkled as she turned and dropped her feet onto the floor. Settling her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, she pondered the question, her curiosity thoroughly piqued. It's got to be a pet. Some insect, maybe? She smiled and rolled her eyes as she pushed herself off the bed. Probably a spider... But Nathan wasn't exactly a normal name for a pet. Admittedly, Grissom was far from "normal" – it was one of the things she loved about him – but naming a pet Nathan even seemed odd for him. She shook her head. Despite her curiosity, she would have to wait. Patience, Sara. Good things come to those who wait. Yeah, except for what I really want. How long do I have to wait for that? she thought bitterly.
Forcing away her frustration, she looked across the room, noticing that he had left her suitcase by the door. And, despite her aggravation with Grissom at the moment, his thoughtfulness brought a smile to her face as she walked over to retrieve it. She heaved the weighty black luggage onto the bed and quickly unzipped it. Flicking her eyes toward the bureau, she debated unpacking her things into it but almost immediately dismissed the thought. Just a little too presumptuous.
Plucking her bedtime attire – a faded Harvard T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts sporting various physics equations – from a pocket of the suitcase, she headed for the chest. Arranging all of her clothes into it was obviously out of the question, but she at least wanted to have easy access to her version of pajamas. Having to rummage through her bag when she was ready for bed was not an appealing thought. Before she could second-guess herself, she opened the top drawer and, after ensuring it was empty, dropped the shorts and shirt inside.
After grabbing an appropriate work outfit and the black bag which had been nestled amid a bed of underwear and cotton shirts, she rezipped the suitcase and towed it carelessly over to the closet. Pushing the sliding door slightly open, she shoved the suitcase inside and closed the door without a second glance.
As she looked back towards the bed, she debated what to do next, and the sight of the small toiletry bag evoked a blissful sigh. Shampoo, conditioner, hair dryer, Juniper Breeze body lotion. Sara had never been overly concerned with femininity. She'd spent much of her childhood playing baseball with her brother and his friends, and her adolescence had been filled with track meets and tennis matches, where she'd spent much of her time competing against boys. She'd even pursued a career in what was largely a male field – and had excelled at it. But, much as she loathed shopping, she was reduced to a pigtailed ballerina whenever she walked into a Bath and Body Works. She had always been a sucker for fragrant bubble baths and fruity body lotions. Even at fifteen bucks a pop, Juniper Breeze was so worth it. She just wished she could wear it more often.
Her mind drifted to a nearly forgotten conversation she'd had with Grissom not long after she moved to Vegas. She'd asked him, jokingly, if he'd just slapped on bad cologne, and he had responded, seriously, that he never wore it because it interfered with the job. Until that moment – a lifetime ago – she'd never pondered the importance of something as minor as cologne. But, like so many of her other talks with him, she'd memorized that one and taken it to heart. She had not worn anything beyond deodorant to work since.
Well, what better opportunity do I have than right now? I can't go out in the field. What evidence will I disturb? And, with a triumphant smile on her face, she snatched up her clothes and the small bag and headed for the bathroom across the hall. She couldn't believe that she was actually feeling glad that she was confined to the lab.
She opened the door quietly and threw a cautious glance down the hall toward Grissom's bedroom. Seeing his door was shut, she breathed a small sigh of relief and tiptoed silently into the bathroom. Once inside the tiny lavatory, she dropped her items next to the sink before turning towards the bathtub. She cringed when she first turned on the water, initially concerned that it might wake Grissom, but she quickly decided that the sound of something as rhythmic as running water would only lull him back into further slumber. Reaching for the black bag, she pulled out a small bottle of bubble bath and poured a small amount of the potent liquid into the water, watching in fascination as the suds under the faucet piled on top of each other like great fluffy clouds.
She started suddenly as she realized she hadn't brought a towel with her and swept her eyes around the room as she mentally contemplated the problem. Great, now what? Drip dry? But, just as that thought entered her mind, her gaze landed on familiar handwriting adorning a sticky note plastered to the mirror. Pushing herself away from her perch on the side of the tub, she read the contents with a smile. "Left towels and your toothbrush underneath the sink... G." That was nice of him. Pulling the note off the mirror, she almost missed the P.S. on the back. It simply said, "roomie," and was accompanied by a smiley face. She snickered, wondering for a moment whether the word or the drawing was more out of character for him, ultimately coming to the conclusion that she didn't much care.
