Disclaimer: you know the drill, not mine, not yours.
A/N: kinda long, but what're you gonna do. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and a special thanks to Graciebird and Hamano for their help.
"GAAAAH!" a frustrated cry echoed, tinny, in the large garage at CSI headquarters. Joslyn Grace, blonde hair tied back in a bun, sat down heavily on an upturned plastic bucket, pressing the heel of her wrists into her eyes. Sara, who was working a few feet away, looked up, a mixture of amusement and understanding on her face.
"Let me guess, still no luck?" she said dryly.
"No!" spat Joslyn, lifting her head. "Two hours of tape lifting this damned oil drum, and not a single print! I'm tired, I'm hungry, I smell, and I'm pissed off," she snarled through gritted teeth, tearing off a rubber glove and chucking it across the room in frustration.
Greg, who had chosen that particular moment to enter the garage ducked, narrowly missing getting a dirty glove in the face. "What, you didn't like that one?" he teased.
Joslyn narrowed her eyes at him, shooting him a fierce glare. "Yikes. Did Sara teach you that?" he laughed.
Sara, sensing Joslyn was in no mood for Greg's antics, intervened, "Okay Jos, just take a break for now. Go get some water, grab something to eat, come back to it in a bit. And as for you," she continued, turning to Greg, "Is there something we can help you with?"
"Actually I'm here to help you," he replied. "Grissom sent me to check on you, see if you need a hand," he paused, his nose crinkling. "What the Hell is that smell?"
Sara dragged a wrist across her forehead, pushing wisps of hair out of her eyes, "That would be Trinity Wescott. Well, what's left of her anyway. We've been processing her clothes, and the oil drum she was found in."
Greg's eyes were starting to water, "God that's like…I mean it's…"
Joslyn stood, smoothing out her hair with her de-gloved hand, "It's a decomp. There's nothing else to compare it to. And if you're going to be sick, the bucket's over there." She pointed to a metal bucket in the corner.
"Gross," was all he could say.
Sara smiled, "Well thanks for all your help Greg, we'll make sure to let Grissom know you stopped by."
"Hey," held his hands up in defense, "You're not getting rid of me that easily. Come on, the sooner we get this processed, the sooner you two can go home and sleep. And more importantly, grab a shower."
With the dual glare he received then, it was a wonder he didn't burst into flames. "Well," started Sara, standing up, "I don't know about you, Jos, but I'm going to go see what's in the fridge. And Greg, if you want to go through some of the victim's clothing, see if you can find any trace, you're welcome to it. I'll be back in fifteen." She strode quickly out of the room, leaving Greg with a very hostile woman on his hands. Nothing he wasn't used to, given certain experiences with Sara.
Joslyn, perhaps a little embarrassed by her outburst, removed her other glove and sat once again on the plastic bucket. Sighing, she pulled her hair free from its elastic and let it fall loosely around her shoulders. "Hey," said Greg, kneeling down eye-level with her, "you can't let it get to you, okay? If I've learned anything on this job, it's that. Worrying, letting yourself get worked up…it doesn't help anyone. And it certainly doesn't make for a good state of mind to process evidence."
"I know, I know, you're right," said Joslyn, looking at her feet. "I just really want to get this guy. I mean, after seeing what he did to Sara, and then the letter…God knows what he'll do next." She looked up at him, her green eyes full of concern.
"Don't worry, we won't let anything happen to you two. The team already decided that you and Sara are going to stay with some of us until all of this blows over. We've got your backs." He put a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "Now what say we go get something to eat before we get to work? I hate processing gelatinous, raunchy-smelling evidence on an empty stomach. Don't you?" He pulled her to her feet, and the two of them walked, laughing, to the break room.
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All they could see of Sara was her back as they walked into the break room, the rest of her deep within the mini fridge, searching for something edible. Greg leaned down close to her as she pushed aside containers of dated yogurt, and some experiment of Grissom's. His face inches from her shoulder, he said, "Find anything?"
