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"
*********
"Here, Linds, I'll give you a hand."
The tall woman smiled as she rose carefully from the table, and Lindsey
felt her rebellion ease a little as they both started clearing the
dinner dishes. It wasn't like it was a big deal to do it, but sometimes
she just felt so impatient--she had other stuff to do, like homework,
and surfing the 'Net.
But it was harder to argue with a guest in the house. Catherine had
asked if it would be okay if Sara came to stay for a couple of days, in
the tone of voice that meant that it would probably happen even if
Lindsey said no, but she really didn't mind. It was kind of interesting
having somebody around who'd just been in the hospital, and it also
meant that Mom wouldn't be so hyper about Lindsey being home alone,
because she wouldn't be.
The two adults had one of those complicated sets of glances, which
ended up with Catherine shrugging and leaving the kitchen, and for a
little while Lindsey and Sara moved dishes without speaking. Lindsey
took the task of loading the dishwasher; she'd seen Sara wince when she
bent over to do something before.
"So, looking forward to getting your bathroom back?" Sara asked
abruptly, her tone cheerful.
Lindsey shrugged, dumping a handful of silverware into the basket.
"Sure." Sara--who'd rolled her eyes when Catherine said to call her
"Ms. Sidle"--didn't take long in there, but that seemed to be the
response she expected. Lindsey pulled some hair out of her face and
looked up. "Are you going home?"
"If I can talk your mom into letting me out of the house, yeah,
tomorrow," Sara answered, looking a little impatient. "No offense, but
I kinda want my own bed."
"I know what you mean," Lindsey said. After her parents had split up,
she'd loved visiting her dad, but she had always had to sleep on the
couch because he didn't have a spare room. It had been a lumpy couch.
She took a long look at Sara as the grown-up wrapped up the casserole.
Sara still had big hollows under her eyes, and her wrists were really
bony. "Will you be okay there? You still look kind of sick."
Sara chuckled a little, bracing her ribs with one hand. "Thanks for the
honesty, kid. Yeah, I'll be okay. I'll probably do exactly what I do
here, which is sleep, mostly."
Mom had been really pleased about that. But Catherine hadn't been home
when Sara kept coming out of her room with a white face, and then
wandering around drinking tea for a couple of hours like she didn't
want to go back to bed. Once Lindsey thought she had heard Sara scream,
but she'd had her earbuds in and her music on, and when she pulled them
out and went to check, Sara was already in the bathroom with the door
closed.
Lindsey raised her eyebrows the way she'd seen Uncle Gil do. "Well,
okay."
Sara grinned again, and Lindsey wondered a little why she hadn't had
braces when she was a kid. "You sound just like your mom."
Well, eww. Lindsey huffed. "Oh, great."
She expected Sara to lecture on why she should be grateful for a mom
who worked hard to take care of her--that was what Grandma did every
time she complained about anything. But Sara looked at her hard for a
minute instead.
"Your mom's a tough lady," she said at last. "I admire a lot of things
about her. But I wouldn't want to be like her."
Lindsey blinked, a little taken aback. Everyone kept going on about how
Catherine had achieved so much with her life, about how she hadn't let
anything stop her. Nobody had ever said that.
"So, wash or dry?" Sara asked briskly, bracing one hand on the sink.
Lindsey shook herself and regarded the grown-up critically.
"You're not well enough to scrub," she said, and handed Sara the
dishtowel. And grinned as Sara laughed.
Sara walked into the locker room, slightly stunned. It was one thing to
get cards and flowers in the hospital from the people she worked with;
it was quite another to get wide smiles and careful hugs on her first
shift back, ranging from the receptionist’s shrill surprise
to Warrick’s kiss on the forehead as he passed her on his way
out. Even the imperturbable Ronnie had given her a careful pat on the
shoulder and a “Good to have you back.”
Next thing you know
they’ll be throwing me a welcome-back party. Geez, I hope not.
Sara dropped her bag on the bench and opened her locker to restock it
with fresh clothes, then shrugged and just hung the bag on the hook.
She wasn’t late, but she was only a little early, and she had
no intention of being late for assignments.
