Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: So I don't know how many people are still reading this, but Sarafly has asked me more than once for an update, as have a few others. Thank you, so much, for not giving up on this one, even when I got distracted. I know this chapter isn't super eventful, but I wanted them to have some small, personal moments in the first season. :)
Let me know what you think! I don't have any new stories in my head just now, so hopefully, if people are still interested, I'll update this one more frequently. :) Thanks!
Chapter 17: Breaking Bread
Sara didn't tell me as much, but I knew that she'd hardly left the little girl's side since our little confrontation in the break room… which I had played over and over in my head since it had happened, wondering at my own actions and her response to them. I especially didn't like how easily Warrick and Nick related to her… no, not how they related to her, but that… when the team was divided in our response to a situation, it seemed to be the young three against… well, Catherine and I. It made me feel… old. The men who looked up to me saw her as an equal.
But when the case had been solved and I'd arrived at the hospital to see Brenda taken into foster care, pending her mother/sister's trial, I knew that Sara hadn't even been home since the case started—that she'd probably slept at the girl's side. Brenda glanced at the woman who took her hand gently but sternly, and pulled herself away, running to hug Sara tightly. She released her and went back to her social worker when the abrasive woman cleared her throat, and Sara blinked the tears from her eyes rapidly.
I waited a moment, until Brenda was out of sight, and then turned to Sara, who looked miserable, her eyes red, her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set. I placed a gentle hand to her shoulder, willing myself to disregard how good it felt to touch her. "Come on, honey…" The endearment slipped, but it felt like she needed it… and she didn't argue, but let me guide her out of the hospital and into my own vehicle, leaving hers behind.
I took her to the first diner I could find, ordered for the both of us as soon as we sat down, and then turned my attention to her. She was almost as taciturn at the little girl, and I searched for a way to break the silence… to get her to open up and talk, because it was what she needed, but it was never what she would choose for herself. Except for today, apparently.
"I would've adopted her."
I look up from my coffee cup, trying to figure out what she's saying—breathless over the fact that she might still trust me. "You… what?"
She sniffled. "She just… went into foster care. I… I hated foster care. I would have taken her, if I… if I thought there was any chance they'd let me."
"…You don't think they would?"
She let out a breath. "Single woman, under the age of thirty, able to have children herself, who works the night shift, is new to the city and therefore has no close friends other than the night shift, and no family to serve as a support system. Trust issues, a foster care child herself, a slew of failed relationships, and the fear of owning a pet because she'd rather stay at work than go home nine time out of ten… I wouldn't let me have a kid either."
I didn't know how to respond to this and pursed my lips, letting my head fall back slowly to survey her through half-closed lids. "I… didn't know you wanted children."
She shrugs a little. "Growing up, I didn't. In college I was… too focused to really… even think about it. After… after Joey was born, looking at him, I…" She looks down. The food arrives at that moment and she grabs onto it like a life line, eating as though she's ravenous, although I know Sara to eat little when she's distraught. I feel like she doesn't feel hungry, but is devouring what's placed before her because it means she doesn't have to talk to me about this…
So I change the subject, not wanting her to feel sick, and for a brief twenty minutes it's almost like old times. The playful banter isn't there, because neither of our hearts are in it, but it's comfortable whether we speak or sit in silence, and that's enough. I drove her back to her vehicle in the hospital parking lot and she looked up at the large building, shuddered slightly, and glanced at me again—her eyes looked different, now. When we had left, they had been red-rimmed and overflowing with emotion… now they were clear and dry and expressionless. It sent shivers up and down my arms, but then she was whispering a soft thank you and slipping from my car.
I watched her drive away, and returned home myself, in desperate need of a shower and sleep… but feeling as though sleep would not come easily. The case had upset me too—I hated to see children hurt—and the idea of Sara adopting a child instead of having babies with me, like I'd imagined… With a quiet sort of anguish I pulled down a bottle of scotch and drank a few doubles, until I could feel the effect taking hold… and then I moved to the bedroom, stripped down, set my alarm, and crawled into bed, simply waiting for the alcohol to catch up with me and drag me into nothingness.
