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.  

  
  


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The short winter daylight was gone, but Grissom didn’t realize it, deep as he was in trying to identify and catalogue a surprisingly well-preserved Victorian-era collection of moths.  He was musing industrial melanism and the peculiarities of nineteenth-century scientific dabbling when his phone rang, and he looked at the incoming number only long enough to determine that he didn’t recognize it.  “Grissom.” 

“Uh…hi.” 

“Greg?” Grissom asked in astonishment, glancing at his watch.  It was late on the East Coast, but in Vegas Greg’s shift had not yet begun.  “Starting work early?” 

“No, I just wanted to say hi.  Hi.”  Greg sounded uncharacteristically nervous. 

“Hello, Greg,” Grissom said patiently, then wondered why his CSI was calling.  “Is something wrong?” 

“No, I just--we haven’t heard from you in a while.”  Greg’s voice was plaintive, but Grissom detected a hint of accusation as well. 

It was true, Grissom realized; Abdul had called twice for advice on cases, and Greg once to ask an evidence-related question, but at least a month had gone by since Grissom had done more than type a brief answer to an e-mail. 

“I’m fine,” he said, a little surprised that the impromptu phone call did not annoy him.  “How are things at the lab?” 

That proved the right question to ask; Greg launched into an involved description of the latest cases, laced with opinion, commentary, and jokes.  Sara was right, Grissom admitted as he sorted moths and made encouraging noises.  He is fun to listen to.  He’d spent so many years trying to work around Greg’s enduring zaniness that he’d never stopped to actually pay attention to it. 

Eventually the younger man wound down.  “So what are you up to these days?” he demanded, sounding much more confident. 

The thousands of miles between them, and the lack of a visual, made it easier for Grissom to reveal something personal.  “At the moment, I’m cataloguing insects for a museum.”  He carefully kept back the name of the museum. 

“Hey, bugs for the bugman.”   The cheer in Greg’s voice faded a little.  “Um, Grissom…are you coming back?” 

Grissom flinched a little, not so much from surprise as from the fact that the question cut to the heart of his own uncertainty like the blade of a sword.  Knowing that the most likely scenario for his permanent return would be defeat, he stuck to the straight truth; one way or another, he would have to go back to deal with the life he’d put on hold there.  “Eventually.  My leave of absence is for six months, you know that.” 

“Yeah, but you’ve never done anything like this before.”  A faint sound came through, as though Greg had gulped a little.  “We kinda miss you, you know.” 

The awkward, half-shy statement hit Grissom with a flood of almost painful warmth.  In a vague, intellectual way, he had known that his CSIs would feel the absence of their boss, but he simply hadn’t thought of it outside the context of schedule shifts and possible promotions. 

In Greg’s uncomfortable voice was the inescapable fact that he was missed--Grissom the man, not just the enigmatic entomologist who ran the night shift.  Catherine’s words from years ago, about family, ran through his head, and he felt another sharp pang at the thought that, should his suit succeed, he would very likely have to leave his friends behind. 

But he put it aside for the moment, focusing instead on his protégé, whose lively soul he had sometimes envied.  “I ‘kind of’ miss you guys too,” he replied, a bit embarrassed but honest. 

Greg asked a few questions about Grissom’s new life, but nothing too probing; Grissom, aware that Greg knew Sara’s address, wondered if the younger man was being tactful or discreet. 

“Well, I gotta go,” Greg said eventually.  “Gen and I are catching dinner before shift.” 

“Sounds good.”  Grissom’s stomach rumbled a little, reminding him that it had been a long time since lunch, but he ignored it for the moment.  “Tell Catherine to remember that the forms for the criminalists’ convention in March have to be in by the end of the year.” 

“I’ll do that.”  Greg hesitated again.  “Talk to you later?” 

“Absolutely,” Grissom said.  “Greg…thank you for calling.” 

And he meant it. 

 

 

 

The first snow of the season came early and heavy, skipping the usual dusting to dump a good four inches on Washington and its environs one Friday.  True to form, the school system promptly shut down, and Ed took the day off to keep an eye on his offspring. 

