AWKWARD

CHAPTER SEVEN

The days slid by. Grissom couldn't always get away from work to see her, but he called every day. Usually more than once too. And he always called Sara just before he set out, so she could open the door for him. He usually brought something, groceries or simple necessities or takeout. She insisted on paying him back and sometimes he didn't think it worth fighting over. Once Grissom brought a bouquet of yellow roses, but she thanked him so many times that they both became tongue-tied with embarrassment. So he didn't dare do that again.

It could be any time of the day or night when he was able to visit, but she assured him she didn't mind being woken up.

"I don't want to disturb you," Grissom said.

"What disturb? I've got nothing to do but sleep."

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure. I love..." Sara's face got pink at her choice of words.

"What?"

"I love having you visit me. It's the highlight..." she trailed off, blushing furiously.

"Mine too," he said, also pinkening, and they grinned at each other shyly.

And it was, Grissom mused, as he signed forms or did something equally mindless like sit through surveillance video. It was the highlight of his day, visiting Sara. He was never bored in her company, even if they did nothing more exciting than watch TV or do crossword puzzles together. She had such a quick mind. And a quick wit, and a warm heart. Not to mention easy on the eyes. Very easy! When she said she needed something to occupy her mind, he brought a case file along, watched with pride as she pored over it, asked a few insightful questions, and bounced ideas with him. Sometimes she even gave them a new lead to chase.

Sara was fun to hang around with, he realized. Good company. He'd never, in all the years they'd known each other, done much of this before. It was always work. She could be funny or silly or somber, even sad at times, but never boring. They could just be, together, without nervous small talk. Or Sara could lead the conversation away from his cares or listen carefully to what was on his mind. Whatever, it seemed, he needed. Or more. Every time he left her apartment, Grissom's mind hummed with all the things he wanted to tell Sara. So he would call her when he got home too. The conversations were about anything and everything. He just liked hearing her voice before he went to sleep.

One afternoon he vented about Catherine, how she never listened to his instructions if her mind was made up to do something else.

"Do you remember when Eddie was brought in for rape?"

"Vaguely," Sara said encouragingly. "What happened?"

"I told her five times to hand off the case. Five explicit times! And what does she do? Lie to my face and say she did, and that Warrick was working it. If Eddie had been charged..."

"The case would have been thrown out of court," Sara finished. "Conflict of interest."

"Exactly." Grissom agreed. "I never have to worry like that with you. You probably have the best grasp of the ethics involved in every case...of anyone in the lab. Your work is always above reproach."

"Thank you," Sara told him, touched. She couldn't resist asking, "Even when I get too emotionally involved?"

"Ah, that's not always a bad thing. If you weren't so passionate, a lot of these cases wouldn't get solved. The most important thing is I can trust you to do the right thing." Sara nodded, filing away one of his rare compliments.

As he drove home to sleep that morning, Grissom realized he had no one else to talk to about this supervisory shit. The human element was at times his least favorite part of the job. He always had to be conscious of the feelings of the team, whether they would feel slighted or resentful with their assignments or amount of supervision. If Sara's fatigue would make her prickly, and how he could encourage her to get more rest without coming across as an overbearing patronizing ass. Whether Nick was more interested in getting his approval than a grown man should be. And how he got whiny when he was tired. How Catherine's love life or lack of same affected her mood and attitude to the work. And whether she would leave a crime scene on a whim if Lindsay called. It really wasn't fair to the other, childless team members, to be expected to fill that void. How Greg sometimes needed to be reminded to quit joking around and focus...all of it. They were all talented investigators but...they were human, and flawed. Sometimes it was an emotional minefield to navigate through a shift. They were all adults-but sometimes acted like a bunch of high schoolers.

A few evenings later Grissom decided to leave his townhouse early and visit Sara before his shift. He called as usual, and grew concerned when it rang 8 times and then went to voice mail. She usually answers by the third ring...maybe she's in the shower or something. His mind immediately filled with images of Sara naked and wet, so he recited the families of beetles native to the American Southwest to distract himself on the short drive to her apartment.

She didn't answer his knock at first. He could hear a muffled response that sounded like, "Come in," but the door was locked. Patiently, Grissom knocked again. Finally the deadbolt turned and the door opened. Sara immediately turned away before he stepped inside. She seemed–off. She had a beer bottle dangling from one hand...she's not supposed to drink while on pain medicine...and tripped a bit over her own feet before returning to the couch and collapsing on it with a groan.

"Make...self...a' home," Sara slurred. She glanced at him briefly, her eyes glassy.

Grissom stared at her. She was drunk! There were at least 5 empty beer bottles scattered about, and a shot glass and a bottle of vodka in front of her. The place was messier than usual.

"Sara?"

"Mmph?" she peered at him.

"What's going on?"

"I'm drunk."

"I can see that."

"Shit faced. Three sheets to the wind. Blotto. .."

"Why, Sara?"

"Why what?" she said, deliberately playing dumb.

"Why are you drunk?"

"Because. Because I'm a grownup and I can get...if I want," she said petulantly.

Grissom sighed. He crossed the room, slid a crinkled newspaper and an open bag of Doritos out of the way and sat next to her. Sara immediately stood and walked over to the window.

"Maybe you should go." Her voice was low.

"Not until you tell me what's going on." Grissom said insistently.

"This is going to be like that other conversation, isn't it." They both knew what she meant. She sighed, then began to speak, still facing away.

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow morning. One day a year, I do this. Drink until I pass out. If I have to work, I make it the day before or the day after, but today, I can drink myself to oblivion."

"Why, today?"

"It's my anniversary," she said sarcastically.

"Of what?"

"Of the night my mother...killed my..."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," she said bitterly. "And today...it's been 20 years."

"I'm sorry."

"What for? You never beat the shit out of me. Broke my arm because the coffee was cold. Smacked me in the face and called me names. Or whipped me with your belt until the blood ran into my shoes..." her voice faded out and then returned, deeper. "Twenty years. And not a day goes by that I don't think about it. How do I stop thinking about it, Grissom? Stop picturing my mother, with that knife? And the blood, my father's blood, spraying on the bedroom walls with every stab?"

Grissom stood and went to her, standing close behind her but not touching. Not until she gave him some kind of signal.

"I don't think you...need to forget it, exactly. It's not something you can get over, either, but you...look how far you've come since that day. How you overcame that, everything, trauma that would have broken or twisted a weaker person. You...you're a wonderful person, Sara, honey...What happens to us, good and bad, it makes us what we are. But who we are...we get to decide that."

Sara finally turned and looked in his face. Tears were brimming in her beautiful brown eyes and her lower lip trembled.

"Oh, Sara." Grissom's heart ached at her hurt. He cautiously slid his arms around her. Sara hugged him, tight, and gripped his shirt with her fingers as if to keep him from escaping. She buried her face in his shoulder. She sniffed, loudly, and then was wracked by deep, heartrending sobs. Sara cried. Grissom felt his eyes prickle with tears too. When was the last time I cried? He didn't say anything. Just held her in his big warm arms.

At last she pulled away and tried to wipe her face. Grissom dug out a handkerchief and did instead, his eyes kind.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

"I got your shirt all wet."

"I have other shirts. But there's only one...you."

Sara gave him a tiny smile. "Thank you."

TBC