Much to his slight disappointment, she finally pulled away, sitting up and cradling her head in her hands.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"Head is killing me," she muttered, pushing herself to her feet and wandering toward the kitchen. He followed, hands in his pockets.

"Try some ibuprofen," he instructed patiently. "Do you have any Gatorade?"

She tugged open the fridge, frowning at the contents and frowned. "No." Gil walked over to her and pulled the fridge door open wider.

"Ah, here." He grabbed a half full jar of pickles and held it out to her. "Drink this."

Her mistrusting face was a tender sight, and he wanted to take her in his arms again. Her eyes were bloodshot, the rims red and irritated, her face blotchy and streaked with tears and the faint white dusty lines of salt from tears that had dried.

"Pickle juice? You want me to drink pickle juice?" She held up the jar to look through the bottom of the glass, and he smiled crookedly, before going to the sink to turn on the faucet.

"It's good for rehydration," he explained, letting the water run over the back of his hand for a few moments, adjusting the handle slightly. "It has sodium and potassium, so will help the headache and the nausea I am sure you are feeling."

She rested one hand on her stomach instinctively, her face crumpling as she realized he was right.

"Since when did you get to be so smart?"

"Books," he replied dryly, returning to her side and laying a hand on her elbow, steering her toward the kitchen table. "Now sit."

She allowed him to nudge her toward the chair, and sat down, setting the pickle jar on the table in front of her. "Gil, what are you doing?"

He paused, a damp cloth in his hand and waved it around. "Taking care of you."

"Why?"

"About time someone did," he replied intensely, and there was something about his tone that made her stomach flutter. "Now hold still."

He carefully brushed the warm, damp cloth over her tear streaked face, his touch careful but firm, as he washed away all traces of tears. The warm, steamy towel felt good on her face, and she found herself leaning into his hands, a slight purr of contentment rumbling in her throat. His lips quirked up slightly at one corner, and he took much longer than he needed to, quite enjoying her reaction.

He finally pulled the towel away, smiling slightly down at her damp, blotchy face. "Pickle juice. Now."

She wrinkled her nose and looked at the jar in consternation. "That is the most unnatural thing anyone has ever asked me to do."

He tossed the towel into the sink and opened a couple cabinets before finding one that housed glasses and he took one down, setting it in front of her. "Pour it in here, if you don't want to drink it our of the jar. But drink it. Only about half that glass should be sufficient."

The whole being cared for concept was new to her. In the past, the violent times that left her feeling this drained were always followed by having to go to the ER, or school, or pretend it didn't happen. Subconsciously, she was still on edge, and he could see it in her body language.

He made up his mind on what to do next, and he pulled off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.

"What are you doing?" she asked, frowning at him while trying to pour pickle juice into the small glass he gave her. A gherkin fell into the glass and she growled at it in frustration. He reached over and took the glass and the pickle jar, pouring the pickle and juice back into the jar, then carefully tipping over the jar and pouring the juice easily into the glass. He set them both down in front of her.

"Taking care of you. Where do you keep your cookware?"

"Cookware - Gil, I'm fine, I've handled worse on my own."

That was the wrong thing to say. He turned from the kitchen sink, his gaze intense, and was at her side in two strides, a large hand cupping her cheek gently. "Not today, Sara. Not again. You said I am emotionally unavailable. Well, today, it's all yours. Let me do this. For you."

"You just guilty?" she asked quietly. "That's why I never told anyone. Didn't want pity."

His thumb brushed across her skin faintly, and his eyes bored into her very soul. "It's not pity I'm feeling," he muttered, and it didn't take much to cross the line between them. They weren't sure later, considering the high emotions of the moment, whether she moved toward him or he moved toward her, or if they met in the middle, but somehow his lips met hers, a desperate, passionate kiss that was long overdue.

"No one is going to ever hurt you again," he promised, his voice low and protective against her lips. Her fingers had wound themselves into his shirt, and when he finally pulled away, she leaned forward, resting her head against his chest. He easily curled his fingers around her neck, cradling her against him. "Now," he rumbled, his voice a comforting growl in her ear. "Where do you keep the cookware."

"Beside the stove," she replied, pointing in the general vicinity of the stove with one hand.

He nodded, and with a final parting squeeze of her shoulder, he made his way back to the stove, busying himself with whatever he was deciding to conjure up.

This was what she had wanted, for so long, yet now that she had it, it felt both familiar and foreign.

Hadn't she been fired?

Deciding to take her wins with the losses, she watched and drank her pickle juice, thankful the glass he had given her was small, while he filled a kettle with water and turned the burner on to boil it. Watching him work was like watching Greg in his lab. Grissom was methodical, almost painfully neat, and why she expected anything else she couldn't imagine. He was a scientist after all. Somewhere in the middle of realizing he was making spaghetti, her eyes, heavy with crying, fell shut, and she drifted into a troubled sleep.

"Sara."

She opened her eyes to find the room dark, only the faint hint of moonlight shining through familiar kitchen curtains that she had not seen in many, many years. Immediately, her stomach clenched painfully, and she fell to the cold linoleum floor, scooting backwards until her back met the cool door of a kitchen cabinet.

"Sara," the voice called again. "Why, Sara?"

"Please wake up, please wake up," she murmured to herself, fresh tears burning in her already tired eyes. "Please, please, please no, no."

"Sara, he's dead. You killed him. You never asked for help, and you killed him."

"I didn't kill him!" she shouted into the darkness. "I didn't!"