Sara let out a yelp and smacked her head on the roof of the refrigerator. "Ow! Damn it Greg!" she groaned, rubbing her head. "What, it doesn't look like I have enough bruises, you thought I might need one more?"
"Sorry," said Greg with a shrug, "I didn't realize you were so jumpy. So did you find anything?"
"Yeah," she answered with a malicious grin. Reaching into the fridge, she pulled out a mystery substance in a clear Tupperware container, tossing it to him. "Bon appetite."
"Sick," said Greg, holding it up to the light. "What the Hell is that?"
"Oh, probably one of Grissom's experiments. You know how he loves to use the communal fridge to store his blood."
"Well the freezer's always full," came a matter-of-fact voice from the doorway. Grissom stood with a bunch of files in his hands, his glasses slipping down over his nose. "Sara, I need you for a second. It looks like Jackie's got a match to a print they found on the frying pan," he turned to leave. "You too Jos," he called over his shoulder. Joslyn helped Sara to her feet, and the two of them followed Grissom down the hall, leaving Greg staring in awe at the enigmatic substance in his hand.
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Jackie was hunched over a microscope as they entered, brown curls spilling around her shoulders, blue lab coat trailing over the stool she sat on. "You beeped?" asked Grissom, shifting his stack of files.
Jackie looked up, "Yeah, the guy from days that handled the case managed to get a partial thumb print off the handle. I ran it though AFIS, it just kicked out a match." She leaned forward and turned a flat screen computer towards them. A large, fluorescent green thumb print glowed back at them. A black and white prison photo had popped up beside the thumbprint, featuring a dark eyed man with wild curls who sneered at them from the computer screen. Grissom turned to Sara, trying to gage her reaction as she saw her attacker for the first time. The green light of the computer screen reflected off of her face, accentuating the bruises. Grissom got the sick feeling in his stomach he'd been getting every time he looked at her lately; the unmistakable, sour feeling of guilt.
I should have been there.
Her face was impassive, though. She showed no emotion as she read out the name of the man who had nearly killed her: "Charles Pierce, convicted for sexual assault and battery in 1992, and again in 1998, and then again in 2004. Sounds like a stand-up kind of guy, doesn't he?" She turned to Grissom who was staring at her with that look in his eyes that he'd had ever since the hospital. She wished he wouldn't. Without thinking, she reached out and ran a long finger up the bridge of his nose, pushing his slipping glasses back into place.
Even such a simple gesture was enough to send fire flying through both their bellies. "So," she continued, flustered, "do we have an address?"
Joslyn, who had been squinting at the screen, spoke, "No, doesn't look like it. He's homeless. But then," she tore her eyes from the screen to look at her co-workers, "What possible motive could he have had to attack you? I mean, it's obvious that he's not into politics, so he couldn't have been covering up anything for the Senator could he? I mean, maybe it's completely unrelated, like Wescott said. He could just be unstable."
"No, I don't think that's it," said Sara, staring at the screen again. She looked at the ceiling for a moment, remembering.
"What, what is it?" asked Grissom, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"I just remembered something," she said softly. "I was kneeling on the ground. There was something…something under the desk," she closed her eyes, concentrating. "It was pink. 'Daddy"…." Her eyes snapped open. "Jackie did they send anything else to you to work for prints?"
"Uh, some tape lifts from the desk, and from the file cabinet…and a few post-it notes," answered the tech.
"An envelope, did they send you an envelope? A pink one, addressed to "Daddy?"
"Nope," she answered, shaking her head, curls flying. "As far as I know, no one recovered an envelope from the scene."
Sara smiled grimly, "It wasn't random. This Pierce guy hit me because he saw I was about to pick up an envelope that someone had left on the floor. My guess is that it was something that Trinity Wescott wrote to her father. Something the Senator wouldn't want us to see."
"But why would this Charles Pierce guy want to protect the Senator?" asked Joslyn, puzzled.
