Twist of Fate
Summary: For most people, the threads of life form an unchanging tapestry, with the past setting the pattern for the future. Can Grissom overcome his own doubts when given the chance to weave a new life? GSR, A/U
A/N: This is a sequel to "If the Fates Allow", and I strongly suggest reading that story first to understand what's going on. Thanks to Gibby for agreeing to beta this mess. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.
Rating: What's wrong with PG? Why do people always want smut? I don't do good smut. Let's call this a strong PG-13.
Disclaimer: Do you really think anyone would trust me with these characters given what I put them through? I only play with them when the mood strikes.
Chapter 2
Once back in Las Vegas, he sent a letter of recommendation to the San Francisco lab. It wasn't needed, but he wanted Sara to have it as part of her permanent record. If she decided to stay in forensics, it would open a lot of doors for her. The gesture was small, but it was one he could freely give her.
After his court appearance, he swung by the lab to ignore the stack of messages left for him. From his shelves, he dug out a copy of an introductory text on forensics to which he'd contributed, and then he made some copies of interesting journal articles to send to Sara. Remembering her enthusiasm for a simple burger, he debated sending a gift card to one of her local restaurants or markets. Finally he decided that reminding her of her financial situation had the potential to come across as demeaning, so he picked up a book of poetry instead.
Not that she'll misconstrue the meaning of a book of love poems.
Grissom pulled the book out, hurriedly taping the box shut and addressing it. By the time he'd dropped it off at the post office, his head ached considerably. It didn't faze him, knowing that headaches were a common aftereffect from being knocked out. Once home, he put on some classical music, closed the blinds and sank into his sofa to relax. He'd done the right thing; the book of poems gave the wrong idea. He was an unofficial mentor. Love poetry implied an interest.
At some point, he fell asleep, because the visions that jerked him up couldn't have come from his conscious. As with the other images, he felt them more than remembered them, but these weren't the pleasant, sexual memories he'd had earlier. These were nightmares, raw and guttural, made all the worse by the sensation they were true.
Details were elusive, but they involved Sara. Alone and hurting, something that she didn't share with others. Something under the surface, scars running deep and painful. Not physical, nothing like cancer. These were emotional scars. Something, or someone, had hurt her. She needed him as much as he needed her, and he'd left her, abandoning the relationship before it ever started.
Muttering to himself, Grissom showered before fixing something to eat. His subconscious obviously still wanted Sara, and was punishing him for not following through. It was insane. She was a friend, and that was all she could ever be.
No matter how he tried to dismiss them, the nightmares plagued him for the next few nights, and his headache worsened whenever he tried to ignore them. Padding into his kitchen after the fourth one, he reached for a bottle of bourbon, but a new thought warned him against it.
Sitting on the exam table, he waited as his vitals were taken and Dr. Martin read over the file in front on her. It had been easy to get the appointment; he so rarely went to the doctor that she knew it was something serious when he called.
"Were you unconscious?"
"I think so. Long enough for a couple of people to gather around me," Grissom answered.
"And you didn't see a doctor then? Why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked rhetorically, knowing her patient's aversion to getting aid. "Do you have any ringing in your ears?"
"No. No dizziness, no nausea, no numbness, no problems with my memory."
"Just headaches then?" she asked, starting her physical examination.
Grissom recognized the doubt in her tone. "Weird dreams."
"Define weird."
"Weird," he said, blinking after she finished running the light over his eyes. "I don't really remember them. There's a sense of unease afterwards. It's almost like a warning."
"Like you want to avoid walking into ladders?"
"No. It's not me. It's someone else. A, uh, friend. She's in trouble. It's nothing to do with post-traumatic stress."
"You know, this would be easier if you let me be the doctor, Gil," she said, continuing her examination. "Do you have any pain in your neck?"
"No, I feel fine except for the headaches and the nightmares."
After finishing her exam, Dr. Martin rested her hip on the desk and regarded him closely. "This friend, is she real, or something your mind made up?"
"I came here for a physical, not to have my head shrunk," he sighed. "She's real. I met her when I was at Berkeley."
