Disclaimer: If I owned them, Grissom would have been honest about his 'sources' on that plane... :)
A/N: Sooo, please review! Thanks! :)
Chapter 18: Still May, 1991
Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science
The plane ride home was… interesting, to say the least. I hadn't really noticed a woman in a long time, and so maybe it was because I had spent a week with my daughter, and felt incredibly happy, that my eyes were drawn to the woman who sat beside me. Maybe it was just that she was so incredible a woman that, even through my haze, I couldn't ignore her. Whatever the reason, I found her intoxicating.
She had dark brown hair and eyes—I've always preferred brunettes—and a shapely, hourglass figure. She looked like she was roughly my age, maybe a year or so younger, and there was no wedding ring on her finger. She sat next to me, on the aisle, crossing exposed legs and, in doing so, causing her skirt to slide up further on her thighs. I directed my eyes at the back of the seat in front of me. I felt like a teenager ogling a classmate. What had gotten into me?
She turned to me, smiling, obviously unaware of my roaming eyes. "So, are you from the cities or is this just a connecting flight?"
I can hear the Midwest in her voice—the hard "o" on the end of "so"—and it gives me a strange twinge in my stomach, somewhere between joy and homesickness. I smile. "It's a connecting flight, but I lived in the cities for about two and a half years… almost three years ago, now."
"Oh, that's nice. So are you stopping to see family while you're here?"
I smile a tight smile—I had made certain I had six hours layover between flights, to visit Joshua—"Briefly. I assume you're on your way home?"
She smiled. "I am. I was born and raised in Minnesota."
I chuckle, avoiding at all costs looking at her legs, now that she has turned towards me. Something about long legs and dark hair always got me… "I can tell by the accent."
She rolls her eyes. "As far as American accents go, the Midwest's is tame."
I find myself smiling too much, leaning into the conversation, and remind myself to back up. I'm probably crowding her, and I know that nothing will come of it anyway. "This is true—it's nice though. You don't get to hear the "'Oh yah!'s' and the 'Yeah-You-Betcha's' too much in Vegas."
She grins. "Sin city is home for a former Minnesota boy... I'll bet that was a big change."
I smile at being referred to as a boy, and also at being labeled a Minnesotan, though I had lived most of my life in California. "It was. It really was. But you get used to anything… and the lights are nice."
She laughs at my simple explanation, continuing the conversation. "So what were you in Boston for; business or pleasure?"
I realize, with a sort of muted surprise, that she's flirting with me. I reign in my excitement, reminding myself again that nothing can come of it. I don't have any time after the flight, even for chocolate locks and luscious legs. "Well, a little of both, I guess. My daughter… her mother just got married, so I was taking care of her while they were on their honeymoon."
She tilts her head sympathetically. "I bet that was hard, being at your ex-wife's wedding…"
I shake my head. "We were never married. And… it wasn't really hard. I was just happy to spend some time with my little girl."
Her eyes sparkle, and I realize too late that looking like a loving, single father, not hung up on the ex, with the child across the country, could be misconstrued as quite the appealing set of traits, but it was never my intention to lay them out like that. I shake my head, pulling out my wallet—half because I'm stalling for time; I don't know how to respond to her interest—and show her the pictures of Amber in my wallet.
"She's beautiful."
I nod. "She is."
"I'll bet she looks like her mother." She says, noting the lack of my features in her face.
I chuckle, but I don't go into details. "Yeah, the near-spitting image." I put the wallet away. "What took you to Boston?"
"My brother and his wife live there. I just went for a visit."
"Oh, I'll bet that was fun. I'm sorry, I'm Gil Grissom, I don't think I ever introduced myself."
"Stacey Olson."
I laugh. "There certainly are a lot of you." At her look of confusion, I clarify. "Olson's, I mean. I think I knew three or four, when I lived in the cities. None of them were related."
She giggles. "Norwegians, don't-cha-know?" She says, in the thickest accent she can muster, and for some reason, I'm laughing so hard that I have to wipe tears from my eyes. She beams under my apparent praise, laughing lightly along with me.