"Why don't we ask him that?" Grissom answered. "We'll call Brass and get him to check all the half-way houses, see what they can turn up. Chances are someone will recognize him."
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After a quick trip to Frank's Diner, (where Sara was thrilled to find out that Joslyn was a vegetarian too), Joslyn and Sara returned to the garage to finish processing the evidence. Greg was already there when they arrived, a white medical mask over his face to filter the stench. "Any luck?" asked Sara as they entered. Greg looked up; the triumphant smile evident even through his mask.
"Of course. After your excellent work scraping off all the fatty tissues, Sara, it left me a clean canvas to work with. I found some threads stuck to the vic's blouse, and a white powder under the collar of her shirt."
"Great," said Sara, "I do all the work and you get all the glory. Well at least we have something to work from now. How much left is there to process?"
Greg looked around, "Uh, just her underwear, and the inside of the barrel. The outside of it has obviously been wiped clean, so nothing probative there."
"Let's get to work," said Sara, grabbing some gloves.
Another hour later, they were up one red substance stuck to the victim's bra, and two blue fibers from the inside of the barrel. They sent all of it to trace, and were just about to draw straws to see who had to clean up the garage when Grissom walked in. "Sara? Brass just called, he's managed to track down Charlie Pierce, and they're bringing him in now. You two want to sit in on the interview?"
"Yeah, we'll be right there," answered Sara. "Sorry Greg, we've got to split, it looks like you'll have to finish up here on your own." Greg opened his mouth to protest, but they were already half way out the door.
The two of them met up with Grissom outside of the interview room. Joslyn followed Brass inside, but Sara held back for a moment, staring at Charles Pierce through the glass.
"Sara," said Grissom gently, "you don't have to do this. You don't have to talk to him. No one would think less of you if you didn't."
Sara took in a deep breath, "Grissom, I have to," she closed her eyes. "I have to," she whispered again, more to herself than to Grissom.
"Okay," Grissom conceded, "if that's how you feel. Let's go." He put a hand on her back and they walked into the chilly, blue light of interrogation room one. Joslyn had decided to stand, leaning up against the metal table, staring down at Charlie Pierce.
The homeless man had wild, tangled brown curls, just like in his prison photo. He was decidedly less clean in person than in his picture though, and his glittering black eyes stared out from underneath a bushy set of eyebrows. There was a thin layer of dirt covering him and his tattered clothing; his fingernails were caked with mud. His nose wrinkled as Sara sat down across from him. "What the hell is that smell? Smells like a dead rat or something." Sara and Joslyn shot each other a look, knowing full well it was them.
"Maybe it's the smell of your guilty conscience," offered Brass, leaning close to Pierce across the table, both hands flat on the surface.
"I don't know what the Hell you're talking about," snarled Pierce in a gruff voice.
"What, you don't remember me?" asked Sara, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Should I?"
Joslyn clicked her tongue, "Hmmm how soon they forget."
"Look, alls I was doing was minding my own business and some copper tosses me into a squad car and drags me in here! I don't know what the Hell's goin' on! "
"Well maybe this will refresh your memory," said Sara, turning her face into the light so he could better see the bruises. "And I don't wear this sling because I'm making a fashion statement. You attacked me in that office, and we both know it."
"Listen, you skinny bitch!" he roared, "I got no idea what you're talking about, got it? I never saw you before in my life! I didn't attack you, but whoever did should be given a medal!" Sara's body tensed, rigid, next to Grissom's. He slid a hand under the table and held onto hers, giving it a squeeze.
"Have you ever been to St. Mary's soup kitchen?" shot Joslyn, resting a hip in the edge of the table, arms crossed across her chest accusingly.
"No."
She raised her eyebrows, "A homeless man, with no income, and no welfare has never been to one of the only soup kitchens in town?" She leaned over, now eyelevel with him, her voice dropped to a whisper, "I find that hard to believe."
"I don't like their chili," he answered with a sadistic grin. "It's too runny."
