Fandom: CSI Rating: R Pairing: G/S Summary: A sequel to Rollercoaster, which really should be read first. Disclaimer: Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them.  Others strongly resemble characters that sort of belong to ABC, though I seriously doubt anyone cares at this point.  The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first.  No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.  Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.   Spoilers: general fifth season through "Unbearable" Note: This is an AU futurefic that includes a number of original characters.   Thank you for your faith!      ********* Grissom closed and latched his case and stuck his pen back into a vest pocket, watching Greg carry the last of the evidence envelopes over to the SUV.  “Can I get a ride with you, Jim?” he asked the police captain, who was standing near the crime scene tape where he could kibbitz both the collection and the crowd.  “Greg has the vehicle with the broken radio.”    Brass snickered.  “The one that won't turn off and won't play anything less than ear-blasting?  Suits him perfectly.”    Grissom grimaced.  “I like my hearing the way it is.  I don't know why Auto Pool hasn't fixed that one yet.”    Brass pulled his hands from his pockets; one held the keys to his sedan.  “I'll bet Sanders keeps stealing the repair slip.  Sure, come along if you want, but I told Rahman I'd swing by the hospital and pick up the vic's clothes.”    “That's fine.”  Grissom bent to grab his case, and gestured for Brass to lead the way.  The scene was messy but fairly straightforward, a domestic dispute gone completely overboard; both the spouses were being treated at the nearest emergency room.    “It's still weird, seeing you taking orders,” Brass admitted as they walked to his car.  “You haven't done that since I was your boss.”    Grissom shrugged.  “Catherine was right.”    Brass unlocked the car, and when Grissom didn't continue, shot him a waiting look.  “About what?”    Grissom set his case in the back seat and got into the front one.  “Abdul is a good supervisor.”  As well he might be--Grissom had, after all, trained him, and the younger man shared Grissom's dedication to the evidence uber alles.  Plus, he's got more political sense than I ever had.    Brass snorted and took the driver's seat.  They chatted idly about baseball on the way to the hospital, and Grissom checked his watch as Brass parked the car.  He would clock out as soon as they got back to the lab, so he could go home and fix breakfast for Sara.    “C'mon in with me--you can get his clothes and I can get hers.  Or vice versa,” Brass suggested, and Grissom climbed out of the car as well, acceding.    The emergency room was busy but not chaotic; the two men made a direct line for the examining cubicles with the ease of long habit, Brass barely slowing as he flashed his badge at the nurses' station.  “Keltin couple?”    She, in turn, barely glanced at his ID.  “Curtains Ten-A and Twelve-A.”    They could hear the shouting halfway down the hallway; apparently the dispute wasn't over yet.  Brass wrinkled up his face in a tired frown, but didn't slow his pace.  Grissom, trailing him, glanced idly to his left as they passed Six-B.    It felt like a hand had grabbed his throat and squeezed.  Framed perfectly in the open curtain, lying back on a gurney, was Sara, her face white but for a line of crimson, her jacket ripped--    The curtain swished closed with a rattle, cutting off that glimpse as a doctor pulled it to.  Grissom's ears rang, his own pulse drowning out the sounds of the ER for a moment, and then the fabric of the curtain was in his hand, and if its track hadn't been bolted to the ceiling he would have pulled it down.  “Sara?”            You're fine, Sara kept telling herself.  You're fine.  But her shaking hands belied her silent mantra, and she kept hearing the smash of metal and glass.  Thank God none of us were hurt.     Well, seriously, anyway.  The only real casualty had been the driver who'd careened into the front end of their vehicle, a young man so high that he'd barely sensed the pain of his injuries.  But he'd spun their car about, slamming the back end into a telephone pole, and while the airbags had protected the agents from severe injuries, they were all bruised and cut, and Sara and Jake had had to climb out the broken windows when their doors wouldn't open.  She'd torn open the splinter cut on her hand, and now had a wad of gauze clenched in her fist to stem the bleeding until someone had time to look at it.    The nurse who'd guided her to a cubicle had pointed at the phone installed on the back wall and told her with a sympathetic smile that she could call someone if she wanted to, cellphone use being prohibited within the hospital.  