She laid the note down carefully next to the sink, not quite sure why she wanted to keep it but equally unwilling to discard the tiny token. Peeling off her clothes, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself unhurriedly into the luxurious lather. With a sigh, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of the satiny bubbles caressing her skin and feeling the tension slip away from her body with the ripple of each tiny wave.
The bathtub had always been Sara's sanctuary. From her adolescence, she had taken bubble baths to escape from reality, from pain, even from herself. Any thought, any dream, any fantasy, no matter how comical or unlikely, could be explored with gravity and without ramification in the confines of water-filled porcelain. For it was understood that, as the suds swirled their way down the drain, they took with them the thoughts and their attached emotions.
When the thoughts came, their content did not surprise her. Over the last several years, a predominance of her bathtime ponderings involved Grissom. Sometimes there were memories of draping a blanket across his broad shoulders while he conducted an experiment designed to prove her theory. Sometimes she could hear him saying that he had never noticed beauty until he met her, a statement she was sure was designed to leave her speechless. Sometimes she concocted elaborate schemes designed to convince him to take a chance on her, on them. Today, she merely soaked in the remembrances of the last couple of days – his gentleness in holding her while she cried, the fear in his eyes when she wandered away unaccompanied, his playful flirtations that she had so sorely missed. She sighed at the memory of her hand on his chest, his smile as he'd walked out the door to retrieve groceries earlier in the day, his shy admission of the romantic nature of a favorite film. Every new revelation made her love him even more, and she knew in that instant that she would never leave his house with her heart intact.
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She stepped out into the hallway cautiously, fully clothed but still feeling exposed with her bare feet and with a towel turbaned around her wet hair. Crossing quickly into the guest room, she slid the closet door open just enough to drop her dirty clothes and wet towel on top of her suitcase before pulling it closed again. Brushing out the wet strands hurriedly, she decided against using the hair dryer, fearing its noise would awaken her sleeping supervisor.
She glanced around the sparsely furnished room, unsure what to do with herself until he awoke. Some part of her wanted to explore his home, but another part, the part that wanted more, held her back. It would be a violation of his privacy, she reasoned. But, deep down, she knew the real truth was that she wanted him to share himself with her, to be actively involved in giving himself. Sure, she could take what she wanted – learn more of the little things that made him who he was – but it wouldn't give her what she truly needed.
Her stomach rumbled heavily, reminding her that the effects of the bagel she'd eaten several hours earlier had long since worn off. She trudged into the kitchen, glad for the distraction from the temptation of snooping. As she reached for the refrigerator door, her gaze landed on the tomatoes lined up on his counter like squishy soldiers ready to march against an army of leafy green vegetables. And she suddenly had a craving.
Opening the refrigerator with renewed vigor, she rummaged for onions and peppers before moving on to the pantry in her quest for other desirable ingredients. One by one, she collected the things she needed, accumulating a small pile in the span of just a few minutes. Sara didn't cook much anymore, but that was not to say she couldn't. Much knowledge is borne of necessity, and life in a family-owned bed-and-breakfast often necessitated all hands on deck when it came to meal preparation.
Despite her feminist views at work, and though she would never willingly admit it, Sara had always enjoyed domestic chores, and especially cooking. When she donned an apron, she was no longer a scientist. She became an artist, and her creative juices unerringly yielded exquisite results. But there was no joy in cooking for one. As a result, the extent of her cooking these days was limited to tossing prepackaged food into the microwave or calling for take-out. But today she had incentive. Today she had someone to cook for, and she found herself smiling in anticipation of the look on Grissom's face when he saw what she had prepared.
