To everyone who's reading and to those taking the time to review – thanks!

And also to my fantastic beta, sweet-surrender5, who keeps ploughing manfully through all the angst!

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Harsh Words

When she woke up and realised he wasn't in the bed next to her, she panicked for a moment, wondering if he'd gone back to his town house, wondering what it would mean if he did, what she should do, if he did.

But she found him outside, sitting alone on her tiny balcony, wrapped in a blanket, his bowed head resting in his left hand. He was almost blue from the cold and looked pale and defeated, but – for the moment – he was here, and that was some consolation at least.

She studied him silently through the sliding door that led outside, noticing that he wasn't moving a muscle – that the slow rise and fall of his hunched shoulders seemed to be the only indication that he was even alive.

Well, she corrected herself grimly. Alive physically. But mentally, emotionally, she wasn't so sure.

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Grissom had never been the kind of man to wear his heart on his sleeve and when Brass had gotten shot, Sara was as shocked as anyone to learn that he had chosen Grissom as his medical proxy, imbuing the least emotive of the CSI's with the power over his life – or his death.

And Grissom took his friend's trust in both hands and made the gruelling decisions, showing hardly any outward reactions to the grave situation and doing what he always did. He threw himself in his work, denied his feelings and pretended that he was in utter and complete control.

That poker face - as always – unwavering.

But unlike Nick's kidnapping a year earlier, Sara had no longer been fooled by the carefully devised display – even though her colleagues had all seemed to be. After almost twelve months with Grissom, she had learnt not to take his little charades at face value. Learnt that what he feels, and what he ends up showing to the world, was almost always two very different things.

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"You OK?"

It was the second time today she was asking him that question. Earlier when she walked past his office, he was sitting alone at his desk, looking so forlorn that she'd felt compelled to go in, hoping that she'd be able to offer him some comfort. She'd wanted to pull him into her arms, kiss him, but instead she had to content herself with merely touching him briefly on the shoulder.

They were at work and she'd understood that he wouldn't want to discuss anything there, so she'd tactfully changed the subject to the book he was flipping through. The pictures of the men in corsets proved to be as good a distraction as any.

But they were at home now and this time there was a tremor in his voice that hadn't been there before. The glass of whiskey in his hand was trembling slightly, causing the two blocks of ice inside to clink against each other.

"I'm OK." But he didn't sound it.

She sat down on the couch next to him and patted his knee softly, and after a few moments he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the sofa. His palm was clammy when he took hold of her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

"Talk to me Gris."

"Sara--"

When he didn't continue, she squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Just talk to me - it's not as hard as you think, I promise."

"Talking about it won't change anything, you know." He sounded bone tired and his voice was husky. "What's done cannot be undone…"

"No, but sharing it with someone can help lighten the load. I have some experience, so trust me on this."

"Sara--"

"Just talk Grissom."

"And say what?"

"Anything you want. I'm not going anywhere."

He needed a bit more Dutch courage and she had to prod him gently a few more times, but after a while he started getting it out in fits and starts. His concerns about the decisions he'd made regarding Brass' treatment, his fears that Brass wouldn't recover, his dread that Brass would be permanently incapacitated.

As he talked, he finally allowed that carefully honed mask of indifference to slip. It all came pouring out of him as he sat on the couch, clasping her hand.

And she was infinitely grateful that she'd finally managed to break through the last layer of that armoured shell.

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Or so she'd thought. But looking at him now, she wasn't so sure. Something was different. And she didn't know what she was supposed to do about it. One thing was for sure though – on this occasion his torment wasn't going to be assuaged with a miraculous recovery, the way it was last time.

Mercifully, Brass had gotten better. But the boy would stay dead, no matter how much Grissom might pray for a miracle.

Sure – he had hugged her and buried his face in her hair at the Police Station last night - and he'd allowed her to hold him as the dry sobs wracked his body. But after a while his shoulders had abruptly stopped shaking and he'd taken a quick swipe at his eyes before dropping his arms limply to his sides. And he'd hardly spoken to or touched her since, and that was frightening the life out of her.

