A/N: Thank you for staying with us, for reading, and especially for reviewing!
Gil Grissom's Romance
Chapter 13
Grissom's life easily returned to its normal rhythm. Over several weeks, he and Sara worked together on a number of cases and he convinced himself that Jim Brass had been mistaken; Sara had not heard the comments he had made to Lurie.
At the end of his shift—plus several added hours—he should have been feeling much better than he did considering the closure on several complicated cases. Something had changed that he could not put his finger on. He no longer denied he cared for Sara more that what would be considered professional; he would not admit it to anyone but himself. And regardless of what Jim Brass said, Gil Grissom wasn't ready to cross professional boundaries and flaunt department rules chiefly because it would not be his career but Sara's in jeopardy.
It was weeks later when Brass asked what he was doing after work.
The two men settled into a booth at their favorite diner, ordered coffee, and plates of high fat and high calorie foods. Brass made small talk about the recent case; Grissom knew it was a stalling technique so when their plates arrived and cups were refilled, he asked:
"What's the occasion for this 'what are you doing after work'?"
Brass mixed hot sauce into his eggs before he answered. "Have you noticed Sara lately? I mean really talked to her—not about work?"
"We've been together—worked several cases—Sara's fine."
Brass forked eggs into his mouth and appeared to chew for much longer than necessary. After a slow swallow, he said, "She's drinking beer for breakfast."
Sighing, Grissom made a promise he would "do something"—he had no idea what that would be but it got Brass off the topic of Sara Sidle. A few nights later, he asked for Sara's help with a female suspect, watching her closely as she gathered and prepared needed supplies. Her work was thoroughly detailed, without error.
He had asked her, "I haven't seen you for a while, have I?" and her response of "You see me every day" had been enough to convince him that Sara was fine.
One night, as she playfully and skillfully, spelled the word "vixen", he was pleased that he had not mentioned her "beer for breakfast" as described by Brass—it would have disrupted, probably damaged, the tactful, subtle relationship between them.
By the time the rollercoaster left the rails at the Sphinx Amusement Park, Sara, he thought, was in top form. The quick smile, the easy, teasing responses; she made him comfortable even as they continued the investigation into the deaths of six people.
Within a week, he and Sara were checking a limousine for evidence when she found a fragment of neon glass in a tire. As he moved near her, it was her eyes he noticed as she studied the blue glass; luminous, disconcertingly perceptive as she met his eyes before placing the glass in a small envelope.
Inside the limo, in the confined space with no one within hearing, Sara asked him about Nick's promotion. Grissom had every intention of telling her before she heard it elsewhere, but time had slipped by and Nick had gotten the letter. Again, her eyes flashed with bafflement and wounded pride as she had bluntly told him his reasoning was stupid—and she had been correct. Nick had been at the lab longer and had said he didn't care if he was promoted. Yet Grissom knew better—both Nick and Sara wanted the promotion—but it would have put Sara directly in the path of politicians and administrators who played the game. And, in all honesty, he did not want Sara, with her quick temper and her vulnerable sense of justice, exposed to that avariciously group.
In the moment, Grissom was almost undone as Sara looked at him with her dark eyes, almost drilling into the secrets of his mind. The air between them seemed to rise in temperature as her chin tilted with her words. Even as she confronted him, he realized he missed her companionship, the laughter, the conversation that excluded wrong-doing and death.
He knew he had created the situation between him and Sara; at times he knew he should acknowledge—face it squarely and hope Sara would understand his reasoning. The truth, he thought, was he had brought Sara to Vegas, not for her employment, but for the opportunity to have her close to him. His rationale was unusual for him; at times the situation threatened to overwhelm him. Quickly, he returned to paperwork on his desk so that he would not think about his feelings for the young woman he had grown to love.
Most police work, including investigation, was routine and monotonous but the kind of work that kept one focused. Make a mistake and some crook or killer would go free on a technicality. So he put everything out of his mind except for the case files he was reviewing and worked.
He was in his office when he got the call-out to Southern Highlands, a new housing development built in an isolated area miles to the south of Vegas. The case of Linley Parker changed by the hour until Todd Coombs admitted to rape and murder, surprised to have been discovered, as he was interrogated.
Back in his office, doing tedious paperwork, he answered the phone. Seconds later, he asked, "Is she all right?"
Grissom walked into the police department in record-breaking time and took Sara's hand, gently grasping her fingers, as he said: "Come on. I'll take you home."
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she stood, mumbling "I'm so sorry."
He softly shushed her, taking her arm and leading her out of the building. He opened the door of his vehicle, held it as she climbed in, and pulled the seat belt around so she could fasten it. A few seconds later, they were headed out of the parking lot.
Grissom heard a soft sob and, in the darkness, reached for Sara's hand. Glancing in her direction, he saw that she was staring out of the side window.
"I'm so sorry, Grissom," she whispered.
Squeezing her hand, he said, "It won't happen again." He felt her fingers tremble against his palm. "Have you eaten?"