Of course,
Grissom’ll probably make me stay in the lab. She
ignored the common-sense voice that told her it might be a good idea if
she did. She could take a deep breath now, and the cuts on her arm and
abdomen no longer pulled, but her ribs were not completely knitted and
she had to be careful how she bent over. And her energy levels
weren’t entirely up to par.
Not for lack of trying
on some people’s parts.
Sara pulled on her vest and made sure her badge was facing out
properly. If it hadn’t been Nick with spaghetti, it had been
Catherine with an invitation to dinner, or Warrick with stir-fry, or
Greg showing up with a pizza and a grin. Their caring had touched her
deeply, and she suspected that between the food and her curtailed
exercise, she was close to the weight she’d been before her
accident.
Slamming the locker door shut, she rose and made her way to the
breakroom. Sofia was already there; the other woman looked up as Sara
entered, and gave her a small but genuine smile. “Hey, Sara.
Glad you’re back.”
Sara nodded politely. “Thanks for the card.” The
cascade of cards had included an impersonal one from Sofia, and Sara
had been a little surprised; they barely knew each other.
Sofia folded her arms on the table. “The boys have been
moping around without you. It’ll be nice to be up to full
strength again.”
Sara bristled silently. It was one thing to refer to Greg as a boy, but
it didn’t apply at all to Grissom and seemed disrespectful to
boot. But before she could think of a suitable reply, both Grissom and
Greg came in.
The younger man gave her a wink as he slid into a chair; he’d
been over at her place just that morning. Grissom, on the other hand,
was as impassive as any other day, merely standing at the head of the
table and looking them over. If his gaze lingered a little longer on
Sara, she refused to notice.
“Good evening, people. Sofia, you have a shooting at a
Henderson restaurant. Make sure the police escort stays with you,
please, the suspect hasn’t been apprehended. Greg, Sara, a
double homicide behind the Lucky Stars Casino. The same goes for you
two.” He shuffled the slips in his hand.
“I’ll be working a mysterious death at a post
office on Fern Street if you need me.”
He looked up and around, gaze cool and detached. “Greg,
remember what we discussed earlier. Sara--“ He waited until
she looked at him. “Please, take whatever breaks you need. We
need you healthy.”
Sara bit back both her surprise at an active assignment, and a retort.
She didn’t want to talk to Grissom, period, let alone get
into an argument with him. Apparently taking her silence as consent,
Grissom nodded, and without another word turned and left.
Glancing at the other two, Sofia rose and went out as well. Greg hissed
under his breath, but Sara shook her head. “Leave
it,” she told him softly. “It’s just
Grissom.”
“But--“
”Leave
it.”
Greg subsided, still looking rebellious. Sara smiled at him.
“I have to grab a few things for my kit. Meet you
outside?”
“You mean I can drive?” he asked, eyes suddenly
gleaming, and she had to laugh.
“Sure. You’re a big boy now.”
His mock-angry glare only made her laugh again, and he bounced to his
feet and went out. Sara followed more slowly, the memory of pain making
her cautious.
She found the supplies she needed in the storage
closet--phenolphthalein, gloves, duct tape--and headed for the front
lot, knowing that Greg would pull the SUV around to the door for her.
She raised her chin as she passed Grissom’s office,
determined to ignore both him and his territory, but he startled her by
leaning out of the doorway just as she passed. “Hey,
Sara...”
Reluctant, she turned. His expression hinted at warmth, but his eyes
were wistful. “I missed you.”
They stared at each other for a beat, and then--before she could think
of a reply--he vanished back into his office.
Sara considered, briefly, marching in there and demanding that he
explain that comment, and then decided against it.
No. He’s only playing around again. All he’d say is
that he missed having a full team. And I’ll look like an
idiot again.
Turning on her heel, she headed for the front door, all the pleasure of
her return gone.
It didn’t
work. That was the refrain in
Grissom’s head five nights later as he let himself into his
townhouse. It didn’t
work.
He’d tried. All week, he’d tried. He’d
been friendly, he’d been considerate, he’d done his
best to look after Sara without making her feel like an invalid. The
first night, he’d sent her home two-thirds of the way through
her shift, after Greg’s clandestine report that she was worn
out; even if he hadn’t instructed the younger man to keep an
eye on Sara, one glimpse of her white, strained face would have told
him plenty.
She hadn’t argued. She’d given him a cool look, and
said “Okay, boss,” and gone. And it left his
stomach knotted. The Sara he knew would have protested, would have
argued.