Sara had stared at it with a stunned longing as the nurse left, wanting desperately to hear Grissom's reassuring voice.  But he's in the middle of work, her conscience twitted her.  You're not really hurt, all you'd do is panic him.  You can tell him when you get home.    Grissom was paranoid enough already, she told herself, trying to calm her queasy stomach, which didn't appreciate the scent of hospitals.  She didn't want to get him upset over nothing.  So she gripped the gauze, and shivered in her torn jacket, and tried to keep back the memories--the lab explosion, Pamela Adler's motionless body, piles of abuse injury reports--    And further back and deeper, trip after trip to the ER as a child, after the screaming, the threats, the blows--    A short stocky man with silvering hair hurried into her cubicle at last, giving her a slightly distracted smile.  “Ms. Sidle?  I'm Doctor Hanrahan, I'm here to stitch your hand.”    He slid the curtain across to close the cubicle, but a breath later it was thrown back violently, and Sara's head spun at the sight of Grissom--his face white, his eyes wide, but inexplicably, indubitably there.  “Sara?”    Doctor Hanrahan turned with an irritable expression.  “Only family members--” he began, but Sara didn't think that Grissom even saw him, because he strode right past the doctor.  One hand wrapped around her forearm and the other rose to touch her uninjured cheek.  “Sara, what--are you all right?!”    She tried to speak, and choked, and barely managed a nod.  Grissom's arms slid around her with infinite care, and Sara leaned against him, turning to press her face into his shoulder and trying to hold back tears.    He was shaking, she could feel the tremble in his muscles, but his grip was still gentle.  His voice was harsh as he said something to the doctor--they were arguing--but Sara was struggling too hard to keep a grip on her emotions, and couldn't spare the attention to understand.  Then Brass' voice cut in, and she didn't know why he was there, but she didn't care either at that moment.  The doctor's voice faded, and she heard the curtain rattle again, and the only loud sound was Grissom's breathing.    His heartbeat was hard and fast under her ear.  Sara pushed closer to him, and his arms tightened; it was a very awkward position, but she didn't care.  Never in all her trips to the hospital had anyone ever offered her more than the impersonal comfort an overworked physician allots to a passing patient.    “S--” he said, and his voice squeaked into silence; she felt his swallow against her scalp.  “Sara, you're okay?”    She nodded again, but Grissom loosened his grip and put a hand under her chin, making her look up.  “Really?  You're not hurt?”    Sara shook her head, swallowed herself, and managed to speak.  “I--I'm okay.  I hurt my hand, but it--it's nothing.”  She looked down at her fist, uncurling it a little; the gauze stuck to the slice, the bleeding had stopped.    “Your cheek--”  He touched the skin next to the cut, which she hadn't known about until a paramedic had blotted it at the accident scene.    “It's just a scratch.”  Sara shivered again, her nausea surging at the reminder, and Grissom pulled her close once more.    “What happened?” he asked.  “My phone must be off, I didn't--”    He fumbled at his waist, but before he could pull the phone from his belt the curtain rattled and Brass stuck his head back in.  His eyes were concerned, but he spoke in a dry voice.  “Hey, the doc needs to fix your hand, Sara.  Can I let him back in?”    Sara straightened out of Grissom's embrace.  “Sure,” she said, her voice hoarse.    Brass stood aside, and Hanrahan bustled back in, still huffy.  He wheeled up a small table and started laying out various supplies, sparing a glance at Grissom.  “You really should--”    Grissom didn’t make a sound, but his glare said plenty.  The doctor’s mouth snapped shut, and he frowned down at his instruments, the set of his shoulders expressing clear disapproval.     The stitching didn’t take long, fortunately for Sara’s nerves; she wasn’t sure whether snapping would mean bursting into tears or throwing the trayful of instruments at the doctor, and she was just as glad to not find out.  The stitches hurt despite the anesthetic, and brought back more unpleasant memories, but this time she had more than a distracted “honey” from Grissom’s lips--he was there, gripping her good hand as she tried not to flinch.    Hanrahan finished in good time, applying gauze and tape this time and giving her a mechanical lecture on caring for the wound, including when to get the stitches out.  