Rating: M for adult situations
Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with CBS and have no claim on these characters.
Author's note: Thank you so much to all who reviewed the Prologue. Your encouragement and support is intoxicating!
Binary Stars Chapter One: Calculating Randomness
Striding confidently down the hall to his office before the start of shift, Grissom heard a snippet of music. The melody teased the edges of his cortex, bringing to mind half-formed images. His own nine-year-old self… his friend Mikey Masterson… sandlot baseball. He frowned with frustration. Too bad the darn tune was just a quarter-step off key. If whoever was producing it would stay on pitch, he might be able to retrieve the entire memory.
Catherine slowed to study him as she approached. He noted the set of her jaw and the arch of her eyebrow… yes, she definitely had her I'm on the trail of something expression on her face. Normally, he liked to see it. She was a tenacious investigator; when she had a lead she would pursue it with a dogged single-mindedness that almost always got results. But when that gaze was directed at him, he felt a little nervous. Good thing insects aren't sentient, he mused. I know what it feels like to be pinned to a specimen board.
"Yes, Catherine?"
"You – you're whistling!" He heard the stunned wonder in her voice and watched as she ticked off her points on her fingers. "The shadows are fading under your eyes. You actually look relaxed. You've got that cat-who-ate-the-canary grin…"
He felt the need to defend himself, but somehow he couldn't manage to wipe the Mona Lisa smile from his face. "Umm, I…"
Her eyes widened as she reached her conclusion. "Gil Grissom, you got laid!"
He raised one eyebrow at her. "Hardly."
"Hardly, my ass. I know that look…" She regarded him with a combination of amusement and tenderness. "It's about time, sunshine." She gave him a quick kiss and zipped by him, gloating. Grissom stood still for a moment, unconsciously brushing his fingertips over the spot on his cheek where her lips had touched him.
Well, darn. No wonder the tune sounded familiar.
He sat in his office, sorting through cases and planning assignments. It was only a few minutes before shift. Intent on his work, he didn't notice Sara take up her usual pose in his doorway.
"Grissom?" He started. "Did Catherine just kiss you?"
No! Of all the people to have seen this, not you, Sara. "Let me guess," he said dryly. "You and Greg and Warrick saw us in the hall, and you've been dispatched to get all the juicy details."
She blushed. "Umm, something like that. So… what was that all about?"
He rolled his eyes. "Catherine is under the impression that I am having intercourse with some mystery woman, and she wanted to congratulate me."
Sara snickered.
He assumed a wounded face. "Is that so very improbable?"
"Well, ye-es. I mean, not that you aren't capable of finding… umm…" Awkwardly, she cast about for the right words. "…female companionship. But Grissom, you're married to your work. Everyone knows that."
"Believe it or not, Sara, I do have a life outside this lab."
A bit taken aback, she considered the possibility, eyes dulling in the exact moment when she acknowledged it might be true. Oh, honey, you have nothing to worry about. You're the only one I want.
Take a deep breath, Gil. You can do this. "Listen, there's something I need to talk to you about." Sweet heaven. What if she says no to breakfast?
"Grissom, shift starts in three minutes. Can it wait?" Clearly uncomfortable, she was trying to get away.
"Well actually, yes… it's, umm, personal. So yes. Would you have breakfast with me after shift and we can talk then?"
Blinking in surprise, she was silent for a moment. "Well, sure. Okay."
He nodded curtly. "Okay, then."
She turned to go, but he stopped her. "Sara? For the record, I'm not."
"Not what?" He merely raised his eyebrows at her. "Oh. Good."
Sighing in frustration, he tossed the pen across his desk, forgoing all pretense of making headway on his paperwork. Any other night in Vegas would have served up something interesting, case-wise. He tried for a minute to compute the odds that the one shift when he really needed to lose himself in work had turned out to be the quietest one in years, then gave up on the complexities of calculating randomness.
He and Catherine had returned from the robbery hours ago. Warrick and Sara were in the interrogation room wrapping up with a suspect from their B&E, and Greg was hanging out, annoying Jacqui while she processed the partials from his scene.
