Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: Wow! ...nobody liked the Greg thing, huh? :) Well, maybe this chapter will make up for it a little...
...Sara has described herself as being self-destructive... I don't believe that to manifest itself in physical ways, but in bad decision-making... she drinks when she shouldn't, she lets her impulses override her judgement, and her emotions--especially those she runs from--to supercede logic... she would rather give up everything that's important in her life than stop running from her past. At some point, I believe she'll have enough personal growth to stop running--to prioritize better.
Anyway, just wanted a little explanation, for those who didn't like it, or her for it, or who just didn't think it was believable... that this was why I made the choices I made in the previous chapter.
Okay, so... read and review? Pretty peas?
Chapter 13: Opening Up
I had spent nearly every waking moment, when I wasn't at work, cleaning the townhouse and getting ready for Sara to come spend the week with me. I hadn't heard her voice since that day she'd left, and I found myself counting down the days with an almost frantic reverence. So when she called, it was unexpected… and surprising, and wonderful. It came early—before seven a.m.—and so I hadn't gone to bed yet. I almost didn't answer, expecting it to be work, because who else would call so early?
"Grissom."
"…Gil?" She sounded nervous, and there were tears in her voice.
"Sara? What's wrong, are you okay?"
"I, uh… I'm sorry. I…"
"Calm down, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong."
"I… I can't come for Christmas."
"…Oh." My heart aches… I want to ask why, but I don't know if I dare.
"Um… I know this is a lot to ask, but… Can you get some time off?"
"…I'm sure I can, Sara. What do you need?"
"I… My… I have a funeral, on the 23rd… but I need to be in Tomales Bay for a week."
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Let me call Jim, and check flights, and then I'll call you back. Okay, Sara?"
"…Okay."
"Sara?"
"Yes?"
"If I can't get a flight, I'll drive there tonight, okay? I will be there."
"Thank you, Gil."
Jim was upset—but luckily between Catherine and the guys, my shifts were covered, especially when they heard it was for a funeral. I lied, a little, and said it was across the country, and my relative… but I didn't care. Anything for my Sara.
Then the airport—I got lucky, there was one seat left on a flight leaving in an hour and a half—I frantically packed, remembering, thankfully, a nice suit and tie, for the funeral. I was at McCarran only an hour before the flight and the security officials glared at me as I rushed through with only my carry on, anxious to board my flight.
I had called her while driving, but I had been distracted—so when I sat on the flight, I was finally able to take a breath, and call again.
"Hi." She answered, knowing it was me.
"Hey, Sara… I only have a minute, I just sat down on the plane. I should be in San Francisco around 10:45, if the flight's on time… Did you want me to rent a car or…"
"I'll pick you up. Thank you Gil."
"Of course, honey. You don't have to thank me, not for this, not ever, okay?"
I can see her nodding, even though we're on the phone. "Okay… I'll see you soon."
"Bye, Sara."
"Bye."
I hang up, turn my phone off, and try to calm my nerves—I can't get there any faster, no matter how much I worry. It doesn't help… I don't even know who died, although it must be someone important—we were spending the week there.
I'm excited to be spending another week with my Sara, but I also don't really know what to expect… how to act around her. From the moment I met her, I was seducing her and, without really knowing it, she had been seducing me too. Even as friends, we had moments of extreme weakness… how would I restrain myself when she was actually in the room with me, close enough to touch?
Grief, maybe, would drive her into my arms… or, might help me keep my distance…
I run my hand through my hair in agitation. I don't know how to be with Sara and not be with her… and I feel like the reason she ran away—secrets—are going to be closer to the surface this week than they ever have been… and I don't know what to do about that, really.
In truth, I haven't figured it out even as the plane begins to land. I glance at my watch—we're perfectly on time. I extract my large carry-on from the overhead compartment—I had struggled to pack a week's worth of necessities into a small enough bag, but I figured that I'd run out and buy anything I needed, if the occasion presented itself. Sara was more important, and I needed to be on this flight.
My heart pounded frantically in my chest, and my phone was to my ear as soon as I'd exited the plane, to ascertain where I could find her. And not five minutes later I was sliding into the passenger seat of her car, stuffing my bag between my knees and gazing at her as a man gazes at sunlight after years in the dark. I didn't let myself admit that she looked at me much the same way—she had ended things pretty clearly, and disillusioning myself wasn't going to do us any good.
She drove us back to her apartment mostly in silence, and there was a tightness in my chest as I trekked the familiar path up to it—the last time I'd been here, I would have been pulling out my own key—one I still had, but wouldn't now use—and dragging her off to bed.
As it was, I determined myself to be as helpful as possible—and ask as few questions as I could, because she wouldn't want to tell me anyway. I left my bag in the doorway, because I wasn't sure if I'd be sleeping in the guest bedroom or her bed, and glanced at her—she'd moved to the couch, and sat looking down at her feet.
"Have you eaten, honey?" The endearments have been slipping, ever since I heard her voice again, but she hasn't told me to stop, and I miss voicing them.
She shakes her head slowly and looks at me. Without a word I start to rummage in her fridge, finally coming up with enough left-over's to make my mother's chicken noodle soup. Once it's on the stove, I'm digging again—making us each a cold sandwich.
I cut them in half, perching them on the edges of plates with bowls in the center, and grab two cokes from the fridge, setting everything on the table. With little enthusiasm, she rises, gets halfway to the table, and then seems to think of something, and makes a detour to the bookshelf before returning to the table.
In her hand is the picture frame she had turned down the first day I was here—the people she wouldn't discuss with me. I raise an eyebrow in a silent question, and she slides it across the table to me.
I pick it up and look at it as she raises her spoon to her lips—a round-faced, gray-haired man stood on her right, beaming with pride, but looking uncomfortable—like he wasn't good at displays of affection, or pictures. The woman on her left has a longer face, but it's kind—light brown hair drawn back, and frizzy in the heat. And between them, smiling with as much embarrassment as the man, is a sixteen year old Sara, in dark green graduation robes, a decorated collar around her neck. She'd graduated, even from high school, with honors.
I smile at how beautiful she was—at how strange it is to see her looking even younger than she is now—and I can't help but run a finger over her face in the picture. She's always been breath-taking. I look back up at the real-life Sara in front of me—she's watching me with a strange look on her face.
"Your parents?"
Her eyes flicker from me to the table. "My foster parents. They, uh… I lived with them for… two years. I didn't live in any of the other homes for over a year… Jim and Marlene Ruthers." She swallows hard, and I hold my breath, knowing that she's telling me something she had probably never intended to. "I talked to Marlene, on the phone, once every other week or so… she and Jim were the only ones who wanted to keep in touch, after I'd gone."
She glances at me again, and I take her hand gently in mine, not speaking. I don't want to push her, and I think she appreciates that… and she continues.
"They were… hit by a drunk driver, both of them died before the ambulances could get them to the hospital. I… I was listed as their next of kin."
I draw in a deep breath, and gently tug her arm—she immediately comes to me, sitting on my lap and letting me wrap my arms tightly around her. "I'm so sorry, Sara…"
She starts sobbing, into my shoulder, her fists clutching desperately at my shirt, and I hold her and rock her gently, trying to sooth her. Through her sobs, she's muttering something which I can barely make out—something I have a feeling she doesn't think I can hear. "They wanted me. The only ones. They wanted me."
I hold her tighter, blinking back my own tears, and trying to send all of my strength into her through our embrace.
