Fandom:
CSI
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: GSR
Summary: What is most precious? A sequel to
Disclaimer: Most 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; all others are my property, 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: Through the end of Season 4, but does not take Season 5 into
account.
Note: This chapter's for Cincoflex, who read and approved. Thank you!!
*********
Chapter 2
Grissom took one last look around his living room, making sure he had
all that he needed more out of habit than necessity. He could be as
absentminded as any professor, but not usually with possessions.
The place was fairly tidy, but he could see dust on some of the insect
display cases, as well as other indications that he’d fallen
behind a bit on his housekeeping. A shirt was draped over one of his
kitchen stools, and a cushion lay on the floor beside the couch.
Bending, he scooped up the throw pillow and flipped it in his hands.
He'd kept it with him, that first morning after Sara had kissed him,
because it had still carried her scent, but he'd brought it back from
California because it had sat on his mother's couch for as long as he
could remember, and even though it was worn and faded it was a link to
her, something tangible. Sentimental, yes, but in this case he just
didn't care.
Lost for a moment in bittersweet memory, he rubbed his palm over the
patchy nap, then tossed it into place on the couch. It was time to
leave for work.
xxxx
"I can't believe this," Warrick muttered under his breath. "Somebody
broke in here to steal a painting of Elvis?"
He looked around the tiny apartment. It was scrupulously clean, but
stuffed to the gills with carpet and doilies and silk plants, and it
was already making him claustrophobic. But the ancient tiny woman
sitting on the cushion-bedecked couch was nodding at Det. Vega's
questions, and there was a prominent space above the wall opposite her,
an empty hook and a rectangle of wallpaper surrounded by smaller framed
photographs.
Warrick stepped across the room to take a closer look. On close
examination, he could see the faint variation in the paper's coloration
that told him that something had indeed occupied the space. He
eyeballed the empty patch and estimated the missing painting's frame at
about two feet by three feet. None of the photographs had been
disturbed, it seemed; their edges were all mathematically level. He
tuned an ear to the conversation behind him.
"I came back from supper and it was gone," the woman said in an accent
that hinted at Boston and a tone that reeked of rage. "My daughter has
a key but she wouldn't do this. It's malice, that's what it is."
"Is there someone who would like to distress you?" Vega asked, and
Warrick glanced over as he went back to the apartment's door to examine
it. The little round woman was nothing like his tall, bony, calm
grandmother, but she wore the same fierceness, and Warrick was willing
to bet that every employee in her assisted-living complex was secretly
terrified of her.
Warrick crouched down to dust the doorknob, and felt sorry for Vega,
who was probably going to have to explain that they had very little
hope of recovering the woman's stolen painting. If he were still a
gambling man, Warrick would have been willing to bet a large sum that
the perp had used a key; in a place like this, where the apartments
were cleaned daily and caregivers dispensed meds, a half-dozen copies
of the key would be floating around, plus whatever copies family
members happened to have.
But...why just take the
painting? he wondered,
unscrewing the lid of a powder jar. Nobody
living here is poor; she's wearing three expensive rings and there's
two twenties sitting on the kitchen counter with the mail.
Warrick shook his head, and dipped his brush. All
they took was what she valued most. That's some sick bastard.
xxxx
“Where’re my results, Greg?” Nick
demanded, impatient. It had been a very long shift, and his temper was
not improved at the sight of the DNA tech grooving to some music that
Nick couldn’t even identify.
“You can’t hurry art,” Greg said with
dignity, obviously choosing to ignore the fact that Nick had nearly
removed the volume knob from Greg’s boom box when turning
down the sound.
“This isn’t art, it’s science.”
“You can’t hurry science, either. Just ask
Grissom.”
Nick bridled, and Greg backed down. “Thirty
seconds,” he said crossly. “Geez,
everybody’s in a bad mood tonight.”
“We’re entitled,” Nick said shortly. They
had all been busy on cases all night, but nothing had turned up on any
of them; Grissom had said something about statistics, but to Nick it
was pure bad luck. And highly annoying.