"And she's already a friend?" Seeing his warning glare, she held her hands up. "Besides a bruise on your head, I don't see anything physically wrong with you. We'll get you a CAT scan to be on the safe side, but lingering headaches are common after a mild concussion, a fact I'm sure you already know."
"Why do I get the idea you think I'm not going to like what you say next?"
"Because I've been your doctor for ten years, and you're a royal pain in the ass, as far as patients go," Martin stated without rancor. "Nightmares after an accident aren't unusual. If something shows up on the scan, I'll refer you to a neurologist, but I think you'd be better off talking to someone, Gil, if the nightmares don't go away."
He left the doctor's office with an air of dissatisfaction. While happy that he hadn't seriously hurt himself, Grissom wished there had been a physical explanation for his odd almost-memories and nightmares. That was something he understood.
Love wasn't.
But this wasn't love.
That was out of the question.
No matter what the poets proclaimed, love didn't just happen at the drop of a hat, or, in his case, the collision with a ladder. It was something that grew, was nurtured and cultivated carefully around the obstacles life threw at it. You didn't decide one morning that a beautiful young stranger was your soulmate.
Not if you wanted to avoid mental institutions.
With a resigned air, he went for his scan, ate a late dinner and pondered the issue as he drove to the lab. The idea of talking to a counselor repelled him on a personal level. Other people needed help with their thinking; the stability of his mind was the bedrock on which he built his life.
But if there wasn't a physical cause for his 'condition' then, perhaps, there was a psychological reason. Unlike a physical injury, it wasn't likely to just go away, and he'd had no luck trying to ignore it.
The motive wasn't too hard to work out; his subconscious wanted him to get closer to Sara. Apparently, it didn't reside in the real world.
But was the idea really so ridiculous?
For the first time, he considered the issue logically. Maybe this wasn't about Sara specifically, but about his lack of a serious love life in general. He dismissed the idea as soon as it formed; it was about Sara. While he could never feel comfortable dating a student, that was a temporary condition. She'd graduate the next spring.
Grissom never wanted to end up alone, but he knew better than anyone that was his future. Unless he finally made a move to change his path. Could he get closer to her without seeming like a maniac or ruining their budding friendship? It was a figurative tightrope walk without safety nets, and he wasn't exactly known for his ability to balance personal matters.
He wouldn't know unless he tried, and Grissom surprised himself with his willingness to approach the idea. There were details to work out – like how to even start – but he had time. He had the rest of his life.
With a chuckle, he wondered if Fate had finally decided to give him a slap upside his head.
There was a letter from Sara waiting for him at the lab, and he hurried to his office to read it in private. The thank you note made him happy. It was a small courtesy, but a personal one. The little touches and jokes meant she'd spent time on this; he could even read her handwriting without too much trouble.
"So, you are alive."
With a start, he jerked his head up as Catherine entered his office and took a seat opposite him.
"Am I not supposed to be?" he asked genially.
"You haven't looked that good since you got back from California," she said, frowning as she watched him. "And I got word from one of the uniforms that you were admitted to Desert Palms earlier."
"Outpatient. Just a head scan."
"Just? What's wrong?" she demanded, her concern obvious.
He considered ignoring her, but only for a brief moment. Catherine was a friend by default. She had decided that he was her friend, and automatically assumed the converse was also true. It was easier not to fight her, and it was nice to have someone voluntarily come to talk to him, even if usually involved her complaining about Eddie or her talking about clothing.
"Mild concussion. It's nothing serious."
"The hell it isn't!"
"I don't think they heard you in Reno," he said disapprovingly. "I hit my head when I was at Berkeley. I've been having recurring headaches," he said pointedly. "Yelling really doesn't help it."
"You've been working all this time with a concussion. Why, Gil? Go home. God knows you have enough leave stored up. I promise we won't blow up the lab while you're away."
"No, you'll do it while I'm here," he found himself saying, and he gave her a weak smile at her hurt expression. "Murphy's Law. My head is going to hurt wherever I am, and I can find things to distract me here."
