Light In The Mirror

Halfway to the Moon

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.

This chapter is dedicated to the intrepid crew that actually filmed the movie postulated below, and changed forever my perception of animated fruit.  


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It was his stomach that finally made him pay attention.  Grissom pushed up his glasses to rub his eyes, and realized that he had spent at least three hours immersed in a fresh stack of forensics journals, and his post-breakfast swim in the hotel’s pool had been quite some time before.  Sodden autumn rain still fell steadily outside the suite’s window, as it had for three days running, but Grissom didn’t mind it as long as he didn’t have to try to keep it off evidence.  In fact, he was rather cozy; the suite might be bland in décor, but its lamps gave off a warm light and its twin armchairs were comfortable. 

Setting aside his current journal, Grissom stretched, still a little unaccustomed to having a Friday all to himself.  He’d spent Wednesday in a lab in Maryland on a consult, and Thursday working at the museum, and felt himself at a bit of a loose end; he usually saw Sara at least twice during the week, but aside from dinner on Tuesday she’d had to work late.  This Friday was supposed to be her day off, but they hadn’t scheduled anything until Saturday; as much as Grissom wanted to spend time with her, he knew she needed space, and time to run errands and generally get on with her life.  Just because yours is on hold doesn’t mean hers is, he reminded himself when his desires got querulous. 

Sighing a little, he rose, trying to remember what supplies he had in the suite’s small kitchen.  He was…lonely.  Far less lonely now, he had to admit, than he had been during the past three years, but still he missed Sara.  The heart is a greedy yearner. 

As he headed towards the refrigerator, his cellphone rang, and he scooped it up absently, anticipating nothing more than a request for his forensic services.  “Gil Grissom.” 

“Hey,” came Sara’s voice, a little breathless, and Grissom straightened with unexpected pleasure.  “You busy?” 

He smiled at empty air and leaned against the round table just outside the kitchen nook.  “Not at all.  What can I do for you?” 

“Hide me?”  There was definitely a laugh under her voice, but there was a hint of strain as well. 

“Hide you?” Grissom repeated, his stomach forgotten.  “From what are you fleeing?” 

“My family,” Sara groaned.  “Both the kids are home from school, teacher’s planning days or something.  We ran out of games to play yesterday.  They’ve been whining all day because of the rain.  I’m going freaking nuts here.  It’s Ed’s turn to handle ‘em.” 

Grissom had to chuckle.  “By all means, let me be your refuge.” 

Sara let out a sigh.  “Thank you.  You’re a lifesaver.  I’m dying to talk to an actual adult.” 

He shook his head in commiseration, though he hadn’t actually spent a lot of time cooped up with children since his high-school babysitting days.  “Where do you want me to meet you?” 

“Oh, we don’t have to go anywhere,” she answered.  “Could we just hang out at your place?” 

He blinked.  Sara hadn’t been inside his temporary home since she’d dropped him off the first night he was in town; he hadn’t deliberately tried to keep her out, but it had never occurred to him that she might want to be there.  He found the notion new but interesting.  “Sure.  I’ll see you in about half an hour, then?” 

“Um...”  Sara trailed off, and Grissom raised a brow.  “I’m...kinda there already.” 

She sounded so guilty.  “In the parking lot?” he asked gently. 

“Yeah.” 

Grissom looked around, delight mingling with a little apprehension.  He kept the place tidy, but... 

“Get up here before you melt, Sidle,” he told her, striding into the bathroom and moving his still-damp swim trunks from the shower curtain rod to the shower head, then pulling the curtain shut. 

She’d come to him, even before she was sure of her welcome. 

Was there anything more satisfying? 

 

 

Sara jogged up the stairs, puffing a little, embarrassed a little.  She wasn’t quite sure what had made her presume on Grissom like this--the man was practically a recluse, for pity’s sake!--but he hadn’t sounded annoyed on the phone, teasing her gruffly instead.  She’d meant to give him space, they didn’t have to get together every day and after all he was a solitary soul, but she was desperate. 

The fact that there were a dozen places she could have gone to escape her brother’s house was obvious, but Sara refused to look at it straight on.  He came here to see me, she reminded herself.  And it’s not like we’re in each other’s pockets all the time, especially this week. 

Still, she almost wished she had brought something along besides her own slightly damp self.  Back in August she’d bought him a philodendron as a suite-warming gift, something of a double-edged present, but it was the first time she’d been back to his place, and she came empty-handed. 

Oh well, too late now.  Sara pushed open the stairwell door and stepped into the thick-carpeted hallway, shivering slightly despite her jacket; the walk from the parking lot had been less than dry.  The doors lining the hall were all anonymous, but she didn’t have to look at the numbers to remember which one was Grissom’s. 

