Author: geekyfrog
Rating: Mature, for a little …ahem… solo exploration. If this offends you, please don't read.
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Spoilers: general through the end of Season Six
Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.
Author's Notes: Nomadic Soul, my continued appreciation for your beta-extraordinaire skills.
This is my favorite chapter so far. Please let me know what you think.
Chapter 3: Resonance
Grissom swam slowly back to consciousness, gradually regaining awareness of his surroundings. He was lying diagonally across his bed… on top of the covers… wearing only his boxers. What the hell? Squinting to bring the room into focus, he peered at the clock on the nightstand. 4:57 PM. Okay. He had about two hours to get ready for his date with Sara.
A date with Sara! He closed his eyes again and let the memories of the incredible, improbable events of the last twenty-four hours wash over him.
Driving happily. Catherine kissing him. Sara confronting him.
Laughter in the break room. An ordinary case. An extraordinary night.
Coffee brewing. The buzz of Sara's cell phone. Time stopping, and then rushing, galloping, impossibly fast.
Sara's face, white and pinched with shock. Fear mirrored in his. Impotent. Helpless.
Sara sagging to the ground. Rushing to her. Watching her be sick.
Hearing her story. Warrick comforting her. Intense, inexplicable jealousy.
Driving her home. Terrified by her silence.
In her apartment. Wanting her. Kissing her. Having her. Ohgod.
Loving her enough to stop.
Talking. Seeing the door to his future closing. Watching the knob turn. Knowing that he had to build a doorstop out of words before the spindle slipped into place and the lock clicked shut forever. And somehow, miraculously, doing it.
Driving home, shellshocked, tumescent.
Shucking his clothes. Leaving them where they fell. Walking to the bathroom.
Preparing to relieve himself as he did after almost every shift with Sara. Mechanically, joylessly, never allowing himself the exquisite painandpleasure of fantasy.
Breaking his own rule.
Delicious.
He groaned, rolled over, sat up. He scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his fingertips. Sniffing the air, he realized that the expected scent of coffee was missing.
Guess I didn't set up the coffeemaker last night. Hope this isn't an indication of how my day is going to go.
He stood up and stretched, then padded into the kitchen to make the coffee before he went to shave and shower.
Normally, he was quick to go through the motions of getting ready. Today, though, he stood under the shower head for long minutes after he was clean. Both hands worked at the kinks at the base of his neck, trying in vain to relieve the painful tightness. Why am I feeling so badly?
Sighing, he turned around to face the shower head. He felt open, raw, exposed. He lifted his face to the hot spray, hoping that the steaming water would wash away some of his anxiety as it sluiced over his skin. You've been dreaming of this for years. You should be happy. Not sick to your stomach.
When the water finally cooled, he reluctantly turned off the shower and reached for a towel. Be careful what you wish for.
He dried himself off, then used the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. The man who stared back at him looked haunted.
"All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare," (1) he said out loud. His reflection stared steadily back at him, unconvinced.
Yes, but Spinoza was talking about salvation, not love.
Maybe love can be a form of salvation.
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. He felt as if his skin was inside out, exposing every nerve ending. His anxiety and agitation had coalesced into a knot right behind his breastbone, taking up all the space in his chest cavity and making it hard to breathe.
I've got to get a grip on myself. He pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As the first hot gulps scalded his esophagus, he walked into the living room, seeking his habitual comfort.
He pressed a few buttons to turn on the sound system, then reached for the emergency CDs. He had a few which he kept in a small stack by themselves, rather than filed in with the rest of his collection, so he could locate them quickly when he needed them.
The plastic cases clicked softly as he flipped through them. It only took him a moment to find the one he sought. Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing Strauss' Vier letze Lieder. As he had so many times before, he dropped the CD into the player and set it to repeat the third cut.
He sank down on the couch as the opening strains of Beim Schlafengehen broke over him. Closing his eyes, he soaked up the violin's lament, the soprano's cry. He would find healing here. He always did.