Grissom had gotten into the habit of spending weekends with Sara when neither of them had to work, as well as a couple of weeknights; half the time they took off on their own, but the rest of the time they hung out with Sara’s family, something that Grissom would not have expected to enjoy.  However, he found he looked forward to it almost as much as his private dates with Sara.  Ed was as whip-smart as Sara, if more abstracted; Joseph and Kimmy were reasonably well-behaved, and were always asking him questions--mostly about science--that he was happy to answer. 

So when he found himself sucked into the preparation for a Sidle snow day that Saturday, Grissom went along without hesitation, though with some bemusement.  “You missed the snow treats,” Kimmy informed him within moments of his arrival. 

“Snow treats?” he asked, pulling off his gloves but not bothering to take off his jacket. 

“You can only do it when it’s fresh snow,” Kimmy explained as Joey dashed past with a pair of snowboots and a loud demand that Sara help him put them on.  “You take snow from the bushes, so you know it’s clean--“  Grissom bit his tongue.  “--And you pour maple syrup on top and eat it.” 

“Like a snow cone?” he offered gravely, and she nodded. 

“Yeah, ‘cept it’s in the winter.” 

“Old family tradition,” Sara supplied from the other side of the family room, where she was tugging Joseph’s boots onto his feet.  Given that she and Ed had grown up near San Francisco, where snow was a once-in-a-century event, Grissom surmised that the tradition came from Jenny’s family. 

“Sara, have you seen my scarf?” Ed asked distractedly, loping down the stairs from the upper floor. 

“It’s in your office, along with your gloves,” she replied, rolling her eyes a little.  “Right where you left them when you came in yesterday.” 

“Thanks.”  Ed ruffled her hair as he passed, and dodged her return swat without even looking.  Sara stood up, sighing. 

“One thing about CSIs, they usually remember where they left their heads.  All set, kiddo.” 

Joey ran off again, clumping, to fetch his coat.  “Was he always so absent-minded?” Grissom asked, once again both amused and warmed by the family’s antics. 

“Who, Ed?”  Sara walked over to Grissom and slipped her arms around him in an unexpected hug, and he closed his own around her, thrilled.  “He used to be worse.  Only guy I knew who could forget where he parked his car.” 

“That happens to everyone, from time to time,” Grissom objected mildly, letting go with some reluctance as Sara stepped away. 

“Yeah, but on his own street?  He was trying to unlock the neighbor’s Dodge because he had his nose stuck in a book.” 

“I heard that,” Ed said with mock indignation, emerging from his study in a peacoat and a knit scarf that Grissom estimated had to be at least half again as long as the scientist was tall.  “Want me to tell him about the time you thought there was a hammerhead lurking in the bay?” 

“I was five, Eddie.”  Sara looked down her nose at her brother as she pulled on a watchcap.  “I was entitled.” 

Grissom held in his laughter at the siblings’ genial bickering, and joined in as the Sidles exploded into the snowy world.  Their sleds were waiting for them in the garage, and the kids insisted on carrying their own, even though the bulk of the inflatable disk had Joey struggling a little. 

The townhouse complex included a slope suitable for sledding, and they headed up it, carefully avoiding the packed-down sled trails already etched into the snow.  Halfway up the gentle hill, Ed pulled Joey’s sled from his hand and passed it to Sara, then swung his son up and into a piggyback carry, saving him from wading. 

Ed had to go down with Joey the first couple of rides, the little boy sitting snugly in the wrap of his father’s arms and legs, but after that his courage grew.  Sara insisted on at least one turn out of four, and Grissom greatly enjoyed the sight of her skimming down the slope, whooping.  She spilled at the end of her first run, which made the kids shriek and Grissom flinch, but she rolled to her feet and waved happily. 

“Do you want a turn, Doctor G?” Kimmy asked eventually, in a dutiful tone.  He looked down at the fat doughnut-shaped cushion that had already borne her more than a dozen times that morning. 

“No, thank you.  I think I’m a little too big for your sled.” 