It opened as she reached it, and Grissom stood framed in the space, that slow wry smile spreading over his face as he looked her over, curly hair, flushed cheeks, and all.  “Come in,” he said, holding out a hand, and Sara surprised herself by putting her own into it and letting him draw her inside. 

The room was warm and well-lit, and smelled of coffee, carpet shampoo, and Grissom.  Sara could see at once that he’d made himself at home; a forensics kit sat neatly on the small table near the door, along with keys and a wallet, and there were journals and papers stacked on the desk; his dark blue windbreaker hung over the back of the desk chair.  The philodendron had pride of place on the window cut in the wall separating the main room from the kitchenette. 

But there were no bugs, Sara realized.  “What did you do with your tarantula?” 

Grissom, still holding her hand for some reason, shrugged a little.  “He died last year, actually.”  He squeezed gently and let her go.  “If you put your jacket on the closet door, it should dry fairly quickly.” 

She pulled it off.  “What about your roaches?” 

Grissom was heading into the kitchenette.  “When I decided to take a leave of absence, I farmed them out to a fellow racer.  They travel well, but I didn’t think the hotel would appreciate having large insects on the premises.” 

Sara snickered, and hung her coat on the open door.  “Gives new meaning to the term ‘roach motel’.”  She wandered after him, not entirely at ease. 

“Exactly.”  Grissom poured a mug full of coffee--fresh, judging from the aroma--and handed it to her, gesturing at the small pitcher of cream and the matching bowl of sugar sitting on the counter.  “Help yourself.” 

Two spoons sat next to the containers, and Sara picked one up, bemused at the sight.  “A tea set?” 

He shrugged again, looking slightly embarrassed, and filled another mug for himself.  “It’s actually easier.” 

It was...endearing.  Sara gave him a wide smile.  “Cute.” 

That earned her a dry look spoiled by the amused purse of his lips--and the faint flush on his ears.  She doctored her coffee busily to give him time to recover, and passed him the cream pitcher. 

An awkward little silence followed.  Sara realized that he didn’t quite know what to do with her, any more than she knew what to do now that she’d arrived.  But as she looked out past the plant to the slightly cluttered living room, an idea came to her.  “Did you get the next issue of Forensic Science International?” 

Grissom brightened at that, and within moments they had both settled down in the armchairs with thick glossy magazines in their hands, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the faint rattle of the rain. 

It was, Sara thought when she surfaced from Determination of synthesis method of ecstasy based on the basic impurities, the first time in a very long time that she and Grissom had spent so much quiet time just being together, without a case or a goal or something to accomplish. 

In fact, aside from a few weary moments after late-morning dinners back when she’d first arrived in Vegas, they’d never shared such a time at all. 

It was amazingly comfortable. 

At one point Grissom got up to refill their mugs, slipping past her with a murmur that wasn’t quite words and returning with the pot and the cream and sugar, and it came into Sara’s conscious mind that he wasn’t wearing shoes--just white cotton socks.  She found that even more endearing than the tea set. 

The grey light outside the window was starting to dim a little when Grissom’s stomach growled audibly.  Both of them looked up, startled, and Sara half-expected Grissom to be embarrassed again, but instead he chuckled. 

“I guess that’s my cue to ask you if you’re hungry too.”  He flipped his magazine shut. 

Sara closed her own, shrugging.  “I could eat.”  Actually, now that she was paying attention, she was almost ravenous.  Even the sugar in the coffee had worn off. 

Grissom tossed the journal onto the table.  “Well, there’s a nice restaurant just down the street, or if you care to risk my cooking, I have some food here.” 

His expression was pleasant but fairly neutral, giving Sara no hint of his preference in the matter, and with a small burst of assertiveness she decided to be selfish.  “Since you’re giving me the choice, I vote to stay here where it’s dry.” 

He nodded, looking pleased, and stood up.  “Sounds good.  Let me see what I have to offer a vegetarian.” 

It took her less than two minutes to give up on reading, and get up and follow him as he made investigatory noises in the kitchenette.  There wasn’t room for the two of them in there--at least, not yet--but she leaned in the doorway and watched him.  If he was nervous, he didn’t show it.  “Spaghetti okay?” 

“Sure.”  She watched him dig out a large pot for the noodles and fill it with water; another, smaller pot received the frozen contents of a plastic container, which smelled enticingly tangy despite its solid state.  Grissom then pulled a bottle of wine from another cupboard and a corkscrew from a drawer, and Sara stepped forward.  “Here, I can do that.” 