As our mirth subsides, we become aware of the drink cart coming up the aisle, only a few rows down from us now. "Oh, shoot, I was going to grab my book before they got here…" She jumps up quickly, digging for a moment in the overhead compartment. To keep my eyes from her body as she stretches up, I instead pull out the magazine I had tucked in the pouch of the seat in front of me—the newest issue of Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science, flipping through the pages to scan the articles, uncertain which to read first or, in truth, whether I'll start one at all. I'm enjoying our conversation more than I could have expected.
She closes the compartment and slides back into her seat, refastening her seat belt. Moments later, the drink cart is present—I order a coffee and she a sprite, and I lay my magazine out on my tray table so that I can take my drink from the stewardess. Stacey glances at it, her eyebrows narrowing. "Your magazine puts my trashy romance novel to shame."
I chuckle, glancing at the cover of her book—a long haired, shirtless man pinning a half-dressed and wind-swept woman against a large rock, an ocean crashing behind them chaotically. "Believe it or not, there's probably as much sex in mine as there is in yours…" Her eyebrows raise, and I chuckle more, my eyes scanning the cover for an example. "Sex is one of the highest motivators of human behavior—an intrinsic consideration when evaluating the psychodynamic response to certain situations… like…" My eyes caught the word 'sex' and I began to read the title of the article. "Joining the Mile High Club—processing airplanes and the continued propensity to engage in airplane s—" I stop, realizing too late that my example is unintentionally specific to the situation we're in.
She giggles as I feel the heat fill up my face. "I'm sorry, I just… I just read the first one I saw, and—"
She laughs laying a hand on my arm. "I know, Gil. …Don't be such a gentleman; you'll hurt my feelings…"
I feel my blood race as her hand makes contact, and I quickly run her words over in my mind, unsure how to respond. She didn't want me to imply that I wouldn't want to have sex on a plane with her… was she saying that she wanted to have sex? On this plane? Or was she just being flirtatious? My hands are sweaty, and I swallow hard, wiping them on my jeans, uncertain how to respond to her comment, but she seems to know how to respond, placing a hand on the middle of my thigh.
I practically jumped out of my skin, and was thoroughly glad I'd worn pants that would conceal my newfound problem, at least a little. My eyes rise to meet hers, and our mutual desire was clear, though she seemed more ready to satisfy it than me. She chuckles softly, because I'm sure there's at least a little alarm mixed with the desire on my face. "Look, no pressure, Gil." She takes her hand off my thigh, and I groan softly, missing the contact. She smiles knowingly. "But, uh… if you want to test that article, let me know, and I'll meet you in the restroom."
I stare at her, shocked, and she grins and opens her novel. She's reading—I can tell by the way her eyes move that she isn't pretending—but I stare on, feeling frozen. Good lord, I want to… I'm not a naturally promiscuous man by nature. I like the comfort of a relationship, the routine of commitment—but I am a man nearing 35, and I've spent most of my life out of a relationship rather than in one. This doesn't mean I've never had one-night stands, though, as I said, it isn't really in my nature. It doesn't fulfill me the way a relationship does, but in this moment, I'm feeling like it would be more fulfillment than I've had in… god, has it really been years?
And then it hits me: I haven't been with a woman, I haven't even seriously considered a woman, since Laura. When had we last had sex? ...She'd told me about Joshua at the New Year's Eve party… we'd had a quickie in the shower, before the party… so that would have been the last day in December, 19… 86. Four years, five months, I had been celibate and… and not fucking noticed? Not even looked at a woman?
I tried to scan the past years, tried to look at it with some objectivity. A year of that, I'd had a family… Laura and I weren't sleeping together, and it really had been better that way—and I had truly been happy… I hadn't needed a sexual companion. When my body complained of what my heart no longer required, I took care of the problem, but it was an afterthought, a basic part of my routine, like brushing my teeth, or shaving every other day. And my excuse for the other three plus years?
I had barely managed to breathe—who could think about sex?
But all this thought about the family I had had—the emotions of loss that I'd managed to strangle into submission in order to function—were now dangerously close to the surface, and I felt the weight and tragedy of them as if they were newly fresh.