"You didn't try to save him!" The voice grew louder, and angrier, her mother's familiar voice. "You sat there and sniveled like a baby while I went through hell! It may as well have been your hand holding the knife!"

"I never wanted him dead!" Sara shouted back, her throat aching with the effort. "I just wanted him to stop! You wanted him dead!"

"You dare threaten me, little girl?!" The voice was suddenly at her ear. "Sara, dear, broken, frightened little Sara. This is your fault too!"

The sound of a knife stabbing the wood behind her caused her to jerk violently to the side, crashing face first into something she couldn't see. She immediately clutched her hands over her face, trying to ease the pain, as something warm began to trickle down her shoulders, and into her lap. Forcing her eyes open, she gasped at the crimson river pouring over her, as a long knife clattered to the floor in front of her. The voice chanted "Sara, Sara, Sara," as the crimson river became a flood, splashing over her in a rising tide of blood. Desperate for the nightmare to end, she screamed the only name that had ever offered to save her.

"GIL!"

He had seen her drift into sleep, the last few exhausting hours catching up with her, and he let her sleep, while he worked on the spaghetti and sauce. It hadn't been very long before she was whimpering restlessly, and slid off her seat to the floor. He switched off the stove, walking around the counter to the other side, where she was sitting, whimpering, arms around her knees, eyes squeezed shut.

"Sara?" he called softly, dropping to his knees in front of her. "Sara?"

She was still asleep, that much he could tell, and he wasn't sure how to get her out of the nightmare she was in. She was murmuring and sobbing, but nothing he could understand. She was becoming more agitated, and part of him felt bad that he had pushed her into talking to him. It had obviously unburied some demons she still needed to deal with.

"Sara, come on," he begged gently. "Let's wake up now."

She suddenly lunged forward, her face connecting with his hand that he threw up to grab her, and she grabbed her face with both hands, crying. He knew it hadn't injured her, but dreams didn't always portray everything the way they were in reality.

"Sara," he called again, softly. "Sara, come on, listen to my voice."

Then she was screaming, a bloodcurdling scream made his brain short-circuit for a moment. His blood ran cold, his head spun, and he wasn't sure whether to grab his gun because she was being murdered, grab her because she had been injured, or jump up and look for an intruder. Demons from the past were something that he could not fight.

"Sara!" he shouted at her, very carefully slapping her cheek. "Sara. Wake. Up."

She finally woke with the same reaction of a drowning person who suddenly gets their head above water. She was gasping for breath, looking over her hands and arms and around the floor.

"Blood everywhere," she was murmuring, rubbing at her hands and arms. "Couldn't stop it, wanted to stop it, couldn't stop her. Get it off, get it OFF!"

"Sara," he called, firmly, grabbing both of her shoulders and shaking her slightly. "Listen, listen to me, it's just a dream, just a nightmare. You are here, in your house. There is no blood."

Gradually, she calmed down, as her eyes focused on his face and the scene around them. "You're okay," he said simply, when she finally looked him in the eye.

She nodded, trying to stand on shaky legs. He instead picked her up and took her back to the living room, sitting her down on the couch. "You, stay here. You need to sleep. I will bring your dinner."

"I don't eat on the couch," she called after him. "As meticulous as you are, you should understand that."

He returned, two steaming bowls balanced in his hands. "I sleep on mine," he shrugged, setting his bowl on the coffee table and handing hers to her. "Now eat."

"Gil," she started to say, but he frowned over his glasses.

"Eat, Sidle."

She sighed, taking up her fork, and stabbing at the spaghetti. She noted he had broken it into half strands, just how she liked it. She wasn't sure how he knew that. She frowned at the buttery strands, covered liberally in parmesan.

"No sauce?"

"You just woke up screaming that you were covered in blood. I didn't want to give you the sauce right now. You need to eat, and I would rather you eat than have anything else red right now."

The thoughtfulness caused her breath to hitch in her throat, and she nodded, trying to shove the images of blood and knives out of her head. She couldn't look at him, sitting in the armchair eating his dinner just as quietly as she was. This was supposed to be a reconciliation dinner, where he cooked for her, they made up for all the recent bad times, maybe she was fired, maybe she wasn't, but at least he got her and wouldn't be disappointed in her anymore.

But now, after that display of weakness, perhaps she had just dug her hole deeper.

He was watching her, as she tried to eat, his heart hurting at the brokenness that had come alive in her. He could do nothing for her except be there.

She finished her dinner, and he took the bowls back to the kitchen. She could hear him washing them and putting things away. His pager beeped and she winced at the silence of her own. He reappeared as she sat up on the couch.

"No, don't get up. I have to go, Ecklie wants a meeting. You rest, and I will call you tomorrow, alright?"

"Probably wants to let you know I'm fired," she murmured, rubbing a hand across her face.

Gil stood there for a moment in silence. "Sara, I am not firing you."

"You're not?" Her face was a mixture of confusion and relief. "But Ecklie -"

"Ecklie doesn't run this lab, I do. I'm sorry, Sara, I should have paid more attention to where you were at mentally. I should have seen this coming and tried to help you."

"You have helped me," she replied softly. He nodded once.

"Good. I will lock the door as I leave. Call me if you need me."

This offer was sincere, and soft, and she nodded, forcing the quick tears back again.

"Thanks, Gil. I - owe you."

"No, Sara," he half smiled, opening the door. "No, you don't"

Once the door shut, she leaned back into the soft recess of the couch, gazing up at the ceiling, not sure what to make of the last few hours.

But the kiss.

That she understood fully, and she smiled.

Emotionally unavailable? Definitely not anymore.