She would have been lying if she had pretended she wasn't expecting that knock at the door. Hadn't Grissom been the one to come get her when she had been picked up while drinking and driving. He hadn't scolded, hadn't yelled, merely sat down next to her, with a longsuffering sigh and studied her for a moment. There was something in her body language that told him something she hadn't said with words and he had slipped a hand into hers and quietly offered to take her home. She hadn't looked at him at the time, too ashamed that he was the one who had to come pick up the mess she had made. But why would it not be him? He always had their backs, and treated all of the CSI's under him with respect and patience. They had all crossed lines before, and he always took into account the fact that they were humans, capable of not being 100% on their game all the time.
But this was Sara Sidle. The one CSI who was always 'on'. The one who was always top of her game, brain running a hundred miles an hour ahead of everyone else. The insecure one, always needing to feel that she fit in, that she wasn't being overlooked or slighted in the field.
He knew all of that.
Now she had blew it again by speaking her mind to Catherine and Ecklie, but it wasn't really a personal dig for them personally, and she knew it even while she threw it at them.
What was it Catherine had said? "Every time we get a case with a hint of domestic violence or abuse, you go off the deep end. What is your problem?"
She had a very real problem with those cases. Even Grissom had seen that when she lashed out at husbands that she felt were hiding the abuse they inflicted. Why did she think that no one would eventually call her on it?
She could hide here by her desk all day, but she knew it wouldn't keep Gil away. He would stand there all day if he had too, knocking, until she was annoyed enough to let him in. She may as well save herself the headache of listening to his fist hit the door all afternoon. The sound was triggering, even if she knew it was only him.
She ambled morosely to the door and opened it, an unspoken awkwardness in her stance. He looked calm, and collected, and it annoyed her immediately. He had his interrogation face on.
"Well, if you're here, it can't be good." Bold was the best move to take, she decided, just show that nothing he was here to tell her could hurt, that she could handle any disappointment that he could cause her.
"Can I come in?" Of course he knew she would let him in, she wasn't entirely a jerk. Besides, he was using that soft tone again, the one that she longed to hear more often, the voice he used with children, the innocent, and the broken. Part of her longed for him to just wrap her in a hug, but he had to be mad at her too. An old, familiar fear stabbed her in the stomach, sending a lump into her throat, and she studied his eyes for a second. They were all kind, bright blue, and gentle, and there was no anger to be seen. She willed her inner child to remain calm, and stepped back to let him in. She waved the beer bottle in her hand toward him.
"Want to ask me if I'm drunk?" Again, deflection, trigger him into being angry. Then it would be so much easier to walk away.
Grissom stepped into the room, glanced at her and walked away, toward her living room. "We both know that's not your problem."
He turned to study her, his face still passive and calm. "I spoke to Catherine."
Sara wondered if Catherine had told him about her observations regarding domestic violence cases. She set her jaw to maintain her brave face. "Ecklie?
Grissom leveled his gaze. "He wants me to fire you."
Though expected, the words still hurt. "I figured." She sighed. Should probably show some emotions. Wouldn't want Grissom to get wise to the ache that had settled into her chest at the sudden realization she might never see Grissom or Catherine or Nick or Warrick or Greg...ever again. She swallowed and deflected again. "Can I get you anything?"
He did not take the bait. "Sure. An explanation."
Might as well be honest. "I ... lost my temper." She meandered over to her desk, where she had just spent the long afternoon alone, hoping that would be enough explanation for him. There was no way she could just unpack all of the hurt and pain that had festered in her heart in just an afternoon. He couldn't ask that of her.
But he pushed again. "That seems to be happening quite a bit. Do you know why?"
Unpacking trauma wouldn't help at this point. Fired was just that - fired. And Ecklie was always looking for a head to nail to the wall, and if it was hers, oh well. "What difference does it make? I'm still fired."