Stacey moaned softly, almost inaudibly, causing hairs to rise on the back of my neck, and I turn to look at her again, distracted, briefly, from my downward spiral. She's sitting still in her chair, eyes sensuously roaming over the words in her book—her legs are tensed, and there's a fierce look in her eyes, and her left hand is running up and down the exposed skin on her left thigh, so fervently that I think she must be unaware she's doing it, or she would not be so bold.
And so, after four and a half years of repression, with the tightening grief of loss realized anew clenching my chest in a death grip, making breathing a struggle again, I turn to the moaning woman beside me with a directness in my gaze and a burning running throughout my body, somehow intensifying and soothing my grief all at once, and she turns to me, despite her engrossment in her book. She understands.
I stand, filled with conviction, and move to a restroom, making sure to catch her eye before I close and lock the door, so there is no confusion over which stall I'm in. It's tiny, and I look around quickly, trying to judge the best position. If there were more room in front of the vanity, she could lean against it and I could enter her from behind… but no, with so little leg room, that won't work.
She's petite—I could probably hold her against the wall across from the mirror, and she could brace her feet against the sink—but a quick thought to the layout of the plane, and I realize I'd be rocking her against a wall with seats on the opposite side. I didn't want to be interrupted.
So she'd have to be up on the sink, I reasoned, and nodded, glad to have a plan of action in mind. I hadn't always needed planning—I had been a very impulsive lover, when it came to Becky—but years had passed, and I was nervous. If I didn't need to think about the how while she in here, I could focus on keeping it under control. After all, I had no idea how long I could last after having gone without for four years…
I hear the softest of knocks on the door, and I unlock it, letting her slip in, and relock it. We look at each other for a moment, but there are no words needed—they would add nothing anyway. I capture her lips, pushing her back against the sink, letting her feel the extent of my arousal. She moans and rubs herself against me, before pushing me back an inch or two.
I'm confused, pulling back, and that's when I realize she's tugging her skirt up her abdomen, to allow easy access. I groan softly at the lace that is revealed underneath, and she lifts herself to sit on the very edge of the counter. My mouth is on hers again, a hand moving down to rest on the top of her thigh, my thumb rubbing the bundle of nerves through the lace. She gasps and bites my shoulder, hard, to stifle herself.
The need to take her is overwhelming, and though I feel as though I'm obligated to foreplay—though she certainly doesn't need it, her underwear might as well have been run under the tap—she brushes my hand aside impatiently after only a minute, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans and wriggling them down my hips, just far enough so that I'm fully exposed.
Her hand moves over me, and I force myself to think of corpses, of autopsies, of insect timeline regression. I don't bother to remove her panties, simply pulling them to the side and thrusting into her with frantic and insatiable need. She's biting again—the crook of my neck and shoulder—to stay quiet, and I feel her nails on my back even through my shirt. It's at this point that I realize I've probably been loud—I haven't been actively shushing myself. I clench my teeth and bury myself within her, harder and harder, until moans are slipping out from her lips even though her teeth haven't yet let go of my neck and I feel her tremble—starting to tighten around me. Oh god, she's going to come…
The realization sent all thoughts of work and death from my mind, and I was suddenly at my own brink, without ever having realized I was so very, very close. With presence of mind I would have thought impossible at this point, I reach behind her and turn on the faucet—there's no way we'll be completely silent. At the thought of hearing her—her pleasure expressed low and guttural and insuppressible against my ear—my pace increases and I feel her muscles clench tightly around me, instantly triggering a forceful and intense orgasm on my own part.
We ride it together, allowing soft sounds to escape because we simply cannot hold them, and even after we've both come down, our foreheads pushed together and our breathing rapid, I feel her muscles twitching around my softening manhood. Reluctantly, I slide out, my hands on her waist to ease her back to the floor, making sure she's steady. I replace myself in my jeans, and kiss her softly, not wanting the experience to be unpleasant, even if I'll never see her again. She returns it, and smiles.
"You go back, I… uh… need to… freshen up."
I smile, glancing over her shoulder at the mirror briefly, to make sure I'm presentable to leave, and kiss her again. "You were incredible."