Sara couldn’t quite make her mind focus on the instructions, but it didn’t matter--she knew how to deal with minor injuries.  Besides, Grissom was drinking in every word with a frown deepened by concentration.    Finally the doctor departed, hurrying off to some other patient and throwing back a last command to sign herself out at the desk when she left.  Grissom let out a long breath.    Sara stared blankly at her white-swathed hand, feeling the sting and ache even under the anesthetic, and aware of other bruises.  Grissom, still standing beside the gurney, made a couple of the soft sounds that told her he was searching for words, then finally lifted a hand to stroke her hair back from her face.  “Sara...what the hell happened?”    The quiet question almost undid her again.  “There was an...accident,” she said briefly, trying not to remember the glass-sharp details.  “Somebody hit our vehicle.  None of the Bureau people were hurt, though.”    The sound Grissom made then was one of disagreement, but he didn’t debate her statement.  “I cut my hand climbing out of the car,” Sara added, not finding the energy to try to explain the splinter.    Brass’ voice sounded on the other side of the curtain, and Sara heard Jake answering.  A second later her colleague pushed the cloth aside; he had a spectacular black eye forming, but his grin was only a little pained.  “Hey, Agent Highwire, do you--oh, I guess you did.”    Sara mustered her manners.  “This is Doctor Gil Grissom.  Gil, this is one of the guys on my team, Agent Jake Smith.”    Jake stepped forward to shake hands.  “Glad to meet you.  So you have a ride home, Sara?  The big T’s got us rounding up to head back for our cars, but you can just get yours tomorrow.”    “I’m taking her home,” Grissom said firmly.  “Don’t plan on seeing her tomorrow.”    Jake snickered, but his glance at Sara was respectful.  “Whatever.  ‘Night, Sidle.”    She waved at him, and he vanished again; Sara envied his energy.  In that respect he reminded her of Ed, with near-boundless reserves.    Grissom shot her an inquiring glance.  “Agent Highwire?”    Sara shook her head.  “I’ll explain later.  Can we just go home now?”    “Of course.”  Grissom’s arm around her waist helped her down from the gurney, and Sara let him do it even though she didn’t need the assistance.    Brass was still lingering outside the cubicle, and gave her a swift but thorough once-over as they emerged.  “You doing okay, doll?” he asked kindly.    Sara nodded.  “I’ll be fine, Jim, thanks.”    He patted her shoulder lightly with one hand, the other being encumbered with two large paper evidence bags.  “Okay.  Let’s get you guys back to the lab so you can get home.”    Signing out took a couple of minutes, and Sara even managed to feel slightly amused by the hovering attitude of the two men behind her as she finished her paperwork, but mostly she just wanted to get out, and home, and into a shower to wash off the smell of disinfectants and distress.    Grissom insisted on sitting in Brass’ back seat with her, but didn’t say much on the way to the lab.  Sara just leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, trying not to jump when a horn beeped nearby.     Brass dropped them off at Grissom’s car.  Grissom opened the passenger door for her, and helped her fasten her seatbelt, but he was still silent as he started the engine and drove the car out of the lot.  Sara glanced at his face; it looked stretched and set in the sliding light of the streetlights, the expression he used when he was seriously upset and didn’t want to show it.    She opened her mouth to reassure him again that she was all right, but before she could get the words out Grissom spoke.  “You didn’t call me.”    Sara blinked.  “…What?”    Grissom didn’t look at her, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel.  “You didn’t call me, Sara.  I checked my phone.  I had no idea anything was wrong until I saw…happened to see you in the ER.”  He flexed his jaw.  “Were you going to keep it a complete secret?”    It finally dawned on her that he was angry.  Guilt seeped through her, tinged with reciprocal anger.  “No, of course not.  But it was nothing, Gil--the only reason I went to the hospital is because they made me go.“   “You were hurt.”  Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose, then flipped on the turn signal.  “Sara, you were in a serious accident!”    “I--yeah, but--“  She couldn’t articulate the thoughts that had kept her from calling; most of them seemed silly and feeble now.  She forced one out.  “I didn’t want to upset you over something minor.”    Grissom said something under his breath, and steered the car into a narrow cross-street.  He shut off the engine with a sharp twist and turned towards her.    “It was not minor.”  