Grissom relinquished the bottle without a protest, which was a nice change from other men of her acquaintance who acted like handling fine alcohol was exclusively a male province.  She removed the cork with ease--she didn’t open wine bottles often, but she knew how to do it right--and he took the bottle back to set on the counter.  And then he just looked at her. 

The water was heating, the sauce was softening; if Grissom had something else in mind, salad or bread or whatever, he was leaving it for later.  Instead, he watched her with that calm, curious look he used on a scene, and it should have made her uncomfortable, but it didn’t.  She just crossed her arms and gave him the look right back. 

A small, soft smile touched Grissom’s lips.  Moving a little closer, he lifted one hand carefully, like a man trying not to drive off something wild and wary.  Curious, Sara didn’t move, and then her heart melted when he slid his fingers lightly along her jaw until he could cup his hand around it.  The touch was infinitely gentle, and bore no hint of sexuality; instead it felt like wonder.  When she didn’t move, Grissom’s smile deepened, and then his hand dropped away, and he turned slowly to prod the sauce with a spoon. 

Sara thought about asking him what it meant, and then reconsidered.  I think I already know. 

The sauce surprised her when they sat down to eat, because it was made from scratch.  “Where’d you get the recipe?” she asked Grissom, after an appreciative munch. 

“Brass, actually,” he answered, twirling his fork expertly in the pasta.  “Though he usually puts sausage in his.” 

Sara nodded, and speared a black olive out of the salad that he’d put together.  “Ed likes to use ground turkey sometimes.” 

Grissom swallowed his bite.  “You haven’t converted your family to vegetarianism?” 

Judging by the twinkle in his eye, he was teasing her.  Sara snorted.  “No way.  Besides, I’m not a vegetarian because it’s a personal moral choice, I don’t eat meat because it grosses me out.  I used to love steak.” 

Grissom looked distinctly guilty at that, and she had to laugh.  “Griss, it wasn’t your fault.  You nailed him!  If that’s what it took, I’m happy to give up meat.”  She gestured with her fork.  “Besides, I didn’t have to stay and watch.” 

“That’s true.”  His mouth quirked.  “I was...delighted that you did, though.” 

It was a firm memory, once well-loved, then painful, and she hadn’t really brought it out in years.  Grissom looking startled, then shyly pleased as she appeared next to him in the dry cold night, a bemused smile on his clean-shaven face; her own daring as she draped a blanket around his shoulders; the rank stench of the pig, with occasional dashes of coffee and Grissom relieving her poor nose.  The closeness of it.  Illusory, she had thought later, but now, sitting with him, she wondered if it just hadn’t been a truth expressed before its time. 

There was enough room in the little kitchen for Sara to dry the dishes as Grissom washed, since neither required much footwork, and they fell to telling silly stories of suspects and witnesses, and when they moved back out into the living room with more coffee they were having too much fun talking to go back to reading.  It was like things had been in the beginning, Sara realized, tossing ideas and opinions back and forth, except that they were on a more even footing now; she was no longer the student. 

And it was a delight to see Grissom so...lit up again.  It really had been years since she’d seen his eyes so bright, his gestures so expansive; years since they’d laughed like that, let their words tumble over each other’s sentences as they spun theories and argument.  It was rather a shock to realize that it was almost eleven o’clock, and past time for her to go home. 

“I’ll walk you down to your car,” Grissom said when she made her excuses; Sara considered arguing for form’s sake, and then decided against it at the stubborn set of his jaw.  She wasn’t as interested in fighting it as she once had been; living with kids did make one reconsider one’s assumptions, and it was hard to insist on safe behavior from minors when they could look her in the eye and demand why she didn’t do the same. 

Her jacket was indeed dry, and it had stopped raining at last; they stepped into the chilly air to find everything beaded with water and the asphalt of the parking lot gleaming in the sodium lights.  Sara was reminded of the last time he’d walked her to a vehicle, and had to marvel at how much things had changed since then.  She’d been prepared, then, to say goodbye to Grissom one final time; instead-- 

--Instead, some madness or desperation had driven him to kiss her, and a door she’d thought tightly shut had unlocked with a crisp, startling snap. 

Grissom halted in front of her convertible.  “This isn’t the car you were driving in Pennsylvania,” he said, revealing that his thoughts were running along similar lines. 

Sara grinned.  “Nope.  I had the Mercedes in the shop for an A/C problem; that was the loaner car.”  She turned to face him, and suddenly the relaxed atmosphere of the evening was gone.  The parallel to the previous walk grew stronger, and a kiss hung between them, phantom and alluring. 

