This was inspired by the "snowstorm" that occurred in Las Vegas on December 18, 2008. Thanks to Lauren for her always-wonderful beta skills.
The alarm buzzed, and-on his first night as a retiree-Gil Grissom awoke to a blanket of white covering the surface of his backyard deck. The car in the drive, the drive itself, all along the street and as far as the eye could see was covered with a coating of fresh, white snow. As any rational Las Vegan would be prone to, he blinked hard twice and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sliding the heavy glass door open.
What he was greeted with was a blast of frigid air; for once, he understood what snow smelled like. The scent stole up his spine and settled around the base of his brain. He attempted to concoct adjectives in his head, of what the smell actually smelled of, it was impossible. Hank, upon hearing the sound, bounded out and past him, leaping down the small steps into the thin snow. Grissom smiled down at the dog, and then focused his eyes on the mountains in the distance.
"Smells like snow is on the way," Sara had commented to him once. A rare murder case, west of Las Vegas in the desert and the temperature had fallen somewhere into the 30's. They were packed into department-issue parkas and thick, heavy gloves. As he recalled, she looked downright adorable, pink cheeks and chapped lips and he hadn't really understood what she'd meant by her comment, not then.
With only slippers on his feet, Grissom stepped outside and felt the semi-familiar crunch of ice crystals beneath him, that squeak-and-settle sound of the downy substance being pressed more tightly together. Had he missed something?
Vaguely, he recalled watching the news the evening previous, but couldn't rightly say that he had paid much attention; what was the point? Las Vegas weather was unbelievably dull and predictable and he hadn't anticipated a fluctuation of such magnitude.
Placing a tentative hand upon one of the banisters, he shivered but smiled. This was, well, it was quite something.
Snow, and this close to Christmas. The thought brought a lopsided smile to his face. The wonder. He was sure, what with the magic of the season, that people all over the city were awakening with glittering eyes to the atmospheric surprise. He was sure too, that more than a few citizens of the city were humming 'White Christmas' while recalling fond memories of winter weather in other locales.
Grissom's mind was drawn immediately two years previous, to a cramped room in a tiny town. The scent of burning wood, the distant sound of snow blowers, the nearly-unbearable quiet that blanketed the area as the inches accumulated.
He pulled his arms above his head and took a large, deep breath, inhaling the crisp air while enjoying the sharp punch it gave to his lungs. The glass door was left open a crack while he retired to the bathroom, made his coffee and popped a freezer bagel into the toaster. When he returned, mug in hand, Grissom pushed the door open and tentatively took a step out onto the deck.
Through the robe, the slight breeze bit and chapped but he welcomed it as he brought the coffee to his lips. His eyes felt much more focused than they had before; everything appeared more clear and bright and it seemed as though he'd awoken to a completely different and foreign world. The experience was so welcome that for a moment, he forgot to breathe.
In the distance, someone was scraping ice off of their windshield, the familiar scraping sound resonating off of the surrounding houses. Taking one last pull on his beverage, Grissom stepped back inside, but once again left the door open. Hank trudged in behind him, paws leaving wet prints on the floor; he should have, but Grissom didn't give it a second thought.
It was the first day of his retirement, and he wasn't in the mood to stress about anything. That was the reason that he added a more-than-usual amount of cream cheese on top of his bagel, passed over the usual fruit bowl that would have accompanied his breakfast, left the dishes for later. Reclining in his chair while perusing the morning paper, Grissom wondered if he should call her. He wanted to call her; he very much wanted to call her.
Mentally doing the calculations, he came to the conclusion that it was only two o'clock in the afternoon where she was and that he might actually be able to get through, for once. His fingers twiddled over the plastic backing of the phone, slipped and slid and toyed with the idea of dialing the absurd amount of numbers it took in order to get in touch with her.
The paper with the numbers lay next to the phone and he picked that up too, one hand on the small, yellow slip, the other hovering above the telephone. They'd talked already about how upset he'd been when she had left and she in turn had spoken of how upset she had been when he had left. They became upset with each other for no rational reason other than that they were so far apart, and no matter how hard they tried, they weren't going to not miss one another.