Taking a quick inventory of her ingredients, she decided that only wine was missing. She needed a smooth white wine and hadn't thought to buy one when they were at the store earlier. She could only hope Grissom had one; the sauce would certainly not be the same without it. She glanced around the room, knowing she had seen wine in her earlier tour of the kitchen cabinets. Opening a door underneath the breakfast bar, she was rewarded with three bottles – two unopened containers of a burgundy Chablis and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, the latter of which she greedily grabbed.
She worked diligently for the next twenty minutes before finally putting the entire mixture over low heat to simmer. Taking a step back from the stove, she leaned against the counter, smiling in satisfaction as the aroma of stewing tomatoes wafted past her nose. Moving forward, she stirred the concoction once more before setting the lid firmly in place.
Now what? The sauce needed to simmer for at least two hours, and she had no idea when Grissom would awaken. She had never dealt well with boredom and, more often than not, simply went in to work as a way to combat inactivity. While it might not have been the healthiest coping mechanism, it nevertheless kept her from insanity and, thus, was useful. But work wasn't an option for her while she was imprisoned at Grissom's.
Or maybe it was. Her eyes lit up when she looked into the living room and saw the Shea case file lying on the end table. How glad am I that I brought that home? Wait – home? Oh, I am getting a little too comfortable here. But she couldn't help but smile as she sank down onto the couch and moved Grissom's reading glasses aside to pick up the thick folder. She really did feel at home here, like she belonged, and she hadn't felt that way in a long time. Maybe never.
Focusing on the task at hand, she opened the file to the cover page, reacquainting herself with evidence she'd scrutinized a mere 48 hours earlier. Allison Shea, age 28, date of death August 28, 2002. Next of kin was listed as her mother Miranda, but Allison had lived with her boyfriend Jeremy Rankin. The contact numbers for each were listed, and Sara reached for the pen and pad she'd seen lying on the end table. She absently glanced at the pad, doing a double-take when she noticed the familiar scrawl covering the page. She studied Grissom's notes, absorbing the similarities and differences between the cases and admiring the diligence of the man who had condensed them onto paper. There were blank spaces on Marilyn Ellis' side of the row, and she knew he must have written only what he could remember from her case. But his notes were thorough, incorporating huge components of the case, such as cause of death, alongside the smallest of details, such as whether or not the victims wore fingernail polish. Did he do all of this while I was asleep? Exactly how long was I out?
She smiled as she realized she wouldn't have expected anything less. Gil Grissom was easily the most brilliant person she'd ever met. Always had been. He had a keen eye for detail and an uncanny knack for discovering evidence where others could find none. And he didn't give up easily. All of which combined to make him the best investigator she'd ever worked with – hands down.
She returned her attention to the file itself, keeping Grissom's notepad nearby for reference when she saw something of interest. For the most part, he had written down everything she found, but she did make one addition to the final page of his notes. Neatly printing marital status on the left-hand side of the page, she filled in the appropriate spaces under each victim. Serial killers usually look for the same kind of victim. So he got one married woman and one that was cohabitating. Fits the profile.
The thought of Shea's cohabitation reminded her that she had not yet copied the phone numbers of the individuals listed on the file's cover page, and she grabbed Grissom's pen once more. She scrawled the numbers hastily on the back page of the pad before tearing off the relevant portion of the sheet and studying it. Which one of these people should we see fir-?
The thought was left unfinished as Grissom trudged into the living room, looking tousled and sleepy... and utterly adorable. His curls were in a mild state of disarray, and he wore his robe cinched low over a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He scrubbed a hand across his beard as he headed for the kitchen, stopping short when he noticed Sara on the couch. His voice was gruff from lack of use when he spoke. "Hey."
She smirked at his bewildered expression, remembering that he had looked much the same when Brass first brought her here. "Hey yourself. Did you sleep well?"
He nodded. "Just not long enough." As he spoke, he swiped a hand across his eye, the gesture as guileless as a small boy's. Sara couldn't help but laugh, and he cocked his head to the side. "What's so funny?"
Biting back a giggle at his perplexed look, she shook her head. "You just look so childlike when you wake up." When his expression changed to mild irritation, she amended, "I don't mean that in a bad way. You look... I don't know... innocent. It's very sweet." Lowering her eyes, she added, "Just not what I expected, I guess."