“Daddy goes,” she pointed out logically, and Ed, panting from his latest trek back up the hill, chimed in. 

“Oh, come on, man.  It’s fun!”  He waved expansively at the hill, which was almost the same color as the overcast sky. 

Grissom shook his head.  “I’ll just watch.” 

Courtesy fulfilled, Kimmy flung herself onto the sled for another run; Ed unwound a few feet of scarf, still puffing.  “You have nothing to lose but Mr. Dignity.” 

Grissom snorted.  “’Our dignity is not in what we do, but what we understand.’  I think I’ll still pass, though.” 

“Did enough of it when you were younger?”  Ed waved again, this time at his son, who was starting back up the hill. 

Grissom was wearing gloves, but he’d put his hands in his pockets anyway; it was quite cold enough to keep the snow from melting.  “Actually, I’ve never sledded in my life.” 

It did look kind of fun, reminding him a little of a rollercoaster, but Grissom wasn’t about to try it.  I’d probably fall off halfway down. 

Ed shrugged.  “Just wait ‘til you have kids.  Dignity goes right out the window.”  He backed up a couple of yards, then ran at the hill, schussbooming down on the soles of his boots and yelling at the top of his lungs.  Grissom, amused, wondered if Ed had had any dignity to begin with.  Maybe he left it all to his sister. 

Not that Sara, sitting splay-legged in the snow laughing, was displaying much at the moment.  The sight made Grissom grin.  What am I doing up here? 

He made his way carefully down the hill, watching as Kimmy balled up a handful of snow and flung it at her father.  Her aim was fairly good, and she caught him on the shoulder, prompting a roar and retaliation.  Sara scrambled up, and the next thing Grissom knew, everyone was throwing. 

Somehow Grissom found himself on the kids’ team, hurling snowballs at Ed and Sara, though he would much rather have been on Sara’s side.  But all that baseball, though years behind him, stood him in good stead; he knew he’d be sore the next day, but pasting Ed in the face with one pitch--much to his offspring’s howling glee--and with the next scoring a direct hit on Sara’s rear end was rather ego-boosting.  Her open-mouthed look of surprise made him laugh out loud, and when she exploded into a giggling fury of throws that made him duck, he could only laugh harder. 

It felt incredibly good. 

Eventually they wound down; everyone was snowy to the eyebrows, and Ed had lost his scarf in the rumpus.  He was overseeing the making of snow angels when Sara put her mittened hand in Grissom’s.  “Up for a walk?” 

They headed back to the townhouse and past it.  The fight had pushed Sara’s hat back on her head, and her hair was curling wildly, starred with snow; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed, and Grissom didn’t even think about it.  He just tugged her to a stop, put one gloved hand to her cheek, and kissed her. 

Slow, and cold, and sweet.  Their lips slid against each other so gently that Grissom’s heart lurched; the tiny sigh Sara let out when their mouths parted made Grissom’s other hand tighten on hers with the effort of not kissing her again. 

Their exhalations plumed in the cold air, and for once Grissom could actually see their breaths mingling, and he drew in a lungful just so he could contain some of hers.  Sara smiled, and he let the air go; she pulled on his hand, and he dropped his arm and fell into place next to her as she began to walk again. 

And it was all right. 

They wandered for a while, holding hands, seeing kids out making snowpeople or pulling sleds.  Eventually it began to snow again, gently, clumps of flakes spiraling down from the unfocused sky. 

“So…I was thinking…” Sara said eventually, sounding unusually hesitant. 

“Mm?”  Grissom squeezed her hand a little. 

“Turns out Jenny’s parents are having everyone down to Atlanta for a week around Christmas.”  She kicked idly at a lump of snow as they passed it.  “I’m not going.” 

“Why not?” Grissom asked, curious. 

“I don’t know most of them…it would just be weird, Grissom.” 

He squeezed her hand again at the defensiveness in her voice.  “That makes sense.”  He could understand very well the reluctance to be cooped up with virtual strangers for seven days. 

Sara sighed.  “So anyway.  Do you…um, do you want to spend Christmas with me?” 