“Stay away from Sara,” Greg added after a moment,
in a tone that suggested he didn’t care whether Nick did or
not. “She’s ready to take someone’s arm
off at the shoulder.”
Nick grunted, and beat Greg to the printer as it began to spit out
pages. “Nothin’...and still more
nothin’.”
Greg’s agile fingers snatched up the third sheet.
“This isn’t nothing,” he pointed out, and
handed over the paper.
Nick’s brows rose at the results. “Darn straight.
Thanks, Greggo.” His mood improving rapidly, he headed out
the door in search of his supervisor.
Forty minutes later he walked into the locker room, flinching as a ball
of paper flew past his head to land in the trash can.
“Whoa!”
“Sorry, Nick.” Sara looked sheepish.
“Nice shot.” Nick walked towards his locker.
“What did that piece of paper ever do to you?”
Sara looked away and started rummaging in her locker. "Nothing. It was
just the announcement that the promotion's back on."
Nick sobered. "Oh. Yeah." He’d found a copy in his own locker
earlier that night, and had stood staring at it for a couple of minutes
in disbelief.
Sara kept her eyes on her task of rearranging the bottles on the top
shelf of her locker. "You got one too, huh?"
"Yep." He opened his own locker. "Doesn't make any sense. First it's
on, then it's off, then it's on again like it never happened in the
first place. We have to apply all over again."
"I'm not going to," Sara said quietly, sitting down on the bench.
After a moment's hesitation, Nick sat down next to her, straddling the
seat. "Me either."
They looked at each other for a few seconds, both a little wary; then a
grin started to spread over Nick's face, and then Sara's.
"Too much hassle, huh?" she asked.
"Oh yeah." His smile went a little wistful as he remembered the tension
between them earlier that year, the coldness. "I didn't like what it
did to me. Or...to us."
Sara sighed. "Me either."
Nick held out his arms a little shyly, and Sara leaned into his hug,
returning it. "Let Warrick have it," she mumbled against his shoulder
before pulling back.
"He doesn't want it either," Nick said. "I don't think anybody does."
She snorted. “It was a stupid idea anyway.”
“I hear ya.” Nick stood up again and peeled off his
shirt. “Are you really that interested in career
advancement?”
He emerged from the fabric to see her staring at him, her expression a
mix of amusement and annoyance. “Who, me?”
Nick chuckled, and tossed the shirt into his locker, pulling out a
clean one. “Okay, yeah. Forgot who I was talking
to.”
Sara shrugged, the amusement taking precedence.
“Administration’s boring. For me it’s the
puzzles.”
“Yeah, we all know how you love a challenge.” Nick
began on his buttons. “Me, I wouldn’t mind a little
more responsibility, but I think I can wait for now after the last
fiasco.”
“More power to you,” Sara said easily, and closed
her locker. “See you tomorrow.”
“You’re off tonight?”
Sara turned at the door, her smile almost puckish. “Both of
us.” And before Nick could muster a tease, she was gone.
xxxx
It was easier in the dark, somehow. They were both tired from the rush
of cases, and while they'd spent a relaxed night together doing mundane
chores and simply enjoying each other's company, somehow they'd ended
up sitting together on his couch in the darkness. Dawn was still an
hour or two away.
Grissom lowered his head a fraction so he could get another whiff of
Sara's scent. He never grew tired of holding her like this; some
fantasies were just as potent even when fulfilled. Her head against his
shoulder, her back against his chest, his arms around her waist and
hers folded over them; she stroked his arm idly with one thumb, and he
could feel her stomach move as she breathed and her hair slide against
his throat. It was as close to perfection as he could hope for.
"What made you change your mind?" Sara asked, her voice almost lazy.
"Hmmm?" He'd been drifting, not thinking so much as just savoring.
"That night. When you asked me if I still wanted a relationship."
The words were casual, but they brought him to full alertness, and he
could feel a subtle tension seeping up her spine. Grissom bit his lip;
they had started their relationship quickly, but they hadn't really
discussed it. On his part, at least, it was due to not wanting to prick
the bubble of his dazed bliss, and to his habitual avoidance of
emotional topics. But the conversation was inevitable, and he marshaled
his thoughts, reminding himself that he had nothing to hide. Not any
more.