That was how the last conversation had ended, an aloof, "Enjoy yourself," from him, followed almost immediately by a curt retaliation of, "Yeah," from her before the line disconnected. Grissom hadn't had the opportunity to voice his thoughts about his impending resignation from CSI, or his fancy with the idea of retirement, and he regretted this.
Eyes flickering between the outside world and the paper in his hands, he sighed and tipped his head back, over the support of the high chair. It shouldn't be this hard, he reasoned, but could it be so simple as he just wanted to hear her voice, and so he could call her? Perhaps it had been that way before, the year before, the month before, but their last conversation weighed too heavily on their already strained relationship.
He was up in the air, as to where they were as a couple; in fact, he didn't quite know if they were a couple any longer, but he harbored a suspicion that she hadn't completely given up on him, and he hadn't given up on her-not even close-and that meant something. He loved her, missed her, wished that she was with him, marveling at the snow.
Squeezing his eyes shut very tightly, he snagged the phone out of the cradle, took a breath and pressed the 'Talk' button with purpose. Peeking one eye open, he typed in the numbers on the paper and stood from the chair. He moved quickly back to the door as the line connected and the phone rang, quietly. Thick fingers curled around the cool metal of the sliding glass door as he spoke with someone named Pablo, who assured him that he would locate Sara and get her on the line as soon as possible.
As he waited, he thought of the many things he'd done, he'd experienced, since she had been away and how it would have been so much better, that much better, if she'd been around to share it with, to talk about it with.
A moment later, a gruff voice appeared on the line. "Can't seem to find 'er, need me to take a message for ya?"
Grissom's heart sank, it sank as far down as he thought it possibly could. "Yes, please. Just… just tell her that Gil called and… and… that's it." As he spoke, he formed a loose snowball in his hand and pitched it hard against the wooden fence enclosing the yard.
As it exploded, Grissom watched the fractured pieces scatter against the tarp of white at the ground and wished, very much, that he was sharing this particular moment with her.
Sliding the door shut, Grissom attempted to quell the wave of sadness that threatened to rise up and engulf him. With a swallow and a straightening of his back, he went about the pedantic chores of the day: Tidying up the kitchen, the living room, wiping up the paw-smudges on the floor. There was the requisite laundry and the paying of the bills.
He set some of his affairs in order, filled out much of the lab-required paperwork and settled down to enjoy the nothing that he had planned for the day. It was comforting, and relaxing and strangely agitating. With nothing to do, his hands shook as though they were simply anticipating something to do.
Wiping his hands against the denim of his jeans, he resolved to make the most of the rest of his day, make the most of whatever time he had left. He would pick up the sealant for the deck, a project he'd been putting off for some time. He would junk the old vacuum and go comparison shopping for a new one.
There were photographs that his mother had left him; they needed to be placed in an album. His frequent flyer miles were collecting dust, and he decided that he would finally use some of them up. He'd finish a few articles that he'd been researching for that had been put on hold for some time. Perhaps he would guest lecture, perhaps he would return to the rainforest, perhaps he would move to the mountains.
There was so much time and so much he had left to do, that he could do. This notion lifted him out of the significant funk he'd managed to sink himself into. Retiring to his office, Grissom began mapping out all of his plans. Pen to paper, he began delegating his time to certain tasks. He even included mundane efforts like haircuts and veterinarian appointments.
In the middle of highlighting bullet points on what the month of January would be dedicated to, the doorbell chimed. Leaving his list, Grissom made his way to the front door expecting nothing more than to have to sign for a package.
It shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did, discovering her on the other side of the door, flurries melting in her hair. "Since when does it snow?" she asked, just a hair out of breath, and tramped into the apartment with her large suitcase in tow. "I go away for a couple months and the climate changes?"
Across from him, she stood, unzipping her coat; he just stared on.
After she'd successfully shed her outer layer, she wiped her hands down the outside of her thighs and instructed, "Take off your glasses, I don't to want to break them."
With brow raised, Grissom did as told and just as the frames touched the surface of the coffee table, Sara flung herself at him. Voraciously, they kissed, and he chuckled against her lips, thinking to himself how she had once again managed to derail his plans.
He'd have to start a new list.
Outside, the flurries began to peter off; the snow and Sara remained the most improbable and welcome surprises of the season.