She grins. "So were you, Mr. Psychodynamics…"
I open the door a crack, making sure the coast is clear, and then slip out, waiting until I hear the door lock behind me before I move back to my seat. I feel shaky, flustered, but invigorated… and, for the first time in a really long time, fully satisfied. And then I realize that I didn't give a thought to birth control, I was just so eager to end my self-imposed dry spell. What was it with Minnesota women and my apparent, insatiable, need to spread my seed?
But she's beside me at that moment, flushed and smiling. She intertwines her fingers with mine, and I squeeze her hand. "Listen, Stacey… I… I didn't even think about… I didn't have a…"
She smiles, saving me from my discomfort. "I had my tubes tied, Gil. I have three beautiful children at home, with three assholes around the country who won't take responsibility. You don't need to worry."
My eyes soften, and I drop her hand to wrap my arm around her—somehow, this feels like the most intimate gesture we've shared. "I… I wasn't worried for my sake. I… couldn't believe that I'd done that to you. I should have thought of it, before—"
She kisses me, softly. "Thank you. I… I probably wouldn't believe you, if you were another man, but… but I see how you love your daughter, how you care about being a part of her life… and I think we both know she isn't yours, no matter what her mother is telling you…"
I chuckle then, softly. "She never told me Amber was mine. I… I met her mother when Amber was three. She's seven now… but… Amber was as much my daughter as any child could be, whether she was mine or not. I wasn't going to give that up just because her mother and I weren't in love…"
She shakes her head, pulling herself from my embrace gently, and drinking deeply from her now-watered-down Sprite. "You're every single mother's fantasy, Gil… why is it that you left the cities again?" She adds teasingly, nudging me, and I laugh, not letting my mind answer her question, because I don't want to even think the words.
I settled into my seat, drinking from my coffee though it was cold, and did not truly quench my thirst, and my eyes fell on the magazine again. I chuckle, placing a hand on her arm. "Should we compare?" I ask, gesturing with the magazine and then flipping pages until I find the article. I scan through it, with her reading over my shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. I find a passage, and read the appropriate phrases softly…
"…high altitude intensifies the entire sexual experience… increases the euphoria…"
She giggles against my shoulder. "I dunno if it was the altitude, or just because it's been like… shit, like a year, since I'd had sex… but it was pretty amazing."
I grin. "It was."
She tilts her head. "Do you think it's the altitude? Should I even bother with the experience again, say if I'm not sexually frustrated, and the stranger beside me is not half as charming or well-endowed?"
I feel my cheeks get hot, and I laugh. "You're a charmer. Why is it I left the cities again...?" She laughs appreciatively at my teasing, and then I turn my mind to her question. "I guess… I guess I don't know, either, if it was the altitude… it's been about that long for me, as well."
The lie slips—one year, not four—pride, I guess. She smiles. "Well, at least we're in the club now."
The plane begins its descent shortly after, and I quickly write down my personal information—I'd heard crazy reports, in medical journals, of the body repairing itself after vasectomies and tubal ligations. I knew it was unlikely, but I wanted to make sure she could contact me, in case I'd accidentally fathered another Minnesotan baby.
And then, after we said our goodbyes, I caught a taxi to the cemetery, stopping only to purchase a bouquet of two dozen white roses. I asked him to wait, and allowed myself only fifteen minutes to grieve, and then left the flowers on his grave. It was a long flight home.
Lies, Half-Truths, and Love
After our conversation about Tyler, we had both drifted into an uneasy sleep and awoken nearing dawn the next morning, the blue light of the movie screen mixing with the gentle rays of washed-out early sunrise. We both stretched and then snuggled closer, meeting each other's eyes and then looking away. I felt naked, exposed—it was a weak feeling, raw and chafing. There were several minutes of sleepy silence, but we were both waiting to see who would break the silence first. In my mind, there was no question. It would hurt him too much to pretend it hadn't happened—to suggest breakfast, for example—but I would not reinitiate our adventure into my private pain.
"Do you still love him?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment, and I draw in a deep breath, attempting to steel myself for the conversation that's coming.
"No."