The Sara you knew was
your friend, at least in some way. She felt free to argue with you.
She was treating him like her supervisor, nothing more. Nothing at all.
Nothing he said sparked a personal response from her; nothing he did
earned him even a polite smile.
It hurt like fury.
Grissom dropped his keys on his counter and sighed, feeling miserable.
It wasn’t working, none of it was, and his team--such as it
was--was feeling the strain. Greg alternated between trying to look
after Sara--not that she let him much--and giving Grissom apologetic
looks; Sofia, who no doubt had been long since filled in on gossip by
someone, seemed to be watching with a mixture of amusement and
puzzlement.
They weren’t pulling together. They could work well in pairs,
but not in any other combination besides solo, and Grissom knew it
would soon affect their efficiency. He had to have a team that could
work in any permutation, that could set aside differences to gather
evidence.
Of course, he was no better himself. The truth was, working with Sara
had become painful. He kept hoping she’d relent and allow at
least an approximation of their old working relationship, but nothing
was changing.
And there are few
things more stubborn than Sara when she’s made up her mind.
She might still love him, it was a possibility. But it seemed that the
gods were up to their old trick of giving with one hand and taking away
with the other. Because even love has its limits.
Grissom sat slowly down on his couch, working off his shoes and feeling
old. It’s time. Time
to look at alternatives. The
choices he didn’t want to offer. The deliberate opening of
doors he wanted to lock and plaster over.
It’s time to
admit defeat.
Oh, he hurt.
It was fascinating, really, how he scarcely had to leave the morgue,
and yet data and rumor flowed to him. Most of it came through David, of
course, who was a fount of gossip despite--or perhaps because of--his
shy demeanor; conversations with the dayshift coroner and the dieners
supplemented David’s quiet reports.
The only thing that redeemed his own self, Robbins thought dryly, was
that he didn’t pass most of it on.
He sat in front of his computer, working on yet another report. Grissom
liked to complain about his paperwork, and to be sure he had plenty of
it, but Robbins suspected that the CSI had no real grasp of just how
much bureaucracy attended the handling and disposal of human remains.
Robbins didn’t like doing paperwork any more than anyone
else, and David, bless him, did a decent share of it, but some things
simply required the M.E.’s attention.
Rumor was rampant these days. The accident six weeks ago had upset the
lab deeply; both the wounded CSIs were liked and respected, and the
early uncertainty about Sara’s survival had been an added
stress on a lab already unsettled by personnel changes.
Robbins’ mouth turned down in a frown of distaste. He was
very grateful that he himself reported only to the Sheriff, and then
only in a limited fashion; Ecklie was a smarmy, vindictive bastard and
Robbins was well glad to be clear of him. Yet
another reason to work the night shift.
Rumor, these days, spoke of Catherine’s struggle to settle
into her supervisor’s post, and the crush on Mia that Hodges
thought he was keeping a secret, and tension between Sara and Grissom.
Nothing new, really. And yet--
Robbins was a doctor, a man of science. But he was also someone who had
spent decades observing the human condition, often in the vulnerable
and unmasked moments of illness and grief. He understood the value of
instinct.
And instinct was telling him that something deeper was going on.
Sara wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as he’d like.
And Grissom didn’t look much better now than he had when both
she and Nick had still been in the hospital--he still had a faintly
haunted look at the back of his eyes. Robbins didn’t like it.
But then, he never had, and had long resisted the temptation to shove
both Grissom and Sara into a closet and lock it, or better yet one of
his larger body drawers. It might be amusing, at least to observers,
but it wouldn’t really solve anything.
Not to mention what
they’d do to me when they got out. Never antagonize a man who
keeps a venomous spider as a pet.
Robbins snorted and set the idea aside for the thousandth time. Just as
he signed the last form with a flourish, the morgue doors swung open
and Grissom himself walked in, pulling on a lab coat.
“Be right with you, Gil,” Robbins called, carefully
stapling forms together. “I’m thinking about
getting a new coffeemaker for in here; any suggestions?”
“No, sorry,” Grissom replied, staring absently at
the morgue’s current coffeemaker, which was idle at the
moment. Robbins indulged himself regularly with better coffee than even
Greg made, but--he smirked to himself--he didn’t have to
worry about anyone stealing it, either. Most people didn’t
want anything to do with a beverage made in a morgue.
