Blackbird
Author wobbear
Rating General/K
Pairing Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH
Disclaimer Not for profit borrowing of the characters.
Spoilers Inspired the final scene in 9x05 Leave Out All the Rest. Chapter titles from the Beatles song.
Author's note Thank you again to smacky30 for the beta.
Summary Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.
4: Take these broken wings and learn to fly
We make small talk while we work through the simple steps of preparing breakfast. The coffee machine is already percolating as I cook my contribution of scrambled eggs with chives, Heather tends the toaster and we touch base on the mundane happenings in our respective days.
But hovering over us, wafting invisibly around us, there's an enormous elephant in the room, a silent Grissom shadow that we're both avoiding.
Soon we're settled at the table in the breakfast nook ― why is it called a nook? I keep looking for crannies ― with loaded plates, silence reigns until we've both made good inroads to our meals. Then I take a long draft of coffee, wipe my mouth with my napkin and lean back, taking a pause.
"So …" My single syllable hangs in the air as Heather spreads sugar-free raspberry jam on a slice of toast then carefully sets the knife down on her plate.
"The eggs were very good, thank you."
Her stilted, somewhat formal speech confirms my suspicions. She's uneasy about the, uh, Grissom situation and my reaction to it. The whole him-being-in-the-guest-bedroom thing.
I nod, and venture a small smile to take the edge off the now tense atmosphere. "By the way, thanks for your help with the case."
At that Heather rolls her eyes. "You would have found the back room at Trance without me."
I shrug, silently trying to encourage her to talk to me. About the elephant. After a mammoth pause, she shakes her head slowly. Lifting somber eyes to me she begins to speak.
"He came in the midst of the downpour, late enough that I was already in my nightwear. Through the glass I could see him trembling on the door step, almost in … yes, a trance. When I opened the door he seemed to jolt out of it. He looked so sad, so desperate." She sighs, remembering. "I couldn't turn him away." She sips some coffee and puts the cup back down on the saucer. "I haven't slept."
"But―"
"I showered, dressed and ate around six am, and then we drank some tea."
I should have known she would keep to her schedule if at all possible.
"And I intend to catch a long nap with you when you go to bed." She smiles wearily, the thought brightening her solemn face.
"Sounds good." It'll be nice to actually sleep together. It doesn't happen very often and that's one of the reasons I'm edging ever closer to retirement. It's the only way to avoid night shifts.
xxxxxxx
Jim's concern for me is always touching. Beneath that gruff exterior he's a very emotional, loving man; sometimes his over-protective nature can be cloying, but I know it's his worried heart that guides his words, his actions so I readily bear any frustration he causes in that regard.
But he's been keeping things from me and, frankly, I'm irked. I know my lack of sleep is heightening my irritation, but I very much regret not having known before now that Sara had left. I would have gotten in touch with Grissom. Just to see how he was coping, offer him a chance to relax in an unpressured place. To be there for him. He's been there for me, more than once, and I would have liked to be able to return the favor.
I'd pegged him as a confirmed bachelor. Not gay, definitely not, but "married to his work". So when I saw Grissom and Sara's wordless communication in that room in Desert Palm it was a shock. A shock to see the reserved, undemonstrative Gil Grissom in love, with all the tenderness and vulnerability that entails. But I knew. Even as I lay deeply depressed in that uncomfortable bed, I saw their connection. Despite the overlay of awkwardness, each surprised to see the other in my hospital room, there it was, love pure and simple. Not that love is really ever either pure or simple.
I'm irritated, yes. However, Jim's a good man, and he doubtless had his reasons for not telling me. Whether I agree with them is for me to deal with. But I do want to know why he kept it from me. No time like the present ― I take in a calming breath before I speak. "How is it that I only found out in the early hours of this morning that Sara Sidle has left Las Vegas, and more importantly Gil Grissom?"
Jim's obviously been expecting this question, and wrinkles his brow prodigiously as he looks at me, eyes sad under the hooded lids. He visibly gathers himself, and finally speaks. "It was around the time of Zoe's birthday. I figured you had enough to deal with."