"So… it still hurts you, because you let your guard down, and trusted him?"
I nod, slowly, realizing that though he made the choice to ask the easier questions, the night before, he still expects me to explain why I stopped trusting in the first place. Maybe he deserved to know why I couldn't make an exception for him too, no matter how I felt… but I wasn't sure he had a right to ask more than that. I didn't think I had the strength to tell him that. I'd never told Tyler… or Kelly…
"Are your parents alive?"
The question takes me off-guard. I never talked about my parents—birth or foster—except on one of our first dates—I'd told him that my parents weren't upset that I'd moved across the country for school, and that I didn't know if I wanted to have children, because I doubted whether someone who had never been parented could be a good parent themselves.
"Define parents."
He sighs, like I'm being difficult on purpose. This makes me angry, and I'm glad I'm making him work for every inch. "The two people whose sperm and egg connected to form you."
I keep my face blank. It doesn't take much effort. I've been practicing since I was old enough to feel shame at the circumstances of my life. "My mother is."
"Where is she?"
"San Francisco."
"So, when you grew up in Tomales Bay, you didn't live with her?"
I bite the inside of my cheek. It's hard to answer this question honestly without giving away too much. "I… I lived with her until I was seven."
"Who did you live with after that?"
My eyes close, and the blank expression wavers. I carefully adjust it. "A lot of people."
He flexes his jaw and relaxes it. "Do you talk to your mother?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I shrug. I'm not trying to be difficult, but I will lie to him if I try to answer his question, and I'm trying not to lie… I'll only lie if he forces me to.
He thinks for a moment. "Who did you live with before you moved to Boston?"
I consider this question. It isn't so bad… I won't have to relive the other homes, if I talk about this one.
"Jim and Marlene… Ruthers."
"Relatives?"
"Foster Parents."
He takes in a deep breath, knowing that I've suddenly told him a lot. I can almost sense his wavering, wondering how far he should push.
"Why did they separate you from your parents?"
I tense. I try very, very hard not to snap—to cry, or yell, or just tell a blatant lie to get the questions to stop. I take a deep breath. "They weren't good parents."
But he pushes. After an answer like that, he fucking pushes it.
"Did they hurt you?"
Anger boils in my chest, but the mask stays in place. And I lie. "No."
"Did they… drink? Or… neglect you?"
"No." I try not to let myself revel in how much easier it is to lie. I don't want to lie to him.
"Was your dad… Did he ever try to…"
"No."
He nods softly, and I wonder if he knows that I lied. I feel guilty, but not enough to tell him so—it would be as good as telling him what happened.
"I… I love you, Sara. You… you don't ever have to say it back, and… and you don't ever have to tell me what happened to you. …but, I want you to know that… that I would be there for you. I… I wouldn't judge or—"
"Okay." I cut him off. I've heard it before.
There's another long silence, and again, he's the one to break it.
"…Did I just… ruin our relationship, asking all those questions? If… If I did, Sara, I just… I just want to say I'm sorry and… and if you don't want to be with me, you can just tell me… you don't need to spare my feelings, I'm a big boy."
For the first time, I move. I sit up in bed, turning my body around to look at him, directly. "What… what are you saying?"
He averts his eyes. "Just that… if I fucked this up, just tell me now. …If you're going to leave me, don't draw it out… I don't want a lie."
My eyes narrow. "Do… Do you want me to leave?"
He sits up, his eyes finally meeting mine. "No! Of course not, Sara! I just… I just didn't think…"
But I interrupt him, with my mouth on his, and the kiss burns and sooths and toys with us as it deepens. I pull back, after a moment, waiting until I catch his eyes. "I'm… Michael, I'm not going anywhere. I… I feel… God, damn it, Michael, I… I do, I just can't… say it."
His eyes are a strange mixture of pain, happiness, and hope, and I wonder if I should feel guilty about the hope… but he kisses me again, and I'm lost.
He moans out that he loves me all through making love, in soft whispered breaths and great screaming moans and between each delicate, labored, pant… and though I can't say it back, I try to show him with my body that I do reciprocate. It's the best I can do, but he seems to understand… or, at the very least, he accepts it.