"It's your headache," she said, pausing to give him a friendly look. "Let me know if you change your mind."
Grissom lifted a hand in a vague wave as she left, but her words resonated with him. He did have an incredible amount of leave. Taking a few days vacation was trivial matter; explaining to Sara why he decided to take it in Berkeley was another. There weren't any other talks or conventions in the area that he knew of, so he didn't have those as cover.
For a moment, he thought of inviting her to Las Vegas for her spring break, but that posed several discomforting problems. She probably didn't have the spare cash sitting around for an unplanned trip, and offering to pay wasn't a good idea.
More importantly, she'd probably want to visit the lab, and that was something he didn't want. As interested as he was in pursuing her, he couldn't change who he was. And privacy was a fundamental aspect of his personality.
There was also propriety. She was still a student, much younger than he was. If it got out that they were involved, people would reach conclusions, the type that wouldn't help either of their careers. And while Grissom gave the impression that he didn't care what people thought, he did when it came to some matters. His professional reputation topped that short list.
With a shrug, he put her card into his briefcase and gathered the night's assignment slips. In the morning, he wrote a long letter in return. For now, he'd work on building a foundation, strengthening their budding friendship so it would be more natural when he did go for a visit.
As the months went by, they continued to exchange letters. He sent her additional articles, along with a book of short stories. To his amazement, she easily kept up with the supply of information he sent her way, occasionally asking questions, but always impressing him with her intelligence.
More amazingly, he found his interest never waned. He suspected the odd desire to be with her, the overwhelming sense that their lives were meant to intertwine, would fade along with his headaches. But, if anything, he felt stronger about her now that all the lingering symptoms of his concussion were gone.
That gave him the courage to make a small step.
Just before she started her internship, he mentioned that he'd be passing through San Francisco for a few days vacation, and tried to casually ask if she'd be interested in meeting up. Her answering letter told him to call when he got into town.
It didn't take him long to find the rental where she was spending the summer, but his festive mood evaporated when the door was opened by a nude man. Grissom did a quick double-take to verify the address, but Sara's voice called to him from inside. Her infectious grin baffled him.
"Interesting, uh, friend you have there," he ventured once outside.
"Larry is many things, but I'm not sure 'friend' is a term I'd use. Exhibitionist, yeah," she added with another amused smirk. "Not that he has a lot to show off."
He glanced at her, and felt his face working into a confused scowl. She was living with another guy, but she seemed thrilled to be with him.
"This is San Francisco," she added meaningfully, laughing at his delayed reaction. "Prices are insane here, so I had to rent a room. Now that Larry's found a new boyfriend, I think he's trying to get me to move out."
"Isn't there somewhere nicer you can go? It can't be easy staying with a jerk who's trying to drive you away."
"Larry is a rank amateur when it comes to being a jerk, and I have a signed lease. He's not getting rid of me."
Grissom stopped short, the words cutting into him. He wanted to ask details and feared the answers. She shrugged her shoulders dismissively when she noticed his concern, and immediately she grinned widely.
"Do you like seafood?"
It took him a moment to let the matter slip, and he gave her a small smile in return. "Very much."
"Then I know the perfect place for lunch."
Normally, he wasn't a touristy type of person, but Grissom followed blissfully as she showed him the sights. Sara teased him for not bringing a camera, and he hoped she didn't realize this was all a ruse to see her again. The day ended with them eating ice cream cones and watching the sun disappear from the top of a hill. He found himself again stunned at how easily they got along.
"You start work on Monday?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah."
"Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions." It wasn't the smoothest transition, but he was out of practice. "About anything."
She turned to watch him closely, licking her cone in ways that threatened to embarrass him. "Do you always pick a student from one of your talks to mentor?"
"You aren't any student," he said, almost sure she blushed.
"You aren't any teacher," she added softly, and Grissom was certain her look caused him to flush.
He struggled for a response, not wanting to string her along. Despite all his growing affection for her, she was still a student and therefore off-limits. Unable to think of something to say, he smiled. She returned the gesture before settling back to enjoy the sunset.