Sara pulled the sliding door open and quietly lowered herself onto the chair next to him. He didn't acknowledge her presence, but his slight flinch as he shifted in his seat spoke volumes.

"Hey." Her voice was soft but insistent and she was staring at him earnestly, much as she had done in the bathroom earlier. But he couldn't bear the intensity of that searching gaze again, so he kept his head down and shifted his left hand slightly so that it shielded his eyes from hers. Placing a gentle hand on his leg, she gave it a soft squeeze and tried again.

"Did you get any sleep?"

He gruffly swatted her hand from his knee, but didn't say anything. She wasn't going to be deterred however and she reached up to the hand that was covering his eyes and curled her fingers around his wrist, tugging softly.

"Gris, look at—"

"Don't touch me."

The words were so unexpected, that for a moment Sara was completely taken aback and she involuntarily tightened her grip on his wrist, instinctively needing to form a connection with him – unwilling to believe the words he'd just ground out through his clenched jaw.

"Please don't shut me out babe. Just let me--"

"I said. Don't. Touch. Me."

And he wrenched his arm free and got up, getting as far away from her as the small confines of the balcony would allow. Sara gaped at his back in dumbfounded shock and tried hard to swallow the angry words that threatened to escape. When her brain finally started working again, she reminded herself that he was tired and overwrought and probably didn't even know what he was saying, so she made a concerted effort to keep her voice gentle.

"OK. But at least come inside. You'll catch your death out here."

"Yeah well, what goes around comes around I guess."

His tried desperately to keep his voice impassive, but there was an unmistakable crack as he uttered the words. Rising from her chair, Sara went to stand by his side, reaching for him, but he stepped away from her touch before her hand had time to land on his shoulder and with a small, annoyed sigh, she dropped her arm to the railing in front them.

"Look, I know how you must be feel—"

"Why does everyone assume they know how the hell I'm feeling?" He spat the words out harshly and spun to face her.

"I'm just trying to—"

"Well don't," he cut her off bitterly. "Just don't. I'm a big boy Sara – I don't need you fawning over me like some overprotective mother hen."

The words were out before he could stop them, and from the way her body froze next to his, he knew that he'd plunged the knife in very deeply. She turned her face away and he saw her hands clamp feverishly around the railing, her knuckles turning as white as the paint under them as she sought to keep her temper in check.

Suddenly all he wanted to do was put his arms around her and tell her how sorry he was and that he was being a jerk, but instead the words just kept rolling out of his mouth in a gushing torrent he simply didn't have the energy to stop.

"You couldn't possibly know what it's like to kill someone, Sara. To take a gun. To point it at a child's head. To pull the trigger. To watch someone die from a wound that you inflicted, to see the blood splattered everywhere – on his clothes, on the rocks, on the ground…"

"Yes, I do Grissom." Her voice was ominously low, but clear as bell.

"How could you possibly know! You deal with dead bodies, not living ones! Not dying ones! You've never actually seen a person die, so what makes you think you could possibly know!"

"Because I was in the house when my mother killed my father, Grissom. I was in the room!"

Her words cut viciously through the fog of hurt and anger that had surrounded him and he felt the blood drain from his face as he slowly sank down on the edge of the vacant chair behind them. You stupid idiot. You stupid, fucking idiot.

"Sara—"

She reeled around to face him, her hands balled into tight fists, her body shaking. "Why is that always the only thing you seem to be able to say to me?"

When his only answer was to shift his gaze to the ground, she shook her head angrily. She was desperate to help him, but his steadfast refusal to accept any sort of comfort was driving her crazy and she needed to get away from him and regroup, before she said something she'd regret.

"You know what, Grissom? Never mind. I have to go to the hospital to check on Catherine anyway…so…I'll see you later."

She left him shivering in the cold morning air as she turned and marched back indoors, and he could only listen dazedly to the muffled sounds coming from inside the apartment as she hurriedly got dressed, grabbed her keys and her bag and left without another word to him.

It was only when he heard the indifferent slam of her front door that he worked up the courage to venture back inside.

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A/N: I hope everyone will bear with me…It's gonna get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid…

Free veggie burgers to everyone who leaves a review…I'll love you forever!