A/N: A new-long-chapter! Enjoy!

Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

Chapter 26

Gil Grissom's life had been given a new purpose. He had been a dedicated criminalist for years and upon his retirement, he had found other work where he had been competent—enjoyed seeing new places and meeting new people with similar interests.

Then, on a trip with his wife and mother, he'd found another passion.

Seven months ago, he had left a well-funded oceanography organization that had been his introduction to a life on the ocean and joined another. Sea Shepherd had assigned him to the Columbia River watching and recording sea lions. He'd laughed at first, thought the job was child's play after what he been doing for decades.

But he went to Astoria, Oregon, rented a small apartment and waited. Sea lions did what sea lions did and when they got in the path of salmon fishermen, they were shot, netted, hooked, drowned—killed by any means—all for eating salmon. He was the watcher, the cameraman, the reporter—and he called for help when needed.

He also learned a few underhanded and circuitous methods of achieving desired results— quick ways to disable engines, create smoke bombs, basic science pranks involving eggs, baking soda, and ketchup—all in the name of slowing the slaughter of endangered animals.

After several months, he surprised himself by buying a boat; it made his work easier if he could disguise himself as a fisherman. Or at least a man in a work-weary vessel. And it had an ocean-rated engine and a small cabin with a bed and a head.

During the days of negotiating the purchase, he was surprised to get an email from Sara. Briefly asking how he was doing and in the exchange that followed she asked about his boat. In the legalese of becoming a boat owner, his ex-wife had received notice of the purchase through a credit check of a long-forgotten joint bank account. Their messages were cordial but distant, almost formal between two people who had once been intimately involved.

With a few sentences, she told him about work. In her words, he saw what she had become—a professional, a woman with self-confidence and courage and responsibility.

Later, he did not sleep well. He looked at his phone several times, thinking he would call Sara. He did not but thought about the time when he had been loved. How had he lived so richly and broken it in so many pieces. For days, his chest felt heavy with memories. His fingers reached for his seldom used cell phone; he did not—could not—tap Sara's name.

Remaining on the Columbia River for two more months, he chose to leave the Sea Shepherd's organization at the end of his commitment. Instead, he left Astoria in his boat, traveling along the coast line as he headed to California, to the house his mother had owned, uncertain of what he would do once he arrived in Los Angeles.

The house had been purchased while he was in college so it had never felt like home to him. But she'd made a good investment, improving the building as the area became a sought-after historic district. Having an exceptional business sense, she had opened an art gallery and lived upstairs. When she decided to move to Vegas, she had leased it.

Now, it was his home address—the art gallery was still there. His living space was the second floor, almost empty of anything personal, stacks of boxes he had not opened in two years.

Somewhere in northern California, in a small coastal town, he tied his boat to the public dock and fell into a conversation with a couple in the next boat. During the next few hours, he learned of a quasi-organization with a chief goal of cleaning up the coastline. Along with their cleaning efforts, they watched for illegal activities—everything from dumping of polluting garbage and oils, fishing in protected areas, destruction of habitat, and illegal fishing.

"We don't break laws," the woman explained. "We help enforce—call the Coast Guard or harbormaster or fish and wildlife."

"The seas are the old 'wild wild west' with little to no real law enforcement," the man added. "If we see something, we can radio for help using codes and anyone else in the group who is nearby will head in our direction."

Grissom was interested. A loose knit group along the coast, no long-term obligation; he got a name and a telephone number before the couple sailed out of the harbor.

Within a few weeks, he realized how much trash washed ashore—and realized how easy it was to overfish, to destroy habitat, dump trash, and take whatever one wanted from the ocean. Easing into a community of covert environmentalists was not as difficult as he would have thought. Most were retired from other professions; they did what they claimed—cleaned the coast—and the surreptitious activities passed unnoticed all along the coast.

It was several months before Grissom grasped that their pursuits were barely noticed because so much illegal activity was happening. The major ports were understaffed; the Coast Guard worked continually saving human lives. Drug trafficking took resources that could have been available for enforcing wildlife laws.