The thought calmed him a little, and he took a deep breath, letting it
out and feeling it ruffle Sara's hair. "It didn't happen that night,"
he corrected, and felt her tension subside slightly. He tightened his
arms around her, trying to reassure. Sara trusted him, but his track
record wasn't great, and it was going to take time for him to prove
that he was done backing away. "It was a couple of days before." He
pressed his cheek against the crown of Sara's head, remembering the
unpleasantness of that night. "When Irene..."
He trailed off, unwilling to verbalize the nastiness of finding his
very-ex-lover trying to intimidate Sara. She reached up and behind and
touched his face, stroking gently. "I remember." Her head turned under
his chin and she placed a light kiss at the base of his throat.
Grissom sighed, half in pleasure, half in sadness, and Sara snuggled
deeper into his arms. "I don't know when it really happened, Sara, it
just all came together that night." He stared into the darkness, barely
able to make out the boxy shapes of his bookshelves. "This...is going
to take some explaining."
She laughed a little, a comfortable sound. "I'm all ears."
He grinned, even though she couldn't see it. "Do you know how amazingly
competent you are?"
"Huh?"
His arms tightened again. "I'm not changing the subject. From the
moment I met you, I was struck by your competency. You not only did
everything you were assigned, you did it superbly well. It never took
you long to get the hang of something, and then you wouldn't stop until
you had it exactly right. You were terrifying."
She laughed again at the gentle tease, but his guess was that she was
blushing, too. "You're extremely competent, Sara, and I don't say that
lightly. One of the reasons I asked you to come to Vegas in the first
place was I knew I could trust you, not only to follow the evidence,
but to follow it thoroughly and correctly."
He sighed again, remembering. "You're never sloppy or careless. And
while you sometimes get too emotionally involved in cases--"
Sara stirred, but he shook his head, knowing she could feel it. "We can
argue about that later. You can get too involved, but it never seems to
stop you." His eyes narrowed in remembered pain, and his voice lowered.
"I've seen you bounce back from exhausting shifts, maddening cases, lab
explosions, even betrayal. I really believed that you didn't need
anyone or anything. You were sufficient unto yourself."
"Gil--" she protested, and he shook his head again.
"I know that wasn't true, but that was how I felt. Sara, no matter what
happened, you kept going, tall and strong. When I recovered from my
surgery and started to take another look at my life, I couldn't see how
I could fit into yours. You didn't seem to need me, and without that
need--I thought--nothing would last between us."
He hadn't realized how rough his voice had gotten. Sara twisted in his
arms to face him, cupping his jaw, pressing her lips to the corner of
his mouth in a brief hard kiss. "It isn't true," she said fiercely. "I
do need you, Gil. You have to know that."
Grissom wondered how she realized his doubts when he scarcely dared
think about them himself. "I know," he muttered, returning the kiss,
willing himself to believe. "I do know."
They huddled together for a long moment, both aware of their own
painful vulnerabilities laid open to the other's gaze. Then Grissom
tugged Sara back against him, and she slid an arm around his waist,
resting her other palm against his chest. "I remembered so much that
night, so much that Irene brought back, and it made me think about you,
about us. About coming to get you at the police station. Sara, that was
when I first started to think that maybe there was a place in your life
for someone after all...maybe not me, but you needed someone."
She nodded against his shoulder, and he continued. "Then I remembered
California, and Mom's funeral, and I thought that maybe I could be what
you needed." His mouth quirked in the darkness. "I wasn't planning on
saying anything that night, but you kind of pushed me into it."
Sara chuckled again. "Good thing I did."
"Yes." Grissom reached up and slid his hand into her hair, marveling
for the thousandth time that he could. "A very good thing."
Her mouth was warm and alive under his, and it was several minutes
before he could bring his mind back to what they had been discussing.
"Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah." Her voice was slightly breathless, and she put a hand on his
nape and pulled his head back down.
Chapter 2
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