Disclaimer: I do not own.
A/N: So I've been struggling with this one--I'm crazy about sticking to details, and I think it was getting in the way. I was trying so hard to correctly portray the interactions in the episodes that I think I overdid it. I want to thank lalumieredelame especially, because I was kind of stuck in it. Your review gave me the push I needed to try to do this differently. :)
Let me know what you guys think! (I think this chapter should up the interesting factor, some.) Also, if you're reading but not reviewing, at least for this chapter leave me a review, even if it only says 'Hey, I'm reading' because I feel like not very many people are, but then my traffic says there are more. I just don't want to keep posting and give other stories less attention if only very few people are even interested.
Chapter 19: Out of the Mist
I was walking up and down the strip. I was doing so, because I'd been riding the Manhattan Express since it opened, and thus far it hadn't helped. Probably because that was how I assuaged my conscience when I hadn't given justice to victims. And while I did feel this way—I had not given Royce Harmon or Stuart Rampler their justice—it wasn't that that was bothering me. Paul Millander had toyed with me through all of this. He'd made a fool of me… He'd been smarter than me.
How could I do my job if I could no longer outsmart the criminals?
So when the rollercoaster failed, I had half a mind to head over to Stratosphere tower, and ended up instead pacing the long strip, ignoring the constant snapping sound of people who lined the sidewalk and flicked cards advertising the baser attractions of Sin City to passersby. I had said it before, but it was still true. I liked the lights of Vegas.
And I liked the Bellagio fountains. They had only just been added recently, so they were still something of a novelty. So that was where I was headed, in the vaguest sense of the word. I was wandering more than heading anywhere. They played every fifteen minutes, to music, and I could honestly watch them for hours.
Silly, I know. I didn't care about gambling, I rarely drank and it was even rarer that I would do so in public, and I had never in my life paid for sex nor had any desire to. …But I honestly loved Vegas. I loved the extravagance and the lights and the spectacle of it all. I loved being able to visit Venice and Paris and New York and Rome and Egypt and Medieval England all on one street. I loved being able to ride gondolas and watch waterworks from the top of the Eiffel Tower and take in a pirate ship battle.
I think it says a lot, that I feel at home in a place where I walk alone, a native among tourists, still enamored with the splendor of it all. I'm lonely—I relate to a city more than to others around me. But like the somewhat mythic nature of my surroundings, out of the mist thrown up by the fountains as I approach, comes a vision of beauty and purpose and life.
Sara Sidle is leaning against a railing, alone, watching the fountains.
I don't know why I approach her—it it much more in my nature to turn and run away from anything that might be misconstrued as intimate. It was rather a relief when the Paul Millander case had made me cancel our planned meal together. I believed that neither of us considered it a date, but still… the possibility of misinterpreting the situation was always there, on both sides. But I must be really feeling my own loneliness and inadequacy right now, because I do.
I lean on the railing beside her, and after a moment she glances over at me in surprise, a slight smile crossing her lips. "You never took me here, when I visited."
I glance up at the spray, which I can tell is coming to an end because its accompanying music is as well. "They hadn't been built yet."She nods, silently, and I feel the need to elaborate. "I would have—I would have taken you to the top of the Eiffel Tower to watch it or… or we could have eaten at the restaurant, right there." I pointed to hotel behind the water—directly in the center were large, long windows where patrons could watch the fountains.
She sighed, softly, but I could still hear it. I was so attuned to her, now. "That would have been nice…"
I hesitate, and then I move a little closer, leaning against the railing right beside her. She clearly doesn't see this as an invasion of space, because she doesn't tense at my proximity. "…You did really good, on this case."
She clucks her tongue impatiently. "We didn't catch the guy. He played us."
I shake my head. "He played me. I told you we'd cleared him."
She frowns. "I didn't have to believe you. …Grissom, Greg told me about the fingerprint."
I blink in surprise. The fingerprint on the suicide tape had come back mine, under his thumb print. He was telling me he had me under his thumb—which was not nearly so worrying as how he'd gotten my print in the first place… or how Greg had known about it. If he knew, the lab knew. "How…"
"Mandy. She and Greg are… I wouldn't call it dating. They're going out to eat and making out."