"It makes a difference to me." The tone he was using was stirring up that childlike need to be hugged again, and she took a steadying breath. Of course he was all tough and distracted when she tried to get his attention, and now that she had it, he was all gentle at a time when she desperately wanted him to both yell at her, and hug her. Perhaps some therapy might not be a bad idea. Who was she kidding? If she couldn't tell him, then how could she tell a therapist? She would have to give him an explanation that satisfied his question, even as he stood there expectantly, still waiting for her to make up her mind to tell him what he needed to know.
"I have a problem with authority. I choose men who are emotionally unavailable." She waved a hand at him, and if the remark stung, he didn't show it. "I'm self-destructive. All of the above."
His face was still passive. "Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?"
She started to respond, but he explained. "It's from the "Big Chill". One of the characters explaining a basic fact of life - that rationalizations are more important to us than sex even."
She couldn't blame him for not understanding. There was a whole tidal wave of explanation, waiting just behind that dam of suppression in her head, and she could feel it weakening with every glance at his patient face. She desperately wanted to tell him, to tell someone, but once those floodgates opened, she wasn't sure she could ever get them to close again. "I am not rationalizing anything. I crossed the line with Catherine, and I was insubordinate to Ecklie."
"Why?"
More questions. He just wasn't going to stop digging, was he? This was the crux of the moment, the moment when the dam had to be released. The moment where the real reason had to come to light. And she wasn't ready.
She could feel the bitter tears burning at the back of her eyes, begging to be released. And she realized that she had never cried over the past. "Leave it alone."
There was something desperate in her voice, something broken, something pleading with him to stop. Of course he knew that he couldn't stop now. This was the moment, the truth come to light, the defining reason to fire her or not. He wasn't going to let that chance slip through his fingers. "No, Sara." Even though he was playing bad cop, his voice was still calm, and she tried the defensive option. It was all she had left.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to know why you're so angry." His voice was soft, and waiting for an answer. The tears still burned in her eyes as she gazed wordlessly up at him. This was the moment. This was the chance to free the dam of emotions that muddled her head and drove her destructive behavior. But could she give him that? Could she trust him with secrets that only she knew?
Her eyes finally left his and drifted to the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly. It was a defensive posture, he knew that, a position she subconsciously was using to protect herself from whatever reaction he might have. He determined to have no strong reactions to her. He might be a cynical, statistical man, but he was not a jerk, and he knew that to get to the bottom of all of the chaos in her life, the onion had to be peeled apart, one layer at a time.
She waved a hand toward the couch, and he silently sat down opposite her, lacing his fingers together, patiently waiting. For once, she had his full attention.
"I - I don't know where to begin," she began, still not meeting his gaze. Her eyes had focused on a spot across the room, and the setting sun glinted off the tears resting at the edge of her eyelids. She was rigid, protecting herself, and he could see that. It was disconcerting, after working with her all of this time, to realize that there was something so deep and personal inside of her that it was sending her on a self destructive spiral.
And calling him emotionally unavailable hadn't felt good either. But he couldn't help that. HIs brain wasn't wired to be emotional, and as much as he could try to fix that, he would always fall short. But today, he steadied his attention on her, and determined to listen completely. He wouldn't be emotionally unavailable today.
"Start in the beginning, as far back as you need to go," he encouraged quietly.
"In the beginning. I'd rather not. I - do you want me to just tell you the reason or give you a sob story?"
He tilted his head slightly, the expression giving her the answer.
"Right. Reason. I grew up in a - difficult house. My father was abusive, physically and verbally to both me and my mother. Especially to my mother. If I tried to step in and help her..." her voice faded, and she winced, some memory flitting through her mind. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not move or speak. "If I tried to help her, then he would come after me. If he had been drinking, it was worse. There were many nights that I would hide in my closet, in the dark, just waiting for the yelling to stop. There was always blood somewhere, shattered glass. I wore shoes in the house all the time because there was always a shard of something hiding in the carpet or in between the wood floorboards. No one at school ever said anything. He never hit me in the face...too obvious..." Her voice faded again and a muscle in Grissom's jaw twitched. Her arms tightened around her legs, and the unshed tears still hovered dangerously close to falling.