Grissom’s head swam a little.  He was stunned and delighted at the request; the fact that she was so awkward about asking told him that it meant a lot to her.  But he was also overwhelmed with regret. 

“Sara…” 

Her fingers spasmed, and then let go.  “Damn!  I’m sorry, Griss, I shouldn’t have--“

“No.”  He caught her arm before she could step away, and they halted on the sidewalk as Grissom swung her around to face him.  Sara’s cheeks were flushed, with cold or embarrassment, and her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his.  “I’d love to spend Christmas with you, Sara, more than you know.  But I already promised my mother I’d go out to see her.”  Just two days before, in fact, and he cursed his timing. 

“Oh.”  She blinked, and grimaced as his words sank in.  “Well, don’t I feel like a total idiot.” 

Grissom laughed, and lifted his hand to cup her cheek, earning a rueful look.  “You’re not an idiot.  My track record isn’t exactly glowing.” 

Sara rubbed her face against his glove, her smile making his breath catch in his throat.  “Grissom, you may have been a slow starter, but there’s nothing wrong with your record now.” 

She leaned forward and caught his lips in a brief kiss that did more to warm him than any jacket, then tucked her arm through his.  “Let’s go find some cocoa or something.” 

Grissom let her lead him along.  An idea was unfolding in his head, something he would never have considered before, but that seemed perfect now.  Christmas, indeed. 

He didn’t leave the Sidles until after dinner was over; Sara gave him another quick kiss at the door, and while the temptation to hold her still and make something more of it was nearly overwhelming, Grissom restrained himself.  It was still her ball game, in a sense. 

He got into his car with his mouth still tingling, and was halfway out of the townhouse complex when another idea hit him.  It was silly; it was absurd.  But-- 

Grissom parked the car, and went to the trunk, where he kept a number of useful items for consultations; not everyone who called him out to a crime scene was foresightful enough to keep an extra kit on hand.  His boxful of supplies included a number of large plastic trash bags. 

It was late enough that the slope was deserted, but the heavy clouds reflected light, and the whole world was a sort of glowing blue-grey--there was plenty of light.  Grissom, bag in hand, trudged to the top of the hill and looked down. 

Part of him was insisting that he was about to make a fool of himself.  Another part pointed out practically that there was no one to see.  Grissom hesitated, then shook out the bag and spread it on the ground at the top of the slope.  He’d seen kids do this in Minnesota before, but he’d never tried it. 

Sitting down on the bag, he folded his legs, then hitched himself forward rather awkwardly.  It took a couple of tries, but then the bag began to slide on the packed snow, and took him with it. 

There were definite similarities to a rollercoaster, Grissom realized--the same helplessness and speed--but most rollercoasters didn’t have lumps in the middle.  Still, rushing downhill in the cold and the dim raised almost the same primitive joy in him, the same adrenaline push, and he slid to a stop at the bottom and found himself grinning wildly.  He didn’t think he’d whooped. 

He wasn’t thinking forensically, however.  The next day, when Ed barricaded himself in his study to chase an idea and Sara took the kids out for a morning of sledding, she realized that the distinctive bootprints at the end of one slide trail were nowhere near the snowball fight of the day before. 

She just grinned. 

 

 

The staff knew her by now, and that familiarity combined with her FBI badge got her into the Natural History museum even as the guards were securing the doors for the night.  Sara waved at the docent tidying her desk, and skirted the dais-mounted elephant, and wove her way back through the dimmed corridors and shadowy displays to a locked service door.  Normally she would knock, but one of the curators was just leaving, and he held it open for her.  “Running a little late tonight,” he commented cheerfully. 

Sara winked as she slid past him; the man was a little shorter than she, and bald as an egg, and brilliant; she liked him.  “Hey, it’s Friday.  No school tomorrow.” 

He snorted in agreement, and let the door close between them. 

Unlike the public areas of the museum, the workrooms were immensely cluttered, the inevitable result of more specimens and projects than space to store them.  Rumor had it, Grissom had told her with a chuckle, that the mass of the items in storage had created a gravitational anomaly and that there was more stored in the work area than there was room for, and Sara had rolled her eyes and refrained from explaining just why that was impossible. 