"Ah". I can feel my tense shoulders relaxing. As I intimated, he's a good man. And that is a good reason. I nod, my eyes warm. Jim looks relieved as I pick up my second slice of toast.
xxxxxxx
The sunset is glowing blood orange behind Grissom's shoulder, casting a warm light on the folded newspaper in his left hand. He's sitting on the window seat in the room I call my library, apparently attempting a crossword.
I'm pleased. I gather this was part of his normal routine, neglected in recent months as he struggled. I've been patient with him these last few days, but he's better rested now and I won't let him evade the issues any longer. It's time to fish or cut bait, as my father used to say.
Then I notice a note pad on top of his closed laptop.
"What's this, Grissom?" It's not like I'm prying, it was in plain view. He's got me thinking like a CSI now, and he's only been here a short time. It's a list, in his distinctive hand:
― nervous smile
― sad eyes "we could survive anything". NOT happy
― can't look steadily at me/the camera - eyes dart around, up to the right, off to the left
― use of "honestly". Sure tell for a lie
― voice shaking, hesitation B4 "I think you were right" Trying to make herself believe it?
I frown as I realize the answer to my own question. "You've been analyzing the video she sent you? Like it's a piece of evidence in a case?!" My voice rises at the end with incredulity. No, that's not right. I do believe it. I just don't want to. He needs to get off this track, now. And it appears to be down to me to nudge him in the right direction. He's so stubborn though it may take an almighty shove. As he insisted, I'm not his therapist. So instead he's going to be on the receiving end of some tough love. I wish Jim hadn't gotten called into work early. It would be good to be able to tag team Grissom.
He looks warily over his reading glasses at me.
I'm not masking my irritation, and my tone is harsh as I continue. "You just can't―" Hearing myself, I stop. If I antagonize him he'll clam up completely. Even if I'm not his therapist, I must use therapy techniques. Too much honesty all at once, as a friend might well give, will not work with Grissom. My concern for him is feeding my frustration and it's not helping either of us. I need to rein in my annoyance and seek the objectivity that serves me well with my patients.
As I take a few deep, calming breaths he deliberately puts the newspaper down beside him on the padded seat, taking off his glasses and folding them neatly on top on the paper. Then he rubs his chin and tilts his head from side to side as he considers how to answer.
Perhaps he does have a stiff neck, but even so these are classic delaying tactics.
I stand, hand on hip, and wait. Not confrontational exactly, but he knows I will insist on a real answer: a pat deflection is unacceptable. We've gotten that far.
He draws in several deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Finally he speaks. "I ... was looking at it yes. I--I wanted to see her face." He stops there, wide eyes raised in a meek entreaty as if to ask, "Will that do?" To cap it off, he bites his lower lip.
As an attempt to garner sympathy, the earnest little boy look may well work with others; I'm not so easily swayed.
"Grissom ..."
His eyes wander down to the crossword again.
"Gil."
At that he looks up, shifting in his seat so he's facing me. Not looking at me, but it's a start.
"You can't dissect it like that. It's not a piece of evidence."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and intertwining his fingers. He stares at his clasped hands a moment then he sighs and says, "It's all I have ... to help me decide."
"Grissom, we've skirted the edges of this for long enough now."
I pause, hoping that my instincts and training are steering me true. "Do you want to go to her?"
I can barely bear to breathe as I wait for his response. At last, he nods cautiously.
"To see what happens?"
He flinches perceptibly; I've hit a nerve, it seems. A tension-laden moment hangs in the air. I wait, barely daring to breathe. Finally he huffs out a half laugh and says, "Yes, I do."
He smiles, a small but genuine smile, as he rises swiftly and approaches with his distinctive swaying stride. Clasping my shoulders lightly, he drops a kiss on my cheek then takes a half-step back. His eyes alight now with warmth, with hope, he chuckles. "You always were good at cutting to the chase, Heather."
TBC
A/n 2: Remember to vote for whatever you fancy in the CSIfanfic awards - voting closes tomorrow (Sunday 20 September)