No one ever asked me if I was okay. I remember having to run laps in PE and having just come from the ER the night before with bruised ribs. It was terrible. All I remember thinking was at least my ribs weren't broken like my mom's. He would yell, for hours when he was drunk. Any little thing would set him off. It could be as simple as dinner took a few minutes extra or he stepped on someone's shoe that had been left in the hallway. It always turned into a violent night. Our neighbors never asked." Her voice choked up and she shook her head. "They never even asked about us. They never called the cops. They never came over to see if we were okay."
Grissom pursed his lips in thought, his face a complete mask of compassion and sadness, but she did not see it. She was still too ashamed to look at him.
"I hid in my closet when he had been drinking. It only took a couple times to realize that he was much stronger and less careful about causing major injuries when intoxicated. Mom would make me go upstairs when we heard him pull into the driveway. She - tried to save me. She had her own demons though. She was schizophrenic, we found out during all of this. So her paranoia, mixed with his temper and drinking, and it was a free for all some nights. I don't remember most of them. I feel it as I am talking about it here, but there is simply no visual recall of most of the nights, the trips to the ER, the bruises. But one night, she got this idea in her head that he was going to kill her. I tried to talk her out of it. But I was a child, what could I do? She was unreasonable, and he had already attacked her before he had fallen asleep on the couch, drunk out of his mind." Her voice trailed off and Grissom frowned, noting the shudder that ran through her slight frame.
"Then?" He dared to ask, watching her fall apart moment by moment, and needing her to finish the story.
"She stabbed him to death."
For a moment, the confession hung heavily in the air. Her fingers twisted together painfully, and Gil stayed as still as possible, trying not to let his shock and concern for her show through his passive mask.
"It's funny ... the things that you remember and the things that you don't, you know. There was a smell of iron in the air. Cast-off on the bedroom wall. There was this young cop puking his guts. I remember the woman who took me to foster care. I can't remember her name. Which is strange, you know, 'cause I couldn't let go of her hand." Her voice trailed off.
Sensing the story was over, Gil replied calmly, "Well ... the mind has its filters.
She seemed to pull herself out of her thoughts, voice returning to normal. "I do remember the looks. I became the girl whose father was stabbed to death. Do you think there's a murder gene?" The pitiful faintness to her question touched Grissom, and he replied kindly, "I don't believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior."
"You wouldn't know that in my house. The fights, the yelling, the trips to the hospital. I thought it was the way that everybody lived. When my mother killed my father, I found out that - it - wasn't." Her voice caught in her throat, and the release of the long buried memories crashed down around her, and she began to sob raggedly, the cries of someone who has needed to cry for a long time, but has not been able to.
Knowing someone had to be the strong one, Grissom kept his composure, the only sign that he was disturbed being the furrow in his brow, and the compassion on his face. For a moment, he was unsure how to help her. Emotionally unavailable? Not today. Talking, touching, all of those normal ways to let someone know you are there for them were not things he was good at. He figured now would be as good a time as any to learn.
He reached out a steady hand to clasp hers, noting how cold her fingers were. He let her cry, deep broken sobs that shook her entire body. He understood all that she had been through. Couldn't relate, but understood. There was only one other thing that he needed to understand.
"Why now, Sara," he asked softly. "Why is everything falling apart for you now?"
She shook her head, unable to speak and he tugged at her hand. "Here, come on."
She untangled her legs without thinking, and he pulled her onto the couch next to him, wrapping both arms around her tightly, hoping she could sense his protectiveness. "Shh, shh, come here, I've got you."
She didn't really notice his arms at first. The grief and pain of a little girl ripped from her family, having to be brave and strong for so many years, poured out of her like a tsunami, and all she could focus on was trying to breathe between the painful sobs, her eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of tears.
He leaned back against the couch, tucking her next to him, and propped his feet on the coffee table, willing to wait as long as it took for the flood to end.