The following night, Sara was quiet. Nick and Warrick were betting on something or other—for some reason, they'd become super competitive in the last week or so. My instinct told me that they had a young woman in their midst who seemed more attainable that Catherine—never been married, didn't have a kid, or a history, as far as they knew… didn't happen to have been a stripper before becoming a CSI—but I didn't like the idea that they were competing for her attention, so I disregarded it. It annoyed me more than I would have liked, but that was about it.
I handed out assignments—I gave Sara a solo, and made sure it was easy enough that she could handle it alone but difficult enough that she wouldn't realize I was worried about taking it easy on her. I put Nick and Catherine on a 419, mostly because I wanted to separate my testosterone-driven young colleagues for a while, at least, and Warrick and I went to investigate a missing person report. The up-side, of course, was that there was very little evidence to collect. We were back in the lab in just under three hours, Warrick waiting on evidence and going through timelines, and me heading back to my office and the mountains of paperwork that I had been buried under since I became a supervisor.
Clearly, my talents were being put to their very best use.
When I took a coffee break, I found the entire team taking a lunch break—Warrick was waiting of trace, Catherine and Nick had just gotten back and turned in their evidence, and Sara's B&E had yielded nothing but a few smudged partials. Since no one was hurt and the amount stolen was under a hundred dollars, it was fairly low priority. She wouldn't be getting her fingerprint evidence back any time tonight.
Instead, she had stopped for sandwiches for the team—very kind of her—and they were seated around, laughing and eating. I paused in the doorway, taking in a few details in a matter of moments. Catherine had a turkey club—her regular. And as far as I knew, she and Sara didn't go out to eat unless the entire team was going. Had she picked that detail up from team breakfasts? What had Catherine ordered?
She bought Warrick a Rueben, which I knew to be a personal favorite. Were they on better terms, now? I'd overheard she and Nick and Greg talking about grabbing food after shift… Was Warrick now a part of these rendezvous? Maybe he and Nick really were competing for her attention.
Sara herself had what looked like ham and turkey—the same thing she'd eaten at the deli, that same day I'd met her. For a single, flickering moment, I was back in that booth across from her, and she was grinning seductively and cheekily, somehow simultaneously, telling me she liked sex on the beach. …The one time we had, on the beach… she'd been so goddamned beautiful in the moonlight, her hair fanned out against the sand…
I shook myself from these memories, focusing back on the details. Because they said more about Sara than they did about their recipients. Nick had a barbeque pulled pork—he was exclaiming that it made him think of his mother's home cooking and how much he wished he could make it home for Thanksgiving this year. I moved into the room, hesitantly, as all of a sudden my entire team was exchanging holiday plans. Catherine, Lindsey, and her mother were all going to her sister's. Warrick was spending it with grandma, as always. Nick and Sara would be here—they'd both volunteered to work so others could have it off.
Sara glanced at me. There were two subs in the center of the table. I sat down and she snatched them up, lifting each to her nose in turn, wrinkling it at the second one and handing me instead the first. "Italian on sourdough. …Spells way better than Greg's spicy chicken with jalapenos." Her nose wrinkled again and Nick continued to spout off about Texas home cooking and the importance of spice in certain dishes—but I met her eyes, mouthing a simple "Thank you."
She beamed under such minimal appreciation, and I felt guilty. Maybe I didn't praise Sara enough… maybe I hadn't paid enough attention to her, since she'd moved here. I'd been trying to keep a professional distance… set a standard of detachment… but maybe I'd pushed it too far. She shouldn't look so relieved that I'd thanked her for buying me lunch. …For remembering little preferences, I realized, as I unwrapped the sandwich. Mayo, no mustard… extra black olives. Things that shouldn't really matter, but they did.
I vowed to try to repair what I'd done to our friendship. Just because I was her boss and former lover didn't mean that I couldn't be her friend now, right? …Right?