"You don't have to feed me—just—just take me home." Her voice shook with her words.
When he pulled into her parking space at her apartment building, she managed to open the door and get out before he cut the engine.
Catching up with her with three long steps, he said, "I'm taking you up."
Never looking at him, she said, "I've already ruined your night—it isn't necessary."
But he was already beside her, placing his hand on her back as they climbed the stairs. "Keys?" he asked and waited as Sara dug into her pocket. She was almost successful at blinking back tears, he thought, as he turned and unlocked the door.
It wasn't the first time he had been in her apartment, but, as before, he was surprised at its size—barely larger than his living room—a glorified dorm room with a kitchen. For the first time, it occurred to him—Sara lived well below what her salary could afford. It puzzled him; Nick and Warrick lived in larger places yet Sara chose to live here, in a room barely large enough for a bed and chair.
Grissom turned as Sara entered the apartment and saw the first tears spill; quickly she swiped her hand across her face as she walked inside. "Thank you for bringing me home—and—and I—I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am." She walked over to the kitchen sink, tore off a paper towel, wet it, and wiped her face.
Taking a deep breath, keeping her back to him, she said, "You got me home. I appreciate it. I know I'm in a lot of trouble—but," her voice hitched, "I—now you can leave."
Grissom took off his coat and placed it on one of the stools at the bar, then walked around and tugged the coat from Sara's shoulders. "Sit down, Sara."
"I don't want to sit down." Her voice husky as she fought back tears, she continued, "What I want is to be alone." When her voice broke, she pressed her hands to her face. "Please, leave me alone."
He wasn't going to leave, so he placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her in the direction of the small sofa. In a few steps, he realized she was crying; stepping around her, he wrapped both arms around her, stroking her back as she cried. And she cried hard, he realized, but she didn't cry long.
She didn't try to push away, but after a while, she let her head stay on his shoulder and said, "I told you to go away."
In a very polite, old fashioned way, Grissom kissed her forehead and quickly pulled back. "I asked you if you had eaten."
Sara's chin trembled. "I'm so sorry, Grissom. It was a stupid thing to do."
With one finger, he pushed her hair behind her ear. "Is there anything to eat in your kitchen? Or should we order a pizza?"
She gave him a watery laugh. "I have eggs and cheese—and peanut butter and bread."
"Why don't you," he stopped and looked around the small apartment, "keep me company in the kitchen—or," he shrugged, "something."
Suddenly, he recognized fatigue in her eyes. He said, "Why don't you take a shower and I'll—I'll scramble eggs."
She nodded, gathered a few things, and went into the bathroom that was no larger than a closet. Once he heard water running, he opened the refrigerator, found cheese and eggs, and broke all the eggs into a bowl, stirred them up, and returned to the refrigerator to look for anything else he could add to the eggs. Shaking his head when he found nothing, he opened several cabinets—and found nothing but beans and soup.
Deciding on scrambled eggs and cheese toast, he set about preparing his limited menu. Again, he had to wonder about Sara and how she managed her income. Practically no food in the kitchen, this small apartment—she had a new car but that could not account for where her money was going.
In a few minutes, she reappeared, dressed in a red shirt and dark pants with a towel wrapped around her wet hair. Her eyes were red and he guessed she had cried again in the shower. Quickly, he placed a plate on the bar filled with scrambled eggs and toasted bread covered with melted cheese.
"Food—I used all the eggs and most of the cheese."
"You did not have to do this—I'm fine."
Grissom walked around the bar and sat on the vacant stool; eggs and toast were on his plate. "Eat—we'll talk afterwards about tonight. Now, let's talk about something else—how do you like living here?"
"Here? As in Vegas?"
He chuckled as he scooped eggs on his fork. He said, "I mean here—in this complex—is it safe? Do you know your neighbor?"
Sara ate a bite of eggs and reached for the salt shaker. "It's safe. My downstairs neighbor is Mrs. Bennett who is probably eighty years old and keeps an eye out for me. Across the way is a young lawyer, Austin Adams, who has lived there about a year. He has a girlfriend and isn't there much—I think he stores his bike there."
"I don't know my neighbors," said Grissom. Shrugging, he added, "I think a couple lives there."
Looking at him, she made a gruff laugh. "You don't know them by sight or their names?"
He shook his head. "We have separate entrances, separate garages, thick walls. I work nights—I think they work days."
Silence descended as they ate.
When Sara finished, she pushed her plate away, saying, "I'm ready for the talk now—how bad is it going to be?"
Grissom wiped his mouth with a napkin, took a drink of water, and turned to face her. He wanted to touch her—he wanted to hug her again, keep her against his chest for hours to come. Instead, he said, "You'll need to schedule PEAP counseling—you can't avoid that. A note will be in your personnel file for a year—but it gets removed after twelve months."
Looking away from him, Sara pretended interest in moving her fork around as she nodded. "I'm so sorry, Grissom."