"You know," he said, surprising himself a little while later. "You still owe me a prize."
"I do?"
"Best two out of three."
"I still say you cheated with the juggling ferrets," she said, but her voice sounded husky. In the fading light, he wasn't sure, but he thought she licked her lips nervously. "So, what do you want?"
His mouth hung open for a moment until he regained control. He'd been joking about the prize, but she appeared serious. And dangerously inviting. "Well, the Entomological Society's annual meeting is in Palo Alto this September."
"Okay," she said in obvious confusion.
"It's not too far from Berkeley. I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner while I'm in town."
Her look carried mixed emotions, but she finally settled on a bashful grin. "All right."
They eventually parted company, and Grissom returned to Vegas amid wild speculations. He'd only taken vacation to participate in cockroach races before, and his sudden departure had everyone curious. He didn't provide any answers, actually believing that would end the rumors.
Sara sent him another note later, thanking him again for the recommendation and asserting that she was learning a lot on the job. Shyly, she admitted she was still trying to get her stomach under control. He wrote back suggesting ginger ale and asking if she had a preference for where she wanted to have dinner. Their correspondence grew more regular, including a mix of e-mail, letters and boxes of informational material from Grissom.
He met up with Jose Hegira at the cockroach races that summer. The San Francisco supervisor sang Sara's praises, only regretting she that was paid hourly.
"Why?" he asked worriedly.
"Because she'd worked nonstop if I'd let her," Hegira answered with a laugh. "I don't think she ever sleeps."
The conversation bothered Grissom, so he dropped it. Watching the races distractedly, he remembered the intensity Sara showed when stating her desire to get into forensics, and he feared there was a personal motive involved. That bothered him, implying something had happened to her or someone close to her.
Recalling their various conversations, he realized she never talked about her past. He knew she'd gone to Harvard as an undergraduate, but that was it. She never talked about her family or her childhood.
Then again, neither did he.
But it didn't mean something tragic directed him toward forensics. It just wasn't a happy time for him, and he preferred not to talk about. Some nebulous thread wove around his psyche, warning him it was different with Sara. The clues were subtle, and he wasn't sure he was reading them correctly, but there was a wariness under the surface of happiness she projected, almost as if she wanted to convince herself her life was fine.
In his next letter, he included an article that served as a convenient transition to talking about his childhood love of cowboys. Her response included questions about it, but she offered nothing about herself. He tapped his pencil as he read her e-mail, realizing the medium was too impersonal to provide clues.
Determined to at least get some practice conversing, he tried to include little tidbits about himself in his letters, hoping to draw out information from her. Sara's responses grew more personal, but she still refrained from talking about her past. He took the hint and stopped trying to get clues.
The internship went well, with the lab offering her a permanent position in the fall, but her schedule didn't allow for it. She sent him a box of chocolate-covered ants, thanking him for all the material and support he'd provided. He wrote back to remind her of their upcoming dinner.
Her schedule meant they had to go out on the last night of the conference, and he spent the time in state of anticipation. When the evening of the event approached, Grissom found himself fidgeting like a nervous teenager. He needed to be careful that she didn't mistake his slowness as playing with her affections.
All he had to do was convince his libido to behave.
Sara was calmly flipping through a stack of index cards when he arrived, but her welcoming greeting contained promise. "Exam tomorrow," she explained as she grabbed her jacket and purse. He looked around her efficiency apartment, noting the little touches that it made it look like something other an oversized closet.
"We don't have to go out if you need to study," he offered reluctantly, but she shook her head vigorously.
Grissom insisted she bring the cards along, and he drove silently to let her review her notes some more. The situation reminded him that she was still a student, at least until she graduated in the spring. He had plenty of patience, though, and he vowed to enjoy the night for what it was.
They'd barely been seated when Sara eagerly launched into conversation. "They offered me a job when I graduate. I'm taking it."
"Oh." He fought to compose himself, shocked by how much the news upset him. "I'm not surprised. I heard good things about you."