Indulging himself in another loud sigh, he laced his fingers behind his head, rocking back in his chair. An amorphous dread of the coming conversation had slowly supplanted his happy anticipation from the start of shift. Too much time to think. Sara's voice spoke to him out of the depths of his memory: "You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be too late."
He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until the end of shift. Levering himself out of his chair, he walked towards the break room to get a cup of coffee. It wasn't the best thing to settle his nerves, he reflected, but at this point he seriously doubted that anything could. He might as well distract himself instead. The aroma and taste of a really great cup of coffee – that was about as good as distraction could get at work.
He rummaged through the cabinet, looking guiltily for Greg's Blue Hawaiian. His newest CSI's excellent taste in coffee was matched by his creativity in finding hiding places for his secret stash. Grissom checked the usual places, to no avail. He was about to give up when the orange label on a plastic cylinder in the back of the top shelf caught his eye. Metamucil. Gotcha, Greg.
He tipped some of the beans into the hopper on top of the coffee grinder. With the soft growl of the burrs he was treated to a delicious aroma. He transferred the ground beans to the filter basket on the coffeemaker, filled the reservoir with water, and flipped the switch to brew.
Sinking into a chair, he drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for the hiss-drip of the coffee brewing. He heard footsteps approaching down the hall, and then the distinctive ring of Sara's cell phone.
"Sidle," she answered crisply. A pause. "Oh my God."
The skin on the back of his neck prickled, hairs rising in a strange premonition. He was on his feet at once, limbs tangling briefly with a table leg, then heading for the hall.
A choking sound. "When?"
Warrick's voice, deep and concerned. "Sara? Sara, you okay?"
Her voice again, tinny and far away. "When is it?" Then faintly, "Thank you."
He rounded the corner in time to see her leaning weakly against the wall. Her cell phone slipped from her hand and crashed, echoing oddly as the battery separated and went skittering across the hall.
Everything seemed to unwind in slow motion as he watched her fold neatly to her knees and lean forward on her hands. Warrick dropped instantly to her side, stroking her hair up and back and holding it for her as she retched helplessly, spilling her lunch onto the floor.
Reaching them, he crouched on her other side, rubbing her back gently as she vomited again and again. He caught Warrick's eye, questioning the younger man silently. Warrick shrugged, clearly confused as well.
Finally, the heaves subsided to snuffling hiccups. "Sara?" asked Warrick softly. "Can you stand?"
She nodded. Warrick helped her to her feet and guided her around the sour mess on the floor. Grissom picked up the pieces of her cell phone and walked into the break room as she slipped heavily into a chair. Rubbing her hands gently, Warrick knelt at her feet. Alarmed and feeling the need to do something concrete, Grissom brought her a glass of water.
"So… what happened?" asked Warrick.
"Lisa's dead."
The two men exchanged another set of bewildered glances. "Who is Lisa?" Grissom inquired quietly.
"My college roommate. Lisa Archer. She just died."
"Oh, Sara, I'm so sorry." Warrick's concern was palpable. "Was she in an accident?"
"No. She, umm, she had breast cancer. She's been sick for a while."
Still trying to put the pieces together, Grissom kept probing. "But you haven't asked for any time off lately."
Her head whipped up and she looked at them defiantly, bleakness in her eyes. "Thanks, Grissom, for pointing out what a terrible friend I am." She laughed mirthlessly. "I couldn't face it. I knew I should go see her but I kept putting it off. And now it's too late."
Oh, Sara. No wonder you were so sick.
She bowed her head again. Grissom closed his eyes briefly against the pain he had unwittingly caused her. Her hands were locked tightly in Warrick's, in a grip of desperation.
He debated the best course of action. Clearly, Warrick was doing a better job of soothing her at this moment. But he was the supervisor and as such he was responsible for the health and well-being of his team while they were on his shift.
You're rationalizing. Try again.
I can't bear to see her hurting like this. I can't stand the thought of someone else comforting her.
He looked at Warrick. "Close up shift for me, would you, 'Rick?"
"Of course." Warrick tugged on her hands until she raised her head. "If you need anything, I'm here for you." She blinked at him.
"And Griss? Take good care of her."
Grissom nodded his agreement. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't resist as her drew her to her feet and led her down the hall.
"Come on, Sara. Let's get you home."