Schwarzkopf's voice soared, poignant, majestic. Sound waves shimmered in the room. The wild, keening beauty of the melody vibrated against the aching knot in his chest, caressing it, teasing it, rubbing the rough places smooth. Gradually, he felt calm creep in as the resonance brought him benediction and peace.
After three repetitions, he opened his eyes, grabbed the remote, and clicked off the repeat to let the CD cycle through the rest of its tracks. Taking another sip of his coffee, he mentally catalogued what he needed to accomplish before picking up Sara. Reservations. Flowers. Clothes. Cleaning. A gift?
Okay, Gil, one step at a time, just like in a case. You can do this.
Start at the beginning. Dinner reservations. He looked around for the pants he had kicked off the night before and found his cell phone in the pocket. Luckily, Angelo's was still something of an undiscovered gem and he was able to get a table for 8:00.
Next, flowers. He debated with himself. Roses are traditional, of course, but are they too much of a cliché? I want something as beautiful and elegant as Sara herself. He picked up his phone again and explained his plight to the kind woman who answered at the florist down the street. A few minutes later, he hung up, pleased with her advice to get a combination of dark red roses and white calla lilies.
Now you need to choose something to wear. He rose and walked to his bedroom, grabbing the rest of last night's clothes on the way. He peered into his closet and sighed. His wardrobe was rather limited; he had the same basic clothes he wore to work every day and a few ugly Hawaiian shirts that were de rigueur for entomological conferences. None of these were likely to impress Sara. Suddenly, he remembered something, and looked all the way to the right, past his suit jackets.
There, still in its dry-cleaning bag, was the shirt his mother had given him for his last birthday. He smiled at the memory of the note that had accompanied it:
Gil,
Happy birthday, son. Make your old mother happy and go on a date once in a while.
And wear this shirt; it will bring out the blue in your eyes.
Affectionately,
Mom
He had taken the shirt to be cleaned and pressed, but had never worn it. He slipped it out of its bag. The soft Egyptian cotton was woven in a herringbone pattern, the texture adding light and shadow to the vivid French blue tint. He nodded in affirmation. Sara had never seen him in anything like this – it was perfect. He selected a pair of charcoal grey slacks and hung them both on the outside of the closet door.
Make the place presentable. He didn't have a lot to do here; he was a neatnik at heart and the cleaning lady had made her weekly visit the day before. He hadn't actually slept in his bed, so the sheets were still clean. Studiously trying to ignore the question of why he should be concerned about the state of his sheets, he wandered back to the living room and tried to look at it with Sara's eyes.
You old fool. Do you really think she's going to come back here with you?
Well, no. In fact, I'm almost certain she isn't. But less probable things have happened. It doesn't hurt to be prepared.
I can hope.
The place reflected him, he realized. His bookshelves were overflowing; entomological and forensic texts competed for space with well-loved classics. CDs marched in neat rows under the sound system, arranged by composer and principal artist. A comfortable brown leather couch faced the gas fireplace he enjoyed on chilly evenings, and his favorite reading chair was angled in the corner. Mounted insect collections were framed on the walls.
It will have to do. It's quirky, but so am I. And for some unfathomable reason, she seems to like me…
He settled into his favorite chair with a sigh. This event feels so momentous. I want to get her something to mark the occasion, something more significant than the flowers. But what?
He thought back to what she had called the two of them. Binary stars. He wondered if he would be able to find a pendant or a pin depicting two stars dancing together.
Well, that's not a bad idea. But that would have to be a custom piece. Not enough time.
A beautiful brass compass… maybe in a hand-carved wooden case.
Please. So she can find her way? She's more than capable of doing that without your help.
He considered and rejected several more ideas, getting more frustrated by the minute.
Okay, Gil. Think it through. What do you really hope to do with this gift?
I want to give her something concrete. Something that she can hold and touch. A talisman for the times when I stumble and words fail me.
Suddenly, he knew what he would do. He glanced at the clock. 6:10 PM. If he hurried, he should have just enough time to dress, pick up the flowers, and run one other errand before he was due at Sara's.
(1) Seventeenth-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza