Fandom:
CSI
Pairing: G/S
Rating: PG
Summary: Too many pieces...
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 the others are mine, 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 "No Humans Involved"
Note: Clichés four, five, twelve, and forty-seven, but I've
always wanted to write one of these. Rating may change later. Thanks
yet again to Cincoflex, who never fails to be wonderfully encouraging,
and who thought of the title.
*********
Well, you wanted more responsibility. You’ve got it, in
spades. Catherine reached
wearily for another folder on her crowded desk.
At least you know how to do the job.
It wasn’t the first time she’d worked a job and a
half--she’d done it almost every time Grissom had been out of
town--but she’d never handled two supervisory positions at
once before.
Not to mention, night
shift is practically nonexistent, and swing shift is making itself
scarce. She glanced up as a
slumped form went past her office at about half its usual speed. It
looked as though Sofia, at least, had dragged herself in. Catherine
didn’t know the woman well enough to like or dislike her,
though her former status as Ecklie’s pet was enough to
inspire mistrust. But Catherine had to admit that Sofia was good at her
job.
And she’s
here. Unlike Greg. Not that
she could blame the younger CSI. Warrick had stopped by to see him, and
had reported that Greg could barely get from bedroom to bathroom and
back again, and was absolutely anguished that he would be barred from
the hospital for at least a week even after he was able to stand up
straight.
And meanwhile,
Nick’s out at least two more days, and between him and Sara
and Grissom, Warrick can’t handle any overtime.
The Sheriff had called in a favor, and there were a few temp CSIs
coming in from Carson City for dayshift, while some of the day folks
would move to nights temporarily.
Not ideal, but it can’t be helped.
If Sofia were here, though, that meant that Catherine was past the end
of her shift. She stared at the mounds of paperwork and considered
staying longer.
But I’m so
exhausted I can’t see straight. And I’m not going
to get much sleep tomorrow anyway.
She planned to swing by the hospital in the morning to see Sara, and
Lindsey wanted to go along. The request had surprised Catherine
somewhat--Warrick and Grissom were the lab people her daughter knew
best--but at Catherine’s startled blink, Lindsey had reminded
her tartly that Sara had taken care of her after Eddie’s
death.
I didn’t
forget, exactly. I just didn’t want to remember.
The whole mess had been so horrible--a mix of fury and grief and
secret, shamed relief--
Well, we can go out to
breakfast together. I can’t waste the chance.
She flipped the folder closed, dropped it on her desk, and rose,
grabbing her purse from the desk drawer.
I hope Sara is better. Warrick says she is, but--
She shuddered at the memory, seeing Sara bruised and bandaged and so
frighteningly still in the hospital bed. “Flowers,”
she said out loud. “Not that she’ll like them much,
but it’s too early for anything else.”
Like a forensics journal.
And snorting at the image--Sara was going to be a handful as soon as
she got her energy back--Catherine closed her office door.
He had to admit, he did feel better.
Grissom stepped off the elevator into the ICU, definitely feeling more
alert after a shower, six hours of sleep, and some food. He intended to
drop by the lab that night, but Catherine had told him that things were
under control for the moment, and anyway he had someplace else to be.
Here.
He could see across the hub of the unit; the curtains were drawn in
front of Sara’s pod, and he slowed, wondering if she was
being examined or bathed or something. But as he came abreast of the
nurses’ station, a familiar blonde head poked through the
curtain. He waved.
Lindsey looked back over her shoulder, then stepped through the
curtain, pulling it shut behind her. Grissom took one stride forward,
only to halt at a hand on his arm. “Hold on a minute, please,
sir.”
He glanced over at the young man. “Is there a
problem?”
Instead of answering, the nurse spoke to the woman seated at the
station. “Is this one Sidle or Grissom?”
“I’m Gil Grissom,” he interrupted,
impatient. The woman nodded, and the nurse tugged at his arm.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Grissom, you’re not
allowed back there.”
“I can wait.”
The nurse shook his head, looking regretful. “No,
you’re on the restricted list.”
The words didn’t make sense. “What?”
The man sighed, but didn’t release Grissom, obviously
prepared for a fuss. “Ms. Sidle has requested that you not be
allowed in to see her.”
Forget ice cubes; he’d swallowed a whole winter.
“I...are you sure?”
The woman behind the counter tapped the paper in front of her.
“Only two names on the list, sir--Dr. Grissom and a Mr.
Charles Sidle.”
Grissom shook his head distractedly. This was wrong, somehow.
“But...”
A small cool hand slid into the crook of his unencumbered arm.
“Come on, Uncle Gil,” Lindsey said.
“Let’s go outside.”
Numb, he let her lead him away.
There were a lot of things Lindsey hated. Her mother’s job,
the way she still missed her dad, the people who’d killed
him. The way she felt sometimes, all sad and lost and angry. The fact
that she couldn’t seem to talk with her mom anymore without
one of them getting mad.
But there were good things too. They had money, now; she got to go to
her grandfather’s place and ride horses, even if Granddad
wasn’t somebody she liked very much; and she saw a little
more of her mom now that Catherine worked swing shift.
It was easy to remember all the times she’d visited the Crime
Lab, often ending up taking a nap on the breakroom couch and sometimes
going out for breakfast with the team. They were adults, but nice
ones--Nick and Greg teasing her, Captain Brass pulling a quarter from
her ear when he remembered, Warrick always good for a bearhug. She was
too old for that now, of course, but they were good memories.
Sara she remembered mostly as a tall, calm presence, more an impression
of intensity than anything else. But Warrick had told her how long and
how hard Sara had worked to try to get the people who’d
killed Lindsey’s dad. She hadn’t been able to, but
she’d tried.
So when Catherine had said she was going to the hospital, Lindsey had
decided to come along.
And when she’d seen the look on Uncle Gil’s face
when they told him he couldn’t go in, she’d decided
to do something about it.
It was a bit of a weird feeling, leading him along out of ICU towards
the waiting area beyond, and it took her a few seconds to figure it
out. She felt--adult. Like he was the kid for once. But she put the
thought aside to consider later, and shoved him gently towards one of
the chairs. He sat down automatically, still looking blank, and she sat
down next to him. There were other people in the lounge, but none of
them were close by. “Are you all right, Uncle Gil?”
She knew he wasn’t, but the question was enough to make him
blink and focus on her. A little sad smile appeared.
“No.”
One thing about Uncle Gil, he had never lied to her, though he
wouldn’t always answer questions either.
“Mom says she’s just really tired,”
Lindsey told him judiciously. “She probably is thinking kind
of fuzzy right now.”
“Mm.” It was an I’m-thinking noise, and
Lindsey said nothing, letting him think. Mom always said that he did
too much thinking, but Lindsey figured that something like this
required it. After all, everyone--according to Mom--knew that Uncle Gil
loved Sara. Not being let in to see her--that had to hurt.
“I guess I screwed it up,” he said at last, very
quietly.
“Maybe you could send her some flowers,” Lindsey
suggested. That was what guys did on TV, and her dad had sometimes
brought home huge bouquets after he and Mom had had a fight.
Uncle Gil’s mouth twitched up at one corner.
“Maybe,” he agreed, but his voice was so sad that
Lindsey couldn’t help leaning against him and putting an arm
around his back. She wasn’t into hugging people much any
more, but this was Uncle Gil--the guy who used to take her out to
amusement parks, who bought her weird birthday presents, who took care
of her mom when Catherine needed it.
He sighed, and his big arm went around her shoulders, pulling her a
little closer. He smelled clean, the way her dad hadn’t
always, and he was solid and safe.
They sat there for a little while, and when Catherine sat down on the
other side of him, her face was soft. “Hey, Gil,”
she said quietly, but she gave Lindsey a look that made her feel warm
all the way through, and Lindsey realized it had been a while since
she’d gotten that look.
Pride.
Catherine took Uncle Gil’s free hand in hers, and they sat
for a while longer, just the three of them, being family for him. And
that was all right.
The first time he’d seen her, she’d been an
unwelcome intrusion, a stranger interrupting his feverish quest to make
enough money to cover his stupid mistake. It hadn’t taken
more than a few sentences exchanged for him to figure out who she was,
and on one level it had surprised him--he’d never really
thought about what a friend of Grissom’s would look like, but
he hadn’t expected her to be quite that young.
A bustling little investigator in a labcoat or sweater, he mused now,
holding one slender hand in his. Somebody fortyish, maybe with those
glasses on a chain. Not tall, relentless Sara Sidle.
Warrick shifted, resting his elbows on his knees without releasing her
hand, and watched her. She tended to wake up every so often for a few
minutes at a time, long enough to say something or ask for a drink or
just smile wearily before sliding back into sleep. The doctors seemed
cautiously pleased with her progress, and he leaned hard on that.
It’s a shame
that it took something like this to bring us back together.
If there was still a together for them. Warrick couldn’t
quite pinpoint the moment when the night shift had begun
disintegrating, but Ecklie’s dividing them up had been more
of a final blow than a beginning. Except now here they all were again,
pulling together around a common center.
Well, almost all of them.
It’s only
been four days, Warrick
reminded himself, stroking Sara’s fingers with his and noting
absently the boniness of her knuckles.
It seems like so much longer.
Four days, starting with Grissom’s dead-calm phone call that
had betrayed so much fear beneath. Driving like a maniac to reach the
hospital, only to realize that he’d actually beaten the
MedEvac chopper there, and then hours of waiting. Finding himself the
center of gravity for that, first for pale Catherine and a Brass who
looked like he was waiting for someone to punch him again, then for
others--Doc and David, both of them quiet; Jacquie and Archie, who sat
together and whispered for a while; a couple of Nick’s
buddies from the force, looking uncomfortable.
And finally Grissom, whose face was like winter and whose ripped jacket
bore smears of blood. Catherine had jumped up to peel it off him, but
she couldn’t do anything about his pants, which were soaked
and muddy from the knees down.
They waited, like the family they’d once been, for news of
any kind, or just to be there. Eventually most of them had had to leave
again, though not before hearing that Nick, at least, was resting
quietly and would be okay.
Nobody knew about Sara, though.
Grissom had made Catherine go home eventually, after everyone else had
gone, and after Warrick had promised to call her the moment they had
any news. And the two of them had waited. In silence, and a kind of
despair.
Sara moaned softly, and Warrick straightened, focusing on her face. But
her eyes didn’t open, and after a moment he settled back,
hoping that her dreams, at least, were good.
He knew he shouldn’t be here--he should be at home, trying to
catch up on sleep before he too came down with the flu, or worse. But
he felt the need to hold vigil.
After all, who else was coming?
That wasn’t quite fair, he chastised himself. Catherine came
by when she could, and Nick had taken a cab in twice. David had been by
at least once and Brass three times, and Warrick knew very well that if
Greg were healthy enough, he would have to be removed with a crowbar.
But no one was coming from California. Catherine had made the
next-of-kin calls, and she’d told Warrick earlier, quietly
appalled, that while Nick had five family members listed,
Sara’s listing was the Las Vegas Crime Lab.
And for whatever reason, she’d barred Grissom from visiting.
So I guess
it’s up to us.
Ecklie’s unexpected mercy gave them a little more leeway, but
since he technically wasn’t nightshift any more, Warrick was
trying not to abuse it.
Sara’s fingers flexed in his, and Warrick looked up again,
hopeful. Her eyes opened slowly, and he grinned. “Hey,
beautiful.”
She smiled the slightest bit. “...’Rick.”
He wasn’t sure if she was using Brass’ nickname for
him, or if her voice simply wasn’t cooperating.
“How you feeling?”
Her lip lifted in a faint snarl, and he chuckled. “Gotcha,
dumb question.” He reached for the cup on the table nearby.
“Ready for another drink?”
It was an obvious effort for her to lean her head forward even the
small amount required for a sip through the straw, and it made him ache
to watch. But she didn’t fall right back to sleep when he put
the cup back, and a small surge of hope ran through him.
“You missed David earlier,” he told her.
“Should have seen him, standing there looking like he wanted
to kiss you or something, fiancée or not. ” He
took heart from her tiny smirk. “And Vartan and
O’Reilly stopped by, but the staff wouldn’t let
‘em in.”
Her lips moved, and he made out the word even though there was no sound
behind it. Nick?
“He’s fine,” Warrick reassured her.
“Bitching about his shoulder, and he’s worried like
crazy about you. He’s been here too, but you were asleep. I
made him go home and get some rest.” He picked up her hand
again, and suddenly remembered.
“Got a message for you, from Ecklie.” He
didn’t explain how it had come to him, only watched one
slender brow go up. “He said to tell you that the lab needs
you.”
For some reason, that produced a tear. Horrified, he watched it trail
down her cheek. “Oh, hey, Sara, I didn’t
mean...”
She shook her head slightly, and closed her eyes, fingers tightening on
his and then gradually loosening as she slid under again.
He sat and watched the tear evaporate, taking her in. Her hair was
tangled and unwashed, her skin was so pale that her freckles looked
like spots of brown ink; her cheekbones were sharp and her lips were
chapped. Warrick could see, just below the loose neck of the hospital
gown, that her collarbones stood out far too starkly under her skin.
But she’s
alive. And she’s getting better.
He clung to the thought, refusing to wonder what was going to happen
next.
At least he still had his office.
An absurd thought. But there it was, he’d be grateful for
such small mercies. He was still, after all, supervisor of the night
shift, even if it was reduced.
At the moment,
it’s almost nonexistent.
He was still short both Greg and Sara, and out of pity he was keeping
Sofia in the lab for the most part; she wasn’t really healthy
enough to be at work, but he couldn’t afford to send her
home, even though working would slow her recovery even further. Three
dayshift CSIs were handling fieldwork for the moment, and while they
were nowhere near the caliber of his own people--
past or present --they were
competent. And right now, he just couldn’t bring himself to
care.
Grissom sighed, pulling off his glasses and dropping them on his desk.
He was two hours early for shift, hidden away in his office with the
door closed and the blinds shut, though he wasn’t getting
much done.
But then, where else
do I have to go?
He still couldn’t take it in, that Sara had forbidden his
visiting. But he kept remembering that one moment when she’d
pulled her hand from his, and his stomach kept twisting at the memory.
I thought we were still
friends, at least a little. Does she really hate me that much?
It wasn’t as though he didn’t deserve it. He
claimed to be her friend, but her words to Nick in the crushed SUV had
pointed out to him how little he’d done to deserve the title.
Though to be fair, she hadn’t exactly welcomed his more
recent efforts.
Maybe she
isn’t thinking clearly, like Lindsey said.
It was possible; she was heavily medicated, after all.
He’d thought he could manage as he had been, that working
with Sara would be enough. After all, he hadn’t been able to
make himself take her up on her offer, and then she’d moved
on. He thought.
He winced, remembering. The trooper had pushed her patrol car as fast
as was safe on the slick mountain roads, and Grissom had kept his
cellphone pressed tightly to his ear, struggling to make out the weak
voices over the roar of the engine and the hiss of a bad connection.
Desperate fear for his CSIs--Nick was still his, on some level--his
people, his friends. Agony that all his shouts into the receiver had
gone unheard. Burning urgency that they get there as soon as possible,
preferably with Rescue in tow.
His heart had broken at her dull recitation of the last four years. But
it had shattered as she cursed him.
When the doctor had emerged to tell them that she was stable, he
realized that his mind had changed without him noticing. She loved
him--she hadn’t moved on--he still had a chance. A small one,
but he wasn’t going to let it pass.
Except, now it looked as though he was out of chances.
Chapter 3
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