"And you never told me."
"I forgot," he said, taking refuge behind the menu and trying to hide his displeasure. Part of him had hoped that she'd hate forensics, had secretly planned on it in the darker recesses of his mind. If that had happened, then she'd be free to come to Vegas for another job, solving the distance portion of their relationship obstacle course.
Working with someone he was involved with was another issue, and one that was harder to solve.
His feelings that she was the woman for him were even stronger now, although the ghost memories no longer bothered him. But there was no denying the difficulties ahead. Bringing her to Las Vegas was out of the question; the speculation would ruin both of their careers. He also had serious doubts about making a long-distance relationship work long-term.
"Is everything okay?" she asked a few moments later.
Her unease was obvious, and he gave her a reassuring smile. There was still time to figure the details out later. For now, he was going to enjoy her company. They talked about various things over dinner, and Grissom was adamant about getting her home early to finish studying for her exam.
She invited him in, and it was impossible not to sit near her; the room was just too small. He read her questions from the text, sipping a glass of iced tea while she confidently answered him. It wasn't until an uncontrollable yawn split his face that he looked at his watch, surprised to find it was well past midnight.
"Don't you ever sleep?" he asked, uncomfortably reminded of her work habits.
"Not a lot," she said, shrugging at his concerned stare. "I've always been a bit of an insomniac."
"You need to sleep. I don't want you failing an exam because you were trying to entertain me."
"Do you find reading me questions on a subject you know nothing about to be entertaining?" she asked jokingly.
"I do know something about physics," he said with a mock-pout.
She gave him a challenging grin. "So we can talk about thermal de Broglie wavelength theory and Fermi-Dirac statistics."
"Of course we can," Grissom answered smoothly. "I'll just do the listening and you can do the talking. But not tonight. Get some rest, Sara. And thanks for dinner."
"I should be thanking you."
"I can't have my first protégée getting scurvy," he quipped, leaning against the door and watching as she moved to join him.
"Your first," she said, a hint of tease in her voice and in her eyes. "I feel special."
"You are."
Her head dropped shyly, briefly turning in the direction of her bed. The idea was tempting, almost too much to resist, but he took her hand in his and held it gently.
"I need to go now," he whispered.
Sara looked up at him with a mix of uncertainty and awkwardness, and he softened his expression. His actions had to be sending mixed signals, leaving her unsettled by his behavior.
"It's not fair," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I keep visiting you. I think you should come to Las Vegas this summer."
She watched him for a long moment, tentative realization visible in her eyes. "After I graduate, Professor Grissom?"
He smiled gently as his head gave a brief bob. "Call me Gil."
Sara leaned against the doorframe, still carefully regarding him. "Well, Gil, I'm not much of a gambler. I'm not sure what I'd do in Las Vegas."
"I'm sure we can find some things to amuse you."
She ducked her head for a second, a slight blush gracing her cheeks when she turned back to him. "That sounds promising. Could I visit the lab if I came out? You weren't kidding about it being good. Everyone in San Francisco kept talking about your solve rate."
"I, uh, don't know about that," he stammered, suddenly feeling nervous. There'd be too many questions if he brought her to the lab, especially when they learned she was coming to visit him. "They aren't big on giving tours. We'll have to see."
The excuse was lame to his own ears. A suspicious look crossed her face, but she nodded sagely. She retracted her hand and stood up straight. "We'll, uh, see what happens this summer, then."
Fearing he'd ruined the mood, he tried to find a way of explaining that he wasn't ashamed to be seen with her, that he wasn't only interested in a sexual fling. He wanted to explain that he was trying to protect their privacy, but the right words eluded him. Everything he thought of sounded like a poor excuse, and he was lost.
After a moment, she stepped away and gave him a sad smile. "Thanks for a great night, Gil."
He let out a breath, reaching for her hand one more time and giving it a parting squeeze. "Good night, Sara."
Back in Las Vegas, Grissom tried to bury his funk at the lab, working even longer hours. He repeated his invitation to visit in his next letter, but Sara was vague in her response, refusing to commit to the trip. In the privacy of his home, he suspected he had ruined things, and he wasn't sure how to repair the damage.