After following and documenting a bloody trail of dying sharks, fins removed, he made the decision to stay with a fishing trawler entering the port of San Diego. After docking within yards of the boat, he watched as several men washed down the deck and added bags of ice to a large cooler.

No fish appeared. The 'catch' had been the left at sea. The fins had to be in the cooler, he thought, waiting for delivery.

As night came, Grissom dressed in dark clothes and crept aboard the vacated boat. Later, he realized he must have tripped an alarm; otherwise, there was no way that port authority patrolmen and San Diego policemen would have showed up in such force.

He was almost certain the charges against him would disappear. Trespassing was a misdemeanor that meant a monetary fine; he'd be free to go before the sun set. But he was stuck in place while things played out.

The patrolman who ran his fingerprints returned, affirming his name, and in a few minutes, a very surprised Grissom was talking to Nick Stokes.

"I'm coming down there, man! Don't go anywhere!"

Not that Grissom could go anywhere, so he remained leaning against a police car until Nick showed up.

Within minutes, he was no longer charged with trespassing, had his boat released, and was on his way to breakfast with the director of the San Diego Crime Lab—who had not stop talking since arriving at the dock.

Nick asked so many questions without pausing for an answer that Grissom had ceased giving any response for at least ten minutes. When the vehicle stopped in front of a small diner, Nick said, "You haven't said a word! I'm talking too much—you need to tell me what you've been doing."

The younger man got out of the car; Grissom hesitated a few seconds thinking it might have been better to remain at the dock.

Nick was talking, "This is a lot like Frank's—you know what happened at Frank's, right?" When Grissom looked confused, Nick continued, "It was a mess. Can't believe he killed so many—and then." Nick paused to open the door, saw the look on Grissom's face, and shrugged, saying, "Under the bridge, right. The food is good here."

They found an empty booth next to the windows and Nick flirted with a young waitress for a few minutes before she brought coffee. Nick ordered the daily special; Grissom did the same.

"Well, now it's your turn," Nick said with a grin. "Tell me—in reverse—how'd you get to a fishing dock in San Diego? Trespassing—and just happen to find shark fins!"

Grissom described his clean-up efforts and his decision to follow the fishing boat into the harbor without revealing his true mission. "They left a trail of dead sharks—I thought I'd see what they were up too—and even I know about shark fin soup." He quickly turned to describing cleaning up the coast; it took him several minutes.

When their plates arrived, both men tucked into eggs, toast, bacon, and potatoes.

"I—ah—I guess you are no longer a vegetarian." Nick pointed his fork at the bacon on Grissom's plate

"No."

"Do you—do you ever hear from Sara?"

"No—not in a while," Grissom said and then took a bite of toast.

Nick waved the fork, saying, "She's doing good, you know. D.B. is leaving Vegas and Sara's going for the director job."

Grissom almost dropped his fork. His eyes came up and met Nick's. He had never thought about Sara as director of the lab. Quickly covering his surprise, he said, "She—she—she'll be good." He managed to get the words out but he felt as if a baseball had hit his chest.

"Yeah," Nick calmly spread his toast with jam, no longer looking at Grissom. "They've had a rough patch. Julie Finley—did you know her?"

Grissom shook his head.

"She died several months ago—it hit D.B. hard. Then some other things—personal stuff—happened and he decided it was time to move on. Sara will be good—she knows everyone—works all the time anyway."

Popping a piece of toast in his mouth, Nick chewed slowly, swallowed, and said, "It's a shame about you two. I always thought—well, I guess I thought you and Sara were together for the long haul."

With a slight shrug, Grissom forked eggs into his mouth.

Nick didn't take—or refused to take—the hint. He said, "Sara is such a good person." He glanced at Grissom. "She told me you didn't come home—she thought you'd be there for her birthday." His fork pointed at Grissom. "Did you really break up over the phone?"

Again, Grissom shrugged. He should have stayed on the dock.

"Do you know her mother died?"