She strode past various cubicles and offices and workbenches, about half of which still had people at them, working on anything from fossils to clothing restoration to paperwork, and made her way back to the corner table that served as Grissom’s space.  He was there, of course, bent over a microscope and studying something with such concentration that he didn’t seem to notice her approach. 

Sara paused for a moment, just to enjoy the sight of him.  Grissom had been back in her life for just over three months, and she still was sometimes taken by surprise that he was there again.  Now he looked to her as though he was in the Vegas lab, despite the absence of a lab coat; alternating between staring through the microscope and making notes, completely the dedicated scientist even though his specimens were more than twice his age instead of alive and creeping.  The silver of his hair gleamed a little in the light, and Sara wanted to go wrap her arms around his waist and peer over his shoulder. 

However, she did know what it was like to be startled when using a microscope, and rubbed the bridge of her nose absently at the memory, choosing instead to clear her throat. 

Grissom didn’t look up, but she saw him smile.  “Hello, Sara.” 

She smirked.  It was hard to sneak up on him.  “Hey, Doc, buy a girl a drink?” 

He straightened, and gave her a teasing look.  “I usually buy manly drinks, but I’m sure I can handle a girly drink.” 

She snickered at his pun.  “Shut up or I’ll get you a Silk Panties.” 

One brow went up, and his eyes glinted.  “Is that an offer?” 

It had been so long since they flirted, and they never had quite so blatantly.  It made Sara’s stomach tingle with delight, at least until the tingle turned into an audible growl.  They both laughed, and the sweet tension eased again. 

“Food, Gil,” she insisted.  “Even you have to eat on occasion.” 

Grissom made one last note and removed the slide in the microscope before powering it down.  “I thought that was my line.” 

“It was.  I stole it.”  Sara was tempted to kiss him again as he came around the table, but decided it was a little too dangerous at the moment.  Grissom picked up the container of slides he’d been examining and put them away in a neatly organized cabinet, then snagged his jacket from a battered hatstand in the corner.  “What are you hungry for?” 

Grissom shrugged into the garment.  “Dr. Fordman in Paleontology says that there’s a great sushi place within walking distance.” 

Sara gaped at him.  “You eat sushi?” 

He looked back, raising both brows this time.  “You don’t?” 

She shook herself.  “Yeah, I do, I just--you don’t seem the type.” 

Grissom placed a hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her towards the exit.  “Assume nothing.” 

The air was cold when they stepped outside, and Sara automatically buttoned her coat, opened in the warmer atmosphere of the museum.  “When did you start eating sushi?” she persisted. 

Grissom shrugged.  “Long before it became trendy.”  He seemed to think for a moment, then added, “I had a Japanese housemate when I got out of college.” 

Almost without thinking about it, Sara slipped her gloved hand into his, and felt his fingers lace between hers and hold firmly.  “Japanese, or Japanese-American?” 

He chuckled.  “The former, but quickly evolving into the latter.  He ate burgers and pizza most of the time, just like me, but once he dragged me out to a local sushi restaurant.  I was the only gaijin in the place.”  He was smiling a little, Sara saw; apparently the memory was a fond one.  “He thought it would gross me out, but he hadn’t taken into account that I already ate insects as snacks.” 

She had to laugh at that.  “What prompted him to make you eat sushi?”  Grissom didn’t answer, but she saw his cheeks flushing a little deeper than the cold would indicate, and grinned with the insight.  “You lost a bet, didn’t you?” 

His mouth quirked.  “Baseball is a beautiful game, but one should not depend entirely on statistics.” 

Sara laughed harder, and Grissom squeezed her hand.  She remembered the last time he’d spoken of baseball, and the memory no longer twinged.  And then he spoke again, and her laughter faded.  “All the beauty in my life left when you did, Sara.” 

That hurt, the bittersweet ache of truth and love.  Sara halted, and Grissom swung around to face her, not letting go of her hand.  This time, it was her palm that cupped his cheek.  “I’m sorry,” she told him, apologizing at last for walking out of his life without a word three years before.  She had been justified, she felt, but she had also hurt him, and that she regretted. 