In all his letters, he had refrained from revealing much about himself. There were little stories like when he fell off a horse at age six, or how he liked monster movies as a child, but nothing personal, nothing dangerous. Sitting at his home desk, he painfully constructed his next message, balancing his innate sense of privacy with the need to make some sort of overture.
The final product hinted at an unhappy childhood and a statement that he was very private.
Grissom read over it in a mood of dissatisfaction, feeling it lacked the depth of revelation that was needed. There was one of the old almost-memories that Sara would tolerate a lot from him, but that only added to his remorse. As a final gesture, he included the book of poetry he had wanted to send before.
Sara's response was sweet, but it didn't provide enough clues for him to fully understand where they stood.
A new assistant district attorney, Melinda Rice, started work shortly afterward, and she made her interest in him clear. Part of him wanted to take up her offer, to escape from his pain, but he couldn't. It wasn't fair to her, and he still wanted to make things work with Sara. He'd be faithful until certain there was no chance of that.
Finally, he told Melinda that he was seeing someone already, and that convinced her to give up on him.
He kept up correspondence with Sara, and he drew some comfort from the fact that she promptly replied to everything he sent. He suspected that she was confused by his motives, but he wasn't sure how to explain them better. Neither mentioned the idea of the summer visit again.
The San Francisco lab had a vacancy, and Hegira wanted Sara to start work immediately after graduation. She was busy with mandatory training and classes, and Grissom knew it would be a long while before she'd be able to get a vacation. His own schedule was as unyielding, with a series of important court cases, lectures in Miami and Boston, and a string of crimes too big for him to ignore.
He did make time to keep in touch with Sara, savoring the communication. Even if he ruined any romantic overtures, she was still friendly with him. It was cold comfort, and his dreams again haunted him with disturbing images he could never quite remember when he woke up. Finally he worked up the nerve to phone her, and they spent an hour chatting casually. He wanted to bring up the idea of another visit, but he wasn't sure how to approach it.
The sense of loneliness that always followed him grew more pronounced as time drew on, but he developed no ideas on how to address the situation. It was going to be difficult to have a relationship while they lived hundreds of miles apart, and she wanted to stay in forensics. As much as his personal life troubled him, he maintained his professionalism, never letting his concerns interfere with work.
So it came as a shock when Catherine entered his office one day, closing the door behind her softly. Her concerned expression made him wonder if she'd finally decided to leave Eddie, but he was baffled when she rested on the edge of his desk.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, and he pursed his lips in abject confusion.
"It?"
"Her."
He blinked, and his brow furrowed. "Her?"
Catherine tossed her head, but she gave him a determined look. "You can repeat what I say all you want, but I'm not buying the dumb act. Melinda told me."
"Melinda?" he repeated, leaning back in his chair and staring in bewilderment. It wasn't an act; he had no idea what she was talking about.
"Come on, Gil," she sighed. "I'm your friend. Everyone's noticed how, well, withdrawn you've been lately. I know it's bothering you."
"It is?"
She leaned forward, patting his hand in a friendly gesture. He cocked his head, briefly wondering if he was having a bizarre dream. Letting out a sigh, she said, "Everyone knows Sofia is sleeping with Roberts from dayshift."
Grissom pulled his glasses off and waved them weakly in the space between them. "And I would care about this because?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, for the first time doubt evident in her voice.
"Well, to start with, I don't know who these people are," he stated slowly. "Or what it has to do with me."
"Melinda. The ADA who wanted to get into your pants, the one you blew off. She asked me who you were dating. I figured it was Sofia," she explained.
"Oh," Grissom said as realization dawned. He had never considered that she'd try to find out who he'd been talking about. Leave it to Catherine to try to solve the mystery, and to get it so completely wrong. "Who's Sofia?"
