Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own CSI.
Thank you, thank you to those of you who reviewed my first chapter! As I said, this is my first fanfic, and it was extremely gratifying to know that at least a couple people actually read it and, not only read it, but actually liked it!
Note: This chapter is presented from Sara's point of view.
Damn. Why, Sara, why? Why the hell did I put myself in this situation? God, Grissom must think I'm a pathetic ass.
As Sara took Grissom's hand and stood up to leave with him, she couldn't even look at him. She didn't think she'd ever been more angry- angry with herself, the officer who pulled her over, the officer who had the NERVE to call Grissom, angry with Grissom himself for driving her to drink, more angry with herself for allowing him to drive her to drink, angry that she'd ever left San Francisco for Vegas, angry, angry, angry at and about every damn thing. When she did glance up at him, Grissom's face was full of pity. The sight made her sick. She didn't need pity. She didn't want pity. She wanted respect and she wanted, no, she desperately NEEDED Grissom to see her as an equal- an equal in intelligence, independence, ability, wit, nerve, and even scientific geekiness. Getting herself in trouble for drunk driving was not about to accomplish that. Now Grissom would see her as a pathetic child.
Only reluctantly letting go of his hand as they reached the passenger-side door of his lab-issued Denali, Sara got into the SUV, adding anger at herself for wanting to hold Grissom's hand even though she knew the gesture wasn't out of affection on his part to her list of things she was angry about, and settled moodily into the seat, her legs crossed and resting against the door, her face against the window. She heard Grissom get into the driver's seat, but she did not turn to face him. She knew she should thank him for picking her up and offer an explanation as to why she ended up needing a ride home, but she just couldn't bring herself to apologize. He'd have to talk first. He never opens up about anything, so why should I? I can play this game, too.
Finally, with only 5 minutes remaining in the drive to Sara's apartment, Grissom finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Sara, do you want to explain this to me?" he asked in a carefully constructed tone that suggested to Sara that he was "walking on eggshells" around her right now. "No" was her simple response. Why should she tell him anything when he was always so careful to never let her into his life? Frankly, she shouldn't have to. This incident had nothing to do with her job. She wasn't out on assignment. She was off the clock drinking on her own time. He had no right to know anything about her personal life. He'd made it clear a million times that he didn't care; Sara felt certain that this time was no different.
After another long, uncomfortable silence, Grissom pulled up to Sara's apartment complex.
"Can I convince you to talk to me?" Those words took Sara by surprise. She expected a blunt goodbye or the usual, "I'll see you at the lab," but "Can I convince you to talk to me?" Anger flared in Sara's chest again as a number of answers ran through her head: "Take me out on a dinner date and then, sure, I'll chat," "Show me you care first," or another simple "No," but she settled with, "If you talk first, I might reciprocate." Then, without being able to help herself, even though it looked as though Grissom was about to respond, she started into one of her classic "over-talking" tirades. She found the pitch of her voice rising with each sentence as she blurted out, "Grissom, you have no right to know what I was doing on my own time or why. You have told me in not so many words that you don't care and aren't interested in me. I don't know how my drunken behavior tonight could possibly change that. I don't even know how you know where I live. You sure as hell have never wanted to come here. If you want me to let you into my head, you're going to have to do some talking first. Explain. Explain it all, Grissom. Tell me why you won't give me a chance. Tell me why you don't respect me. Tell me."
Grissom stared at Sara, a "deer in the headlights" look on his face, and as he removed his glasses as he usually did when buying himself time before talking, set them on the dashboard, and massaged his forehead with his right hand, Sara found herself staring right back at him thinking, "If he quotes Shakespeare at a moment like this, I am so quitting the lab and going back to California."