He looked at her with eyes that still held a measure of sorrow, and on impulse she hugged him, wanting to make that grief go away, wanting to make it all right somehow.  Grissom’s breath huffed out and he hugged her back with strong arms, sharing the comfort in the press of cloth and muscle. 

Then he let her go, taking her hand in his again, and without words they walked on. 

It being Friday night, the restaurant was busy, but Sara had made reservations, and they were shown to a table near the counter where the sushi was prepared.  There were three men immersed in the art; two were Japanese, like most of the staff, but the third was a tall, white-blond, slender man whose face was as impassive as that of his colleagues and whose handsomeness bordered on beauty.  His unusualness merited an extra second’s worth of observation; Sara settled herself into the chair Grissom held out for her, and then wondered why he looked so sober when he took his place across the table. 

He too, glanced again at the blond man, and when he looked down at the table some of the lines that had faded from his face since he’d come to the East Coast had returned. 

It seemed to be her night for insight.  Does he really think I can be distracted by a pretty face? Sara thought incredulously, but the slight hunch of his shoulders changed her anger to sympathy. 

If I saw him looking at a curvy twentysomething I’d probably feel the same, she admitted to herself.  Though…he’d better not. 

She discarded the idea of calling him on his doubts as soon as the thought appeared.  This wasn’t the place to discuss such things.  Instead, she reached across the small table to touch his hand, and when he looked up she gave him a warm smile.  “So what else did your Japanese friend get you to do?” 

Grissom’s eyes brightened again.  “Do you really want to hear this?” 

Sara sat back.  “Hell yeah.  You’ve told me a little about your mother, but I still don’t know much about your life.”  She gestured at him.  “So spill!” 

It took a little coaxing, but by dint of trading stories she managed to get him to tell her about some of his college escapades, and what it was like being a coroner.  Sara found herself fascinated by Grissom’s hands when their meal came; like herself, he was comfortable using chopsticks, and for some reason she loved watching him pick up a piece of sushi, dip it in his chosen sauce, and pop it into his mouth without losing a crumb or a drop.  It wasn’t particularly sexual, but it was sensual, and to Sara it was like watching him handle evidence, something she had missed over the years. 

Sara picked up the check when it came, ignoring Grissom’s aborted move towards it.  He was getting better about the issue, though she knew it still outraged his old-fashioned sensibilities on some level.  Tough.  It’s not like I pay for it even half the time.  It was still a lovely feeling to be courted, and Grissom got such a kick out of taking her out that she let him do it most of the time.  Tonight, however, it had been her invitation.    

As she tucked her credit card into the small folder, though, he managed a genuine smile.  “Thank you for dinner.” 

She gave him one of her own in return.  “You’re welcome.”  They sat in contented silence for a little while, Sara finishing her sake and Grissom just looking relaxed, both of them replete with protein.  The itamae were talking quietly to one another in Japanese, a pleasant murmur, and for some reason Sara remembered Grissom’s hug, the warmth of their bodies in the cold dry air, the way it felt to be held safe, if just for a moment. 

“That’s what makes this so special,” she murmured, only half-aware that she was speaking aloud. 

Grissom leaned forward a little.  “What?” 

“You and me.”  Sara smiled again.  “We can be friends, Gil.  We can…” 

She trailed off, not quite sure how to explain it, but Grissom smiled back, eyes crinkling. 

“We were.  We are,” he confirmed softly, and she knew he understood. 

It was as they were leaving that Sara’s brow creased in confusion at the chefs’ conversation, and she and Grissom exchanged a puzzled glance, but she waited until they had left the restaurant to speak.  “Did you hear that?” 

Grissom’s expression was bemused.  “The tall itamae’s name is Gojira?” 

Sara tried to see the austere man stomping Tokyo, and failed.  “Maybe the Italian place next door has a giant moth handling the pasta.” 

Grissom snickered, and took her hand again.  “We’ll have to see sometime.”