Grissom was one of the few exceptions, but it didn’t look to
Robbins like he was seeking a caffeine infusion at the moment. Robbins
slipped his crutch cuff onto his arm and pushed himself to his feet.
“Your DB is, I’m afraid, a simple case of
myocardial infarction,” he said, limping over to the relevant
drawer and pulling it open.
“Really?” Grissom bent over the middle-aged
man’s corpse, scientific interest dispelling his abstraction.
“The guy who hit him was convinced he’d killed him
with one punch.”
“I’m afraid not.” Actually looking at the
body was at this point unnecessary, given that the report had been made
and the Y-incision closed, but Grissom always seemed to want to see
things with his own eyes. “Was he pleased or
dismayed?”
“Both.” Grissom’s lips quirked, but then
his momentary humor dissolved into the same faint, lost air
he’d been wearing for too long.
Robbins pushed the drawer shut. “Gil, something’s
bothering you.”
Grissom frowned, and Robbins braced himself for an angry retort. But
the CSI only raised a brow. “This surprises you?”
Robbins shrugged, hoping to spur Grissom to talk a little, and was
rewarded with a dry look. “You missed your calling, Al. You
should have been a psychologist.”
“Not enough blood and guts,” Robbins replied.
“What’s up?”
Grissom shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting to the tidy
label on the drawer. “I’m just thinking about
making some changes in my life, that’s all.”
Robbins opened his mouth to praise the idea, but Grissom spoke again.
“Do you ever wonder if you’ve outlived your
usefulness?”
His voice was soft, and for a moment Robbins wasn’t sure that
he’d been meant to hear the question. But he answered anyway.
“Not yet. My wife has a way of talking me out of
self-pity.”
“Ah.” Grissom tilted his head and looked directly
at Robbins. “Thanks, Doc.”
He turned and strode out, leaving Robbins staring after him with
mingled exasperation and doubt.
She’d forgotten how pleasant swimming could be.
Sara brushed her fingers against the cool concrete of the pool side,
and without pausing, somersaulted and twisted so that she was facing
back the way she’d come. It was a smooth move, long
practiced, and she was on her way back down the length of the pool
without missing a beat.
Of course, her pace was slower than it had been. Her ribs still ached,
and she couldn’t breathe as deeply or as fast as
she’d like; her right arm still hurt a little on the overarm
strokes. But this was less jarring than running, and she was getting
exercise.
And it was good for thinking. Sara swept slowly down the lane and back
again, not having to watch for stray dogs or other pedestrians as she
might while jogging. There wasn’t even anyone else in her
lane. Her movements were automatic, almost unconscious, and her body
arrowed through the water while her mind turned over ideas, options,
facts like prickly blossoms or smooth stones.
One of the facts was that she wasn’t comfortable any more at
work. Another was that between she and Grissom, no one else was either.
She hated to see Greg so torn, between the mentor he was a little in
awe of and his teacher. Sofia she didn’t like, but the woman
really hadn’t done anything wrong. She had as much right to a
decent working environment as anyone else.
And Grissom clearly wasn’t happy with Sara around.
He’d stopped trying to be protective, for which Sara was
grateful, and had retreated into being distant again, which was
something of a relief even as it made her ache.
It’s a good
thing, she reminded herself as
she made yet another turn, trying to ignore the persistent small
wondering if his showing up at the hospital meant he did care. This
is the way it should have been from the beginning.
All his friendship had ever brought her was pain in the end, anyway.
Sure, it had got her a teacher, and a job, but she could have achieved
just as much if she’d stayed in San Francisco, and without
the heartache.
Maybe I
wouldn’t have learned quite so much. And yeah, I’d
have missed out on some good friends.
Nick’s image, Greg’s, Warrick’s, rose
before her mind’s eye, along with other faces from the crime
lab and the police department. But
it’s not like I didn’t have friends at home.
Maybe it’s time to go home.
What was she going to do here, anyway? Do her best to avoid her boss?
Watch him flirt with another woman? Depend on Conrad Ecklie for a
promotion that might never be offered in the first place?
Watch the nascent night shift team fall apart because two of its
members could barely speak to each other?