My eyebrows rose. "I… had no idea."
She puckers her lips. "I didn't just get him in trouble, did I? They work in different labs… it isn't the same as two… CSIs… dating."
I shake my head. "No—you weren't talking to your boss, you were talking to a friend."
She smiles and nudges me gently. "I… I've really missed my friend."
I nod, looking at my hands. "I've missed you too, Sara."
There's a long silence, and then she looks at me. "…This Millander guy is making this all pretty personal. Do you… think he knows your birthday?"
I shake my head. "No. And even if he did… This is about him, not me. His past, his demons. The birthday thing is a coincidence, and the only reason he wanted me to know I was 'under his thumb' is because he needs me. Remember the ATM message? He wants justice—he needs me to figure this out, so he can have justice. I'm… not worried."
She looks up at me, her eyes intense, and I feel my breath catching in my throat, waiting on her words. I don't know what she wants to say, but I know it's important… I know that right now, I feel like my whole world hinges on it.
"Sara? … Sara Sidle?!"
The moment is gone as we both react to the unknown voice, standing up straighter and turning to look behind us, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. I don't find one, but clearly, she does.
"…Michael?"
I swallowed. The man who had loved Sara before me. He approached us, and though Sara looked surprised and a little uncertain, she did not hesitate to hug the man. He was younger than me, and better looking. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray jacket that did nothing to hide the defined shape of his muscle. He had not seemed nearly so threatening, two years ago, when I looked at the pictures Sara had of the pair of them in Boston. He had been in the past, even then, and I had been in her apartment, inspiring nothing short of hunger in her eyes.
But now… now I was the one who constantly pushed her away, telling her that I just couldn't take the leap to be with her again, putting sorrow only barely concealed in her brown irises. And he—appeared just like she had, out of the mists, a dashing reminder of what it felt like to be loved deeply by someone who would never turn her away. Because his eyes—the way he looked at her—told me as much in a moment. Even now, he wouldn't turn her away.
They pulled apart and Sara smiled—really smiled. Her face lit up. I hadn't seen it do so in reaction to anything but a particularly gruesome or interesting case in… I couldn't remember the last time. "What are you doing in Vegas?!"
He laughed. "I could ask you the same thing. This seems like the antithesis of a vacation spot for you—Did you get tired of surfing and sunbathing in San Francisco?"
She laughs happily, "No, actually… I live here now."
His eyebrows rose. "Wow. What are you doing—Did you stay with Forensics, or did you change your mind again?"
"No, I work at the Crime Lab here. Number two in the country." She boasted, and I felt proud. She was boasting about something that I was intrinsically linked to, in her mind. I felt a little less threatened.
He smiled. "I always knew you'd be amazing. …I'm sorry, am I… interrupting something?"
He glanced at me, and I didn't like the look of surprise that crossed Sara's features as she turned back to me. She had forgotten me in her excitement to greet this man. "Oh! Griss, I'm sorry. This is Michael Malone. Michael, this is Gil Grissom—He's… my friend and my boss." I smiled and offered a hand to shake, despite disliking that she felt the need to use both titles, rather than just the first.
"Nice to meet you."
"And you." He said, and I instantly disliked him—because he meant it. He genuinely was glad to meet someone in Sara's life, which meant he didn't see me as a threat. And it wasn't because he wasn't interested—his eyes had devoured her face when he'd first pulled away from the hug.
He glanced between us awkwardly, uncertain if he should take his leave, and Sara seemed uncertain too. I made it easy on them. "Well, Sara, I… I'll see you at work in a few hours, yeah?"
She looked a little surprised, but she didn't fight me on it. "…Yeah. I… I'll see you later, Griss."
I walked away from them, and it took everything in me not to turn back around. Hadn't I told her that I couldn't be with her? That I couldn't trust her to not hurt me again? …If 'Michael' could handle her secrets and her constant running and her soft brown hair and intense, passionate eyes and the deliciously long, sweet shape of her body…
…It didn't matter. I had told her to move on, and she had every right to.