She wanted to kiss him; that had never been the problem.  She really, really wanted to feel the pressure of his mouth on hers again, to catalogue the sensations and compare them to the first two times, to have his taste on her lips once more.  To know again that he did want her after all, as much as she did him. 

But it wasn’t smart.  Not yet.  She needed more time.  This new Grissom could prove to be a mirage after all; and her heart was still a little sore from all the years of denial. 

She didn’t know if he understood that, but he tilted his head a little, and then enveloped her in an unexpected hug, a warm wrap of arms that felt wonderful and brought home again the notion that Grissom could be, would be, a marvelous comfort as well as a temptation. 

Sara let herself relax against him, just for a moment, and knew--this was the right thing. 

 

 

 

 

They’d been talking almost an hour; between her job and his shift it was hard to find a time in which they were both free, so they made the most of it.  Sara’s sides ached from laughing; Greg had stored up his best stories to tell her over the phone. 

“Oh, man, you didn’t!” she exclaimed, smiling at the face in her mind’s eye.  “Hodges’ face is purple?” 

“And wouldn’t you know, it clashes with his hair,” Greg said smugly.  “I heard someone telling him that he looked like a victim of the Attack of the California Raisins.”  He started singing “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” in a slurred voice meant to evoke zombies, and Sara howled. 

“You do realize he’s going to kill you later,” she said when she got her laughter under control.  Greg snickered. 

“He can try, but he’s no match for the Sanders wit.  It was a thing of beauty.” 

“Photos?” 

“Oh yeah!” 

They giggled at each other for a minute, winding down.  Sara sensed the mood shift just before Greg spoke again, the sobriety chasing along the phone lines ahead of his words. 

“You don’t talk to Grissom, do you?” 

Sara opened her mouth, but couldn’t think what to say, suddenly caught between the expected response and the hidden reality.  Greg apparently took her silence for hurt.  “I--I’m not trying to upset you, Sara.  I was just wondering, kinda.” 

“Why?” she managed at last, her voice a little tight. 

“He’s not here.  Well, I mean, he’s here, but he’s not here here.” 

“Greg...” 

“He took a leave of absence, Sara.  Six months!  He left his cell number but all anybody knows is that he took off for...for the East Coast.” 

She choked back a snicker at Greg’s hastily edited comment.  “So?” 

“I don’t know.  After you, uh, left--”  Greg was hesitating, and it warmed Sara to hear the concern in his voice, his affection for his enigmatic supervisor.  “He...he just went downhill.  It’s kind of hard to describe.” 

“Try.”  She bit her lip at the deception she was practicing on her friend. 

“It’s like he...lost heart or something, I dunno.  There wasn’t anything left, like he’d burned out but hadn’t stopped moving yet, you know?  Catherine got all worried, but said that there was nothing anyone could do.” 

Her throat was closing at the picture Greg was painting.  He sighed, gusty in her ear.  “He was fading.  Really slow.  Man, it was scary, watching him do that.” 

Tears spilled over her lashes.  “Greg--” 

“Oh geez.”  His voice was remorseful.  “I’m sorry, Sara, I’m so sorry.  You know me, I always talk too much--” 

She swallowed.  “It’s okay, Greg.”  Oh, Griss.  “Really.” 

“No it’s not, I can tell.”  Now he sounded angry, probably at himself.  “Sara--” 

“Really, it is.”  She swiped at her eyes, glad that Greg couldn’t see her, and frustrated because she could not reassure him.  “Grissom’s probably using his time off to regroup.  He’ll come back all full of some weird technique that nobody’s heard of or something.” 

“I hope so.”  Greg sighed again.  “Nick misses him even if he won’t admit it, and Warrick just keeps muttering something about cake.  I just wish--” 

“What?” 

“I hope he hasn’t taken off for good.  Not without saying goodbye.” 

Sara forced back another surge of tears.  “He wouldn’t do that to you guys.” 

“You think so?”  But Greg sounded wistful rather than hopeful. 

“Call him,” Sara suggested.  “You have his number, you said.” 

“I think he left it for emergencies only,” Greg said doubtfully. 

“If he didn’t specify, you can call him for anything,” she pointed out.  “Do it, Greg.  Just ask him how he’s doing.  It’ll mean something to him, even if he never says so.” 

“He never says so,” Greg said in resigned tones, but she could hear the humor.  “Okay.” 

Sara couldn’t resist asking.  “He didn’t tell you why he was going?”

“To reevaluate his life, he said.  And...something about beauty.” 

Beauty? 

Oh. 

The tears came again, running down to meet her smile.