Brass slammed his hand down on the table, making everyone except Grissom jump,
"Bullshit."
"Look," said Joslyn, sitting on the tabletop, looking down her nose at the suspect, "We know you were there. We found your prints." Pierce's eyes widened a fraction, and Joslyn noticed it. "Yes, that's right. Want to venture a guess as to where we found them? No? They were on the frying pan that was used to bludgeon Ms. Sidle over here," she pointed to Sara who stared unblinking at Charles Pierce. "Would you care to explain yourself before we arrest you, or would you prefer to go straight to booking?"
Charles Pierce looked frantically from one face to the other, mouth open. "Alright," said Sara, leaning forward, "We know you were under orders from someone. Tell us who, and I might consider dropping the charges against you."
Charles leaned forward across the table to intimidate her, but she stood her ground, unflinching. (Although her grip on Grissom's hand under the table tightened)
"Go to Hell. I'd take prison over that any day."
"Over what?" asked Grissom, speaking for the first time. "Did someone threaten you?"
Pierce said nothing. "You understand that we can put you in protective custody, Mr. Pierce. If you were willing to talk with us, we could keep you safe, give you a police escort, whatever you needed."
"You just don't get it, do you?" scoffed Pierce. "They are the police. You can't protect me from them."
"Alright, get him out of here," said Brass to the officer beside him. "This is getting us nowhere." The cop began to escort the criminal out, but Pierce stopped, addressing Joslyn. "Watch your back you little bitch, or you could end up a lot worse off than your friend here. And more importantly, keep an eye on les enfants." The officer pushed him out of the room; sending him lurching into the hall, before being dragged by the scruff of his neck out of sight.
Everything was still; no one moved, no one spoke, as the final words of Charles Pierce washed over them. The unsuccessful interrogation had taken any energy they'd had left, and the three CSI's sat in an exhausted stupor for a few minutes before Grissom finally spoke. "Come on girls, let's get some sleep."
He and Sara (reluctantly) let go of each other's hands and stood. Joslyn slid off the table, looking visibly shaken by what Pierce had said to her. "Hey," said Sara, walking to her, "just forget everything he said, alright? No one's going to get hurt." She put her arms around the smaller woman, giving her a friendly hug. Joslyn sank into her, closing her eyes for a moment. "Do you know what it means?" she asked, her voice muffled against Sara's chest.
Sara released her, "What what means?"
"Les enfants. He said to 'keep an eye on les enfants.'"
"No, what does that mean?" asked Sara.
"It's French for 'the children'. Keep an eye on the children," she answered. Sara looked at Grissom in horror.
"Let's not jump to conclusions, Sara. That could mean a lot of things. I'll get Brass to check into it, but for now? Home. We worked out a schedule for you two; you're under strict orders to stay within sight of one of the team until this case is finished. Joslyn you'll be spending tonight with Greg,"
"What'd he do to pull that off?" muttered Sara.
Grissom ignored her, "Tomorrow night you're with Catherine, and then the next night with Nick, then Warrick, then me. Sara, you're with me tonight, (Sara's stomach dropped) and then you're one step behind Joslyn for the rest of the week."
"I can hardly wait," came the sarcastic reply.
"You two go grab your things from the locker room, I'll tell Greg it's time to go home," he said, heading for the garage.
The two girls walked to the locker room, pulling out their jackets and bags. "So you have my cell number in case Greg tries anything, right?" laughed Sara as she sat down wearily on the bench.
"Yeah, and you have mine in case Grissom gets too handsy too. Assuming you don't want him to that is," she said, her eyes sparkling. Sara swatted her arm, coloring. "Oh come on, like it's so hard to figure out," laughed Joslyn, putting on her jacket. "I think you should go for it, you guys already act like a married couple." She received another shot to the arm for that one, and put her hands up in defense, "Hey! Alright, alright. I swear Sidle, if you weren't already in a sling, I might just put you in one."
"Well Grace, if you keep at it, you might just have one of your own," Sara smiled, pursing her lips.
