Four
"I owe you an explanation," Sara began quietly as she perched herself up on top of her elbows. Grissom rolled onto his side and gave her his full attention. "About today. When I went to see my mother, I didn't ask you to come in with me because of you. I'm not ashamed or embarrassed, not about you or us or any of that. The truth is I lied, Gil -- to her. I told her I was Sara Grissom and that I was an investigator looking into her case."
This admission surprised him. "Why?" He asked.
"Because I thought she might be more honest. That she wouldn't hold things back. That this way I could find out the whole truth," she answered straight forwardly, but then her tone shifted to one more markedly confessional. "Or at least that is what I told myself at the time. But honestly? The last time I saw my mother, I was 13. Even after everything that's happened, I guess there is still a part of me that wants her to be proud of me."
"Why wouldn't she be proud of you?"
"I haven't done a lot lately that I am proud of," she admitted frankly. "I just walked out on you -- on my job -- my life."
"That doesn't negate all the good you've done."
"It does to me." She maintained. "It does to me." Her voice had a sort of hollowness to it when she, without meeting his eyes, asked, "You ever break something?"
While the query seemed rather non sequitur, Grissom answered without question or hesitation, "All the time." Then more lightly, he added, "Particularly when you're around to distract me."
He was disappointed and slightly concerned when his tease didn't earn him even the ghost of a smile.
"What did you do?" Sara asked, but before he had time to answer, she said, "You cleaned it up, right? And either you fixed what was broken or you threw away the pieces."
He nodded.
"But sometimes there are just some things you can't fix."
He knew she wasn't talking about coffee cups or casserole dishes or Erlenmeyer flasks.
"And some things you never quite get over," he supplied.
"Yeah."
"Not just bad things though," Grissom continued gently. "Good things, too," he added.
She looked rather doubtful at this possibility.
"I never could get over you," he admitted, brushing his fingers along the side of her face. "No matter how hard I tried. And that was a very good thing."
That did net him a faint grin.
But her expression was still soft and almost melancholy, when she said, "Sad thing is, more often than not, once someone -- something –" She hurriedly corrected. "Is broken, it never goes back together again. You can't make it whole. It will always be broken.
"So in the end, you cut your losses and you just throw all the pieces away and try and start over again, all the time hoping that maybe this time you will be good enough, worthy enough."
"Sara," he said softly. She shook her head as if to tell him she wanted to finish, to get all the words and the hurt out.
"I tried for so long to do that -- to clean it up -- to try and put the fragments back together into some semblance of a real life. And for a while I really thought I had. But then everything began to unravel all over again and the damn pieces just wouldn't fit..."
"'And all the king's horses and all the king's men...'" Grissom intoned quietly.
She nodded sadly.
"Yeah. And then I didn't know what to do," she replied. "All I knew was that I just couldn't put you through that. I couldn't have you worry.
"We see so much sadness and grief and heartache in what we do. The kits and the latex gloves and the swabs and procedures and policies and science, they help distance us from that horror. But it's still there.
"I didn't want you to have to deal with all that angst and melodrama at home, too. So when I realized that I just couldn't fix it, that I just couldn't put all those pieces back together again, I just threw my whole life away."
They were both silent for a long time. Grissom merely watched her, his worry and anxiety ever growing as Sara's gaze seemed to settle into that unfocused looked of one unable to quite bring themselves to return to the present because it was just too painful.
That she had felt that way, that need, that necessity, broke his heart. But part of him understood. Because he had done the same to her, to the few people he had ever allowed himself to be close to or get close to him. Tried to protect them from himself and the pain he kept inside and never dared to tell another soul about.
That choice had been a completely irrational decision, one without reason or sound judgment behind it, but the desire had been so very real. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, the right thing done for right and best of reasons.
In reality, it hadn't been that at all.
That decision had almost cost him Sara.
Now he was hoping that her choice -- and he knew no matter how hard it was accept that fact, it had to be her choice -- wouldn't come at so high a price.
While it grieved him to own it, he knew the world treated those whom it considered broken poorly, as if they were not worthy of being loved by anyone because they were the so-called broken. He knew, too, that it was precisely those people who wanted for love so very badly, but then had no idea what to do once they had actually found it. He knew because he, too, had been broken, was perhaps still broken even now and thought so for so long that he had no right to love or be loved or to feel or hope or dream of a life beyond that of professional achievement and success.
But then the unexpected happened.
Sara happened.
He tried to find the words to explain all of this to her in a way that didn't sound trite or patronizing or condescending, and yet still conveyed the fact that he knew.
And then he remembered...
"One day," he began. "I was playing ball in the backyard with Steven Mardsen from two houses over. My mother always used to tell me to always hit away from the house. But Steve and I got tired of having to chase the ball over the fence. So I hit this line drive right through the dining room window into her china cabinet. Broke two shelves. Including my mother's favorite vase. The one my father had given her for her birthday the year he died. Once we both realized what had happened, Steve took off and I tried to clean up everything before my mother got home. But no matter how or what I tried, there was no way that vase was ever going back together again.
"The minute she walked in the door, my mother knew something was wrong. She always knew. So I fessed up and reluctantly told her the truth. I so was afraid she would be mad or cry, but instead she asked me what I had done with the pieces. When I told her I had thrown them away, she made me get the trashcan. Then very carefully she sorted through the fragments until she found what she was looking for.
"The piece was about the size of a quarter, smooth, sea blue with the hint of white floral embossing. She had it turned into a pendant and wore it up until the day she died.
"I guess the point is that no matter how badly something is broken, there is always something left worth salvaging and often those things end up being the ones we most treasure in the end.
"There is still a lot of your life that's worth keeping, Sara. Just what, is ultimately up to you to decide."
She seemed to be considering his words for a moment.
"You," she finally answered softly. "I'm not sure about much else right now. And I know we can't just pick up as if nothing's happened. But you -- I would still like to be able to have you if it isn't too late."
He smoothed her hair gently and smiled reassuringly. "No, honey, it's not too late," he replied.
When she smiled, a bright, wide smile that revealed the slight gap in her teeth and showed up even in her eyes, he leaned in and covered her mouth with his and kissed her until she whimpered in pleasure.
She took his face in her hands as he pulled away and scrutinized his face.
"We can do this, right?"
"If that's what you want."
"What do you want?" She asked earnestly.
"I already have what I want."
"An irradiated fetal pig named Miss Piggy?" Sara teased.
"What do you have against my pig?" He inquired, almost indignantly although in reality, he was almost overjoyed at the hint of laughter in her voice.
The eager kiss she gave him in reply pleased him even more.
He gently eased her onto her stomach and brushing her still damp hair from the back of her neck, began kissing the skin he exposed there as his hand first traced the hard line of her spine and then the soft and warm curves of her side.
"Gil, please," she breathed breathlessly.
Gil Grissom -- ever a gentleman -- was only most happy to oblige.