I’m the one
who screwed this up. Sara
slowed to a stop at the shallow end, letting her feet drift down to the
bottom and standing upright to pant. She pushed the wet hair out of her
eyes. Okay, he flirted with
me, but I’m the one who took it beyond that. I asked him out.
They’d both ruined their friendship. And Grissom
hadn’t been exactly stellar throughout. But
maybe I expected too much.
His words drifted through her memory. “Someone
young and beautiful comes along, someone we could really care
about...”
Could. Nothing definite. Too much of a risk, probably.
Sara sighed, and headed for the ladder.
In the locker room, as she pulled off her swimsuit, she stared at
herself in the mirror. She’d always been thin, but she had to
admit that she was a little on the low side since the accident. The
bruising at her ribcage was gone, but there were fading red lines at
her side and on the skin near her ear. She turned to see the scar on
the back of her arm. If this
isn’t a wake-up call, I don’t know what is.
“So, what’s on your mind?” Greg asked
casually, keeping his eyes on the road. Their crime scene was a good
ways out of town, and he had absolutely no desire to get in trouble for
so much as scratching the paint job on the SUV.
For a long while, Sara didn’t answer, and Greg
didn’t push. He’d learned a lot, recently, and not
just forensics. Sofia was cool to work with--she was a little too
superior sometimes, but she didn’t laugh at him for asking
stupid questions, and she was always willing to answer them. And she
had a sense of humor, though it was probably a full one-eighty from
that of most of the folks on the night and swing shifts. If you could
get used to her habit of talking to herself out loud, it was all good.
Besides, she too had an ass worth admiring.
But he’d still rather work with Sara. She was his official
mentor, but it was more than that--she loved to teach, and she seemed
to know when he was stuck and when he was just thinking, and they had
all kinds of little jokes going.
“I’m trying to make a decision,” she said
finally, and she sounded...sad.
He let half a mile roll past them. “You’re thinking
of leaving.”
She didn’t look surprised, and he took it as a compliment.
“Yeah.”
“You should.”
That did generate a glance, but he didn’t turn to look at
her. “You’re not happy anymore, Sara. I mean,
sorry, but it’s obvious.” He shrugged.
“Why should you hang around if you’re not
happy?”
It hurt to say it. Sara was his friend, and he didn’t want
her to go. But hey, e-mail
exists for a reason.
She snorted softly, a faintly amused sound. “Good
question.”
Another half-mile of highway and darkness and the stationary stars of
floodlights. “You’re not trying to talk me out of
it,” she noted.
He shrugged, signaling to go around a slower car. “You have
to do what’s best for you.” Finally, he looked
over, seeing her unmistakable profile accented by sliding shadows.
“I’ll miss you, though. Like crazy.”
Her mouth quirked. “I’ll miss you too.”
Her hands linked in her lap before he looked away. “A lot of
it was good,” she added softly.
Greg nodded, and kept driving.
“Could I talk to you a minute?”
Sara looked up from the jacket she was examining. Grissom was leaning
in through the doorway of the layout room, looking inquiring. She
nodded, apprehensive and hoping that whatever he wanted to say was
work-related.
Grissom stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. When he
didn’t say anything, Sara put down the jacket.
“What is it?”
He grimaced. “Do you want to move to another
shift?” he asked bluntly.
Sara felt her anger stirring again. “You don’t want
me on your team any more.”
“That’s not what I said,” Grissom replied
sharply. “I know you’re...not exactly comfortable
any more. If you want to move to another shift, I’ll make it
happen.”
Not exactly
comfortable. Yeah, like that even begins to cover it.
Sara regarded him for a moment, simmering, and yet bitterly aware that
a large part of her was very sorry that he was offering.
“No,” she said at last. “I
don’t want to move.” Which was true on a whole
bunch of levels. There was no way she was going to move to days and be
around Ecklie on a daily basis; and she couldn’t quite see
herself working as Catherine’s subordinate, though they could
probably work out a compromise if they had to.
Besides, discomfort wasn’t going to be a problem for very
much longer.
Grissom’s head dipped, and she couldn’t make out
whether it was relief or disappointment, or merely acknowledgment.
“Okay,” he said. “Sara...things will get
better.”
Her gaze chilled. “Oh. Right.”