"Sofia Curtis, CSI three from days," she said, rolling her eyes at his continued stare of confusion. "The blonde that was flirting all over you during the refresher seminar on arson investigations."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, thinking back to the course. He hadn't paid that much attention, since he knew the material thoroughly and had slept poorly the day before due to the vague, haunting dreams that kept waking him up. Fuzzy memories of an attractive blonde leaning over him to examine a charred timber sprang to his mind.
"Oh, her," he finally said. "She was flirting with me? I didn't notice."
"Yeah," Catherine answered with a chortle. "So, I guess that wasn't who you were dating."
Grissom put his glasses back on and picked up a folder in self-defense. It was nice that she cared, but he had no interest in sharing his personal life with her.
"Didn't it work out with whoever?"
"I don't know what you mean," he answered offhandedly.
"Right. Because you haven't been all mopey for ages."
"I don't mope," he insisted firmly, glaring at her over the top of his glasses. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
She ignored his not-so-subtle hints, her eyebrow lifting as she concentrated. "This has been going on for a while now. Ever since you got back from that bug jamboree."
"It was an Entomological Review, and nothing about it would interest you."
"Palo Alto," she said, hopping off his desk so suddenly he leaned back in surprise. "Your sudden trip to San Francisco last summer. You're seeing someone there. I knew something was up when you took a vacation!"
"Don't you have a body waiting in the morgue?" he asked, but her victorious grin suggested his expression gave away too much.
"It's not getting any deader. Something has had you down for a long time. How bad is it?"
"Catherine," he exhaled impatiently, tossing his pen on the desk. "I, look, there's nothing to talk about."
She stood by his side for a bit, looking maternal as she patted his shoulder. "Do you need a vacation? I'll get my sister to watch Linds for a long weekend, and I can cover for you."
"I'll keep the offer in mind," he said, pointing to the door with enough irritation to get her to leave.
"Just don't wait until it's too late," she said in warning, and the words sent a jolt of trepidation down his spine.
Around the same time Warrick Brown caught his attention, and he considered mentoring the young man. He'd gotten a sense of professional satisfaction from guiding Sara, but he was uncertain about making the same offer to Warrick. There wasn't any logical reason for it; he was dedicated, intelligent and had the potential to be a good leader, but there was an unexplainable sense that it wasn't a good idea. Overcoming his inner hesitation, Grissom finally decided to take him under his wing, carefully grooming him as a potential replacement.
The next morning he woke suddenly from his sleep. This dream he remembered vividly, and the answer seemed so obvious – if he couldn't bring Sara to Las Vegas, he could go to San Francisco.
The idea was simple and logical, and he flatly discarded it. Too many decades of rejection left him unable to make such a massive change in his life for something so tenuous. But it was tempting; it would allow them to be in the same city and follow their chosen careers. If he was sure that they had a future together, it was something to consider. The main trouble was he didn't know if he still had a chance.
With a sad sigh, he realized that a year had passed since he last saw Sara. The notes and phone calls were nice, but he needed more. He wanted to see her, to hold her, to make things right. He looked at his calendar as he fixed dinner; Thanksgiving was coming up, and he wondered if there was some way to get together for the holiday. As the junior CSI, she probably had to work, but he could go to San Francisco again.
If she was interested.
It took a few letters to work up the nerve to broach the subject, and he settled down to wait for a response. When a Fed Ex package from San Francisco arrived that day, he stared at it in confusion. The 'urgent' label caught his attention, and personal fears flew out the window as he reviewed the crime scene photographs.
He had already called the airlines, shoved the package and some reference books into his briefcase and was storming out of the building when he nearly collided with Catherine.
"Where's the fire?" she asked flippantly.
"You're in charge of night shift until I get back," he called over his shoulder, and she bolted to catch up with him.
"Where are you going?"
"San Francisco. It's a case," he half-sneered when she started to grin. "They need my help. They have several murders, and bugs that don't belong in the US. I don't know how many days I'll be there."
"There's no rush," she said pointedly. "Take a couple days for yourself while you're there."
He stopped for a moment to stare at her before hurrying home to pack. His mind focused on the case, but hope began to twine its way through his heart.
TBC