His voice was still quiet, but she heard something underneath, something other than rage, as he lifted her damaged hand delicately.  “This is not minor.”    His other hand flicked back the collar of her shirt-style blouse to reveal the fresh bruise from the chest strap of the seatbelt.  “Look at that, Sara.  You know what could have happened!”    His voice shook a little on the last word, and Sara took in his too-wide eyes and finally placed the elusive emotion.  Oh shit.  He’s terrified.    Remorse strengthened the guilt, and she could feel her own inadvertent betrayal burning in him.  I forgot--how could I forget?  He was so afraid of losing her, of having her give up on him, and she’d just made it seem like she didn’t want him there when she was in trouble.    “Gil, I’m sorry,” she said fervently, lifting her good hand to his forearm where he was still touching her collarbone.  “I wanted you there, I really did, but I didn’t want to interrupt your work time for this.  Honestly.”  She dropped her gaze.  “I really am sorry.”    Sara felt tears starting again, a combination of pain and stress and exhaustion, and blinked against them.  Grissom shook off her hand; there were two clicks in rapid succession as he freed their seatbelts, and then he was pulling her into his arms despite the small console between them.  Sara held her injured hand close to her chest, but let the other slide around his shoulders.    “Don’t scare me like that,” Grissom muttered into her hair, pleading rather than admonishing.  “You should always call me.”    “Okay,” Sara promised, the word muffled against his own collar.  His vest was harsh under her cheek, and she didn’t care.  “I will.”    “Always.  I don’t care what it is, Sara, just call me.”    She nodded, wishing she could go back and do just that.        He drove her home, and when the front door closed behind them, ordered her firmly to go and get undressed.    “I want a shower, Gil,” she insisted tiredly, and he nodded.    “I know.  I’ll get a plastic bag for your hand.”    It took her a little while to undress, thanks to the bruises and the bandage.  By the time she shrugged into her robe, shivering a little, and walked into the master bath, Grissom--who had stripped down to his boxers--had arranged things to his satisfaction.  The shower was already running, heating the room with steam, and the moment Sara appeared, Grissom handed her two painkillers and a glass of water.    She downed the pills without protest, aching in every bone.  Grissom picked up a plastic bag from the counter and slid it carefully over her injured hand, taping the end to her forearm to keep out the water, then helped her out of her robe and guided her into the shower.     As she had done once for him, he washed her in silence, covering her in suds and rinsing them off, gently smoothing shampoo through her hair.  Sara allowed it, taking a shy pleasure in being cared for so tenderly, and wanting to make up for her blunder in some small way.  Grissom kept her under the water until her skin was no longer chilled, then dried her off carefully and made her put on a pair of soft cotton pajamas.  “Go get in bed,” he told her softly, kissing her forehead.  “I’ll be along in a minute.”    Sara obeyed, sitting up against the headboard with the blanket pulled over her lap, and stared down at her hand.  Grissom had removed the bag, and the gauze was dry, but she remembered acutely the angle and length of the cut.  Her palm would be doubly scarred now, one line bisecting the other in an uneven cross.    Before long, Grissom came in; he’d pulled on dry shorts and a T-shirt, and carried a large mug in one hand and a tube in the other.  “Here,” he said, handing her the mug; a savory steam rose from it, carrying the scent of vegetable soup.    “I’m not really--“ she started, but he gave her a stern look.    “Drink it, Sara.  You’ll feel better tomorrow if you do.”    That was true.  She took a sip; the rich flavor did taste good.  “Thanks.”    Grissom nodded, and knelt on the mattress next to her, opening the tube, which Sara saw was antibiotic cream.  He squeezed a dab onto his fingers, and with a delicate touch anointed the scratch on her face.    As before, he combed out her hair, and Sara finished the soup as he did so, the heat settling her uneasy stomach and making her sleepy.  When she was finished, he took the mug and set it aside.    Sara slid down under the covers, then reached up with her good hand and tugged on his arm.  “Get down here,” she ordered tiredly, and Grissom’s lips twitched slightly as he complied.    She burrowed into his arms as soon as he was close enough.  “I’m going to have nightmares,” she informed him.    Grissom held her a little more tightly.  “I’ll be here.”    “Good,” she said, and closed her eyes.                The cool light of dawn was fighting with the warmer lamplight, and Grissom reached out an arm to turn off the lamp, trying not to disturb the woman curled up against him.  Sara had not slept well, waking time and again with bad dreams, and not sinking deeply into sleep between them.  Grissom had not slept at all; besides the fact that it was his “day”, he hadn’t wanted to take his attention from Sara for an instant.    I almost lost her.  He couldn’t stop going over the thought.  Grissom had known on an intellectual level that such loss was a possibility; he knew full well the dangers of her job, and the random chance that can strike anyone.  But he hadn’t imagined--hadn’t dared to imagine--the reality.    He wasn’t impulsive, or irrational.  He wasn’t going to demand that she quit her job and find something safer to do; even if he thought she’d accede, which he didn’t, the accident itself was proof that anything could happen.    There was nothing he could do.  He knew that.  Nothing but love her now.  He’d wasted so much time….    Grissom looked down.  Sara had spent the first part of the night with her face pressed against his chest, but now lay a little apart, her eyes closed, her head resting on his arm instead of the pillow.  Her undamaged hand was loosely fisted under her chin; the other lay limp on the sheet.  She looked sweet, relaxed, entirely private.  Like a secret long kept, Grissom quoted to himself.    Delicately, he brushed an errant strand of hair from where it was caught in her lashes, and her eyes opened, clear and calm.  Grissom doubted she’d been asleep.    “How’s your hand?” he asked, keeping his voice low.    Sara flexed it carefully.  “It hurts,” she admitted, “but not too badly.”    Her pajama top was half-open; Grissom could see the dark line of bruising striping her chest where she’d been slammed against her seatbelt.  He touched it lightly.  “This?”    She shrugged with one shoulder, looking lazy.  “I’ll be stiff for a day or two, that’s all.”    She rolled over onto her back and stretched carefully.  Grissom took in every movement with absent appreciation, but his eyes went to the scratch on her cheek.  Unlike the bruising, it had lightened; it really was minor.    Sara sighed and relaxed, turning back onto her side and propping herself up on an elbow to look at him.  “So, can I have a kiss, or are you still pissed?” she asked, her mouth quirking.    Grissom snorted, and kissed her for a long warm moment.  When he lifted his head, she gave him a full-fledged grin; her eyes were still dark-ringed, but she looked much better than she had during the night, and the shocky look was gone.    Grissom wasn’t impulsive, not generally.  But the intuition that served him so well in his work occasionally spoke elsewhere, prompting him to action.  And it moved in him now, bringing unexpected words to his lips.    “Marry me.”    Sara’s eyes widened, and Grissom cringed internally.  Dammit, I meant to say it better than that.  He opened his mouth to try to rephrase, but Sara’s fingers covered his lips.  Grissom closed them obediently, feeling the gauze tickling his chin.    “Did you mean that?” Sara asked quietly, her eyes narrowing.    Grissom nodded, but she didn’t remove her hand.  Her jaw shifted.    “Are you just asking because of last night?  I mean, it’s not like--“    He reached up and took her wrist in his fingers, tugging it gently away.  “No.  Well, that’s part of why I’m asking you now, but no.  I’ve…Sara, I would have asked you on Christmas Day if I’d thought you would have agreed.”  He ducked his head a little, wondering if his poor sense of timing had ruined things.  “Is it too soon? I--“    Sara shook her head.  “No.  I mean, yes, okay, I’ll marry you.”  Her widening smile trembled.  “Of course I will.”    Grissom let out a long, long breath, that seemed to carry with it years’ worth of weight.  Some small cynical voice deep inside, that had believed without evidence that she would say no, was silenced at last as Sara moved into his embrace.  He held her tightly, and defied fate.       Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3     Chapter 4     Chapter 5     Chapter 6     Chapter 7     Chapter 8     Chapter 9     Chapter 10 Chapter 11     Chapter 12     Chapter 13     Chapter 14     Chapter 15     Chapter 16     Chapter 17    Chapter 18     Chapter 19     Chapter 20     Chapter 21     Chapter 22     Chapter 23     Chapter 24     Chapter 25     Chapter 26     Chapter 27     Chapter 28     Chapter 29     Chapter 30     Chapter 31     Chapter 32     Chapter 33     Chapter 34     Chapter 35     Chapter 36     Chapter 37     Chapter 38 Chapter 39     Chapter 40 CSI Home Feedback