At her words, he reached to touch her arm. "Sara—I know you regret this. You've apologized enough." He sighed as he stood, keeping his hand on her arm. "Now, I'll clean up my mess—go to bed."
Her bed, immaculately made and covered with a colorful spread, was a few feet away, across from the sofa. She protested, but he insisted and suddenly, fatigue overcame her resistance. Five minutes later, when he left the sink to check on her, she was out like a light.
…Sara woke groggy, her head heavy, in a dim room. The bright spread covering her bed was tucked around her. Groaning a little as she remembered how she had gotten home, she pushed herself up on an elbow. Light came from the direction of her kitchen—and she needed water for her dry throat. Throwing the coverlet aside, she slowly sat up.
A shadow caused her to turn quickly; her eyes blurred for a second before she focused on the man walking toward her.
"What are you doing here? I thought you left?"
"Nope," Grissom said as he handed her a cup of hot tea. "Well, yes, I did leave for a few minutes and then returned. He smiled, noticing her color had returned—and she looked disheveled and soft that affected him in an unexpected way—and it was sexy as hell.
With that thought, he stepped back and sat on her sofa. He said, "I went out for Chinese food—the smell probably woke you up."
"What time is it?"
"Nearly noon."
Her eyes widened with surprise. "You didn't have to stay—you should be asleep." She rubbed her eyes with her fists. "I can't believe I slept so long—and you were here? All that time?"
Grissom chuckled. "You were tired. And I took a nap." He nodded toward the other side of the bed.
Sara turned to look at the bed and for the first time she realized why the spread had been tucked around her. "You slept here?" The tone of her voice expressed disbelief and doubt but the evidence of a depression in the pillow and a rumpled afghan showed he was telling the truth.
Lightly, with a grin, he said, "You have a very small bed."
"Grissom…"
"No apologies, Sara. I'll put the food out—and you can—you can meet me at the table in a few minutes." He stood, smiled again and headed to the kitchen.
Sara sat on the bed for another minute before she got up and opened the curtains. Sunlight, she thought would make this real instead of a dream. Her mind was still trying to wrap around the situation. Grissom has slept in her bed and she had not even realized it.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she returned to find several Chinese food containers and plates set out on her small table. It made her feel weird to know Grissom had been in her kitchen—in her bed and bathroom—and seemed to find his way around with ease.
"Thank you," she said as he placed a fresh up of tea in front of her.
Taking the other chair, Grissom passed her one of the containers. "All vegetarian." He smiled.
Sara wanted to cry but fought back tears as she piled noodles on her plate. "Grissom, I have to say I'm so sorry—I—I didn't think I'd had much to drink last night."
His hand came to hers. "Sara," firmly, "Sara, you are beating yourself up for something that's happened—we can't change it—but we will move forward. You are smart—probably the most intelligent person I know—don't dwell on this." He removed his hand and raked food from two containers on his plate. "Eat—you don't eat enough."
They both ate. It was nice, Sara decided, to eat with someone—with Grissom. It was sweet, she thought, how he managed to keep a conversation going, asking her where she had gotten different things in her apartment. And when they lapsed into silence, it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward.
Sucking up an inner determination, Sara asked, "Why can't we do this more often?"
Grissom chewed his food, keeping his eyes downcast for a long moment. Finally, he said what he had been struggling with for hours—no, he thought, he had been trying to keep a professional distance from the one woman he loved for years.
"Sara," he sighed as he placed his fork on the nearly empty plate, "what are we do to? I shouldn't even be here—in your apartment—with you. But I am—as your supervisor, I'll do what is necessary for what happened last night—I'm here as your friend, Sara. That's what we are—what we have to be."
Sadness transformed Sara's face. "It's what you've said for years, Grissom." Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You treat me like—as if I'm one of your butterflies—stuck on a shelf. You admire my intelligence—my work—what am I supposed to do?"
She was totally unguarded, Grissom thought, and he felt a sudden undefined longing in his head that he refused to recognize. He stacked their empty plates together and rose from the chair. In the kitchen, he placed the plates in the sink and returned to the table, picking up the nearly empty containers and throwing them in the trashcan. He tied the trash bag, removed it from the can, and placed it near the door.
Sara remained at the table, watching him. The look in her eyes told him she saw the young man inside him and not the man who was nearly twenty years her elder. She continued watching as he picked up his jacket and walked to her door. She stood then, still silent, waiting for him to leave. He picked up the trash bag he had placed near the door.
He said, "I'll see you later at work. We'll—I'll leave it to you to set up a time with the PEAP counselor." Turning toward the door, he meant to open it; instead, he turned back to face her.
"I don't know what to do, Sara. You think it is appropriate for a man my age to take advantage of a young woman's affections? You want to be romantically involved with a man who would use a young, attractive woman, knowing sooner or later he would be a burden? I won't do it; I can't do it, Sara."
With that, he opened the door, taking their trash with him, and stepped out of her apartment.
A/N: Coming soon-season 5! Thank you! And we'd love to hear from more of you-how is Grissom's romance going?