This did shock Grissom. "No, I—I haven't heard from her in months. When?"

"Months ago—quietly in her sleep. You know how Sara is—she didn't say much about it."

Grissom desperately wanted to change the subject. He asked, "Tell me about your job—what happens in San Diego?"

As they finished breakfast, Nick talked and Grissom made appropriate noises in response. Nick paid the bill, asking, "Do you need anything? Supplies or—or whatever you take with you."

"No—no, I'm good." He pointed northward, saying, "I'll head back up the coast."

Nick chuckled. "Don't tell me you live on that boat all the time."

Grissom answered, "No, I have a place—my mother's old place—in LA. Gives me a place to stretch out in bad weather."

They got in Nick's vehicle and drove the few miles to the dock. Neither man said anything until the car stopped and Grissom opened the car's door. Nick sighed and shoved the gear shift to 'Park', turning to face Grissom.

"Before you leave—I want to say how much I appreciate all you did—teaching me how to work. I do appreciate it."

Grissom nodded.

"But—after working for you—with Sara—I've got to say this," he hesitated, wiped his face and turned away from Grissom before continuing. "Leaving her is the absolute worst thing you've ever done—you two should have talked—should talk." His head shook slowly. "I don't know—will probably never have—what you two had together." He laughed, a sad, uncharacteristic sound. "You appear to be fine—doing fine. Found something new—but Sara—Sara will always hold on to what you had. I think she stays in Vegas hoping you'll return one day."

Grissom didn't know what to say—did not want to talk about Sara and what they had. Nick could not know how deeply it hurt to hear about Sara.

He said, "I appreciate you, Nick. You were—you were always what I wished I was." He made to get out of the car.

What Nick said next caused him to turn, dumbfounded, one foot out of the car. He asked, "What?"

"She owns the condo—rents it to Greg."

Leaning into the seat, Grissom closed his eyes. The quick sale, the selling price matching the list price; he never suspected. Trying to remember, he realized he had never seen a name for the buyer, all the paperwork had been done electronically.

Managing several breaths, he said, "I didn't know. She—she wanted the house—why didn't she tell me she wanted the condo?"

"She thought you needed the money."

Grissom's hand covered his mouth for a long moment before he said, "I've been such a fool. Left the best part of my life to—to—I don't know what I wanted—running away from failure, I think."

"Failure? You've never failed, man! You are the most successful person I know! How can you think that?"

He could not tell Nick everything; instead, he said, "There were things I should have done—did not do because I was stubborn. I—I—we got crossed up and—and…"

"Well, you've both got time, you know. Make things right." Nick twisted to grab his phone. "Let me check this—it's about to rattle out of the holder." Checking the screen, he grinned. "Speaking of," he held the phone for Grissom to see, "Sara."

Quickly, Grissom shook his head. "I'm not here, please."

Nodding his head, Nick's finger touched the phone. "Hey, Sara!"

Grissom could hear her voice but words were indistinct; he knew she was animated, agitated about something. In a few seconds, Nick was asking her to stop—slow down.

He said, "Let me put you on speaker—I'm in the car."

With a push of a button, Sara's voice filled the car. Grissom did not realize the breath he took or that he closed his eyes as his head fell against the head rest of the seat. The voice he'd heard for years, still heard in his dreams, seemed to wrap around his chest, descend into his body and wake up cells he thought long dead.

It took a minute for him to actually comprehend what she was saying and when he did, he saw that Nick was leaning toward her voice. They listened, intently, as Sara related an unbelievable story.

"We need help, Nick. I need help! Catherine is coming, but she won't get here until late tomorrow. It's already on national news—I thought—hope—you can come today."

Quickly, Nick assured her he would make arrangements to be on the next direct flight. Looking at Grissom, he said, "I might bring someone to help."

Sara replied, "At this point, we're going to need all the help we can get."

A/N: Covers a lot of time! It's Sara calling Nick-so what's happening? Our story deviates from the CSI Finale-Enjoy and thanks for reading!