He smiled, secretly pleased at her admission though he wasn't completely sure why. Deciding that changing the subject was the better part of valor, he sniffed hungrily as he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the scent. "I'm not used to such savory smells coming from my kitchen. What is that?"
She lifted her eyes and smiled widely as she responded, "That is my tomato sauce. I thought we could have pasta primavera for dinner, but the sauce has to cook for a couple of hours first. Is that OK with you?"
"Are you kidding? Argue with something that smells that great?" He shot her a lopsided grin. "Besides, I've been told that good things come to those who wait. I'm willing to test the theory."
She met his gaze sharply and held it, catching the tiniest flash of something in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it. She looked away first as she pushed herself off the couch, remembering her own earlier thoughts and unwilling to allow her emotions to get the best of her. Heading for the kitchen, she began the menial task of coffee preparation, glad to have something to occupy her hands.
He watched her for a moment as she worked, her fingers just as precise in their movements with the coffee filter as they were with evidence. There was something familiar about the moment, something significant, but his mind was too slowed by residual sleep to process it. He shook his head slightly to clear the cobwebbed thoughts, shuffling away from the counter and down the hall. "I'm going to take a shower," he tossed over his shoulder.
He had just passed the guest bath when a delicate scent wafted past, making him pause momentarily in his trek towards his own bathroom. It only took him a second to recognize it and, when he did, he smiled. Sara.
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The shower was Grissom's haven from reality. He had mulled over countless cases, solved a thousand puzzles, pieced together numerous mysteries under the cascading stream. He would not – could not – bring himself to show his emotions around others, but he had banged out his anger, cursed out his frustration, cried out his pain within its tiled enclosure.
But today was different. Today wasn't about showing emotion; it was about figuring it out. He stood calmly under the steaming spray, arms braced against the wall, eyes closed against the blinding stream. He allowed the water to rinse the last of the sleep cobwebs from his brain and, slowly, he felt the tension seep from his body.
The water cascaded through his hair, creating giant rivulets through his beard on its gravity-guided journey toward the drain. He felt it drip from his face in great droplets, and he was sure he would be able to hear them hit the porcelain floor above the roar of the shower if he but watched them fall. The sensation of the flow through his beard was gentle, tender, like a lover's caress.
His eyes snapped open, and he pressed his arms more firmly against the wall. Gingerly, he raised his hand to his cheek, remembering how Sara's hand had felt there yesterday. Feather light and soft but also, somehow, strong and reassuring. His memory drifted back to a time two years earlier when she had done the same thing while he was in the midst of a tirade about a suspect and a body they could not find. He could still recall with startling clarity how it had felt when she trailed her hand across his unshaven face. She had claimed she was brushing away chalk at the time, but he had never been quite sure. Regardless, the action had accomplished its purpose – it took his mind off of his unproductive ramblings and calmed him significantly.
Mentally comparing the two scenarios, he rubbed his hand over his beard roughly before leaning both arms against the wall again. There was no comparison. The earlier incident had been far more satisfying and, for the first time, he seriously considered shaving. He scoffed aloud at the idea that Sara might touch him again and that he wanted to be able to feel it. But, before he could berate himself for its absurdity, his brain was suddenly accosted by a mental image.
Well, many images. His mind was suddenly awash with snippets of memories, multiple snapshots of various times in his life, but all involving one prevailing figure – Sara. Smiling up at him from her seat in his forensics seminar, wrapping a blanket around him as he performed an experiment on a decomposing pig, standing next to him staring up at a billboard of a supermodel, wounded and bleeding on the curb after the lab explosion, holding his hand limply when he picked her up from the police station after her near-arrest, crying in his arms from fear, speaking broken Spanish with a huge grin, standing in his kitchen with her hands on her hips, sleeping with her arms around him, making his coffee just the way he liked it.
He was suddenly glad his arms were still braced against the wall of the shower because his knees nearly buckled from the sheer weight of the epiphany. She belonged here. In his kitchen, in his house, in his life. With her here, he was finally at home. And, at long last, he understood that, despite his fears, despite his reservations, despite everything that held him back, he could never let her go again.
TBC...