Joslyn, laughing her delicious laugh, swung her bag over a shoulder. "See you tomorrow Sara."
"Night Jossie," Sara called after her.
Grissom appeared at the doorway, "You ready?"
"Yeah," Sara bent down and grabbed her purse, sighing inwardly at the awkward night ahead of her.
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After a small argument as to whose house they should stay at, they pulled into the lot at Sara's apartment building and walked into the lobby.
"I still think we should've gone to my place," said Grissom over the creaking of the elevator.
"Grissom, if that creepy "X" guy knows where I live, then he knows where you live too. Besides, I smell really bad, and I don't want to make your place reek like a decomp."
"Fair enough," he said, stepping off the elevator. They walked into her apartment, the sun just starting to appear on the horizon, making her white curtains glow like fire.
"Morning again?" said Sara, looking out the window, the brilliant colors of the sunrise illuminating her. "You know you need to sleep when all sense of time has been completely mixed up. What's it been, two days?"
"Nearly three," said Grissom, coming to stand beside her. He was standing awfully close.
"Well, make yourself comfortable," breathed Sara, "I'm just going to have a shower."
"Got your lemons?" he asked as she walked down the hall. Without turning around she held the bag up for him to see, her body silhouetted against the light from the bathroom window, and then closed the door behind her. She hadn't really thought about how she was going to manage showering with this stupid sling until she was standing in the bathroom with a very confused expression on her face.
Before, when Joslyn was here, she'd just cut her shirt off, and worn the tank top she had on underneath. The shirt had been ruined anyway, stained with her blood. But now, she didn't really have that option. She happened to like this tank top. With her one hand, she reached down and tried to pull her shirt up and over her head. All she managed to do, however, was get it stuck on her head, blinding herself. Panicking, she lost her balance and grabbed onto the shower curtain, trying to steady herself.
The shower bar fell out of place and landed in the bathtub with a loud CRASH, and Sara fell to her knees, unharmed. Now her shirt was completely back on again.
The door to the bathroom flew open, and Grissom was suddenly helping her to her feet.
"Are you okay?" he asked, worried.
"Yeah, just a few…technical difficulties," she answered as he put the bar to the shower curtain back in place.
"Do you want some help? I can call Joslyn, or Catherine," he said gently.
"No, no that's not necessary. I just…I mean could you…help me get some of my things off?"
"Oh," he said, straightening his glasses. "Uh, of course. Yes." She smiled, satisfied with how uncomfortable he was, (God knows he'd done that to her enough lately) and turned around, waiting. She felt his hands around her waist as he slowly lifted her tank top over her head, untangling it from her sling. He turned her to face him so he could unbutton the top of her jeans for her, figuring he'd let her do the rest. Every spot he touched on her body turned to fire, and Sara was silently thanking Charlie Pierce for putting her in a sling. He gently turned her back around and unclipped her bra, helping her out if it. She could feel his breath hot on her neck, prickling her skin. And her soul.
The soft morning sun gleamed on her bare flesh, and it was all Grissom could do to not put a hand out and run his fingers across her smooth back. "Well," he said hoarsely, "do you think you can manage from there?"
"I think so," she whispered back. "Thanks." She didn't turn around until she heard the door close behind her, and then she let the hot tears slip silently down her face. Removing the rest of her clothing, she stepped into the shower and let the steaming water run over her, washing away the memories of the past few days. She reached for the bag of lemons that she'd cut up, and began sliding them slowly across her body, through her hair, down her legs. With every stroke she was scrubbing away all the pain, all the fear, all the frustration, all the lust. (Well, most of the lust) She scrubbed until her skin couldn't take anymore, until she felt cleaner, body and soul, than she had in as long as she could remember.
She closed her eyes, letting the water run down her face, beading off of her sling and onto her stomach. A playful smile stretched across her face as the realization came to her that she would eventually be needing some help getting re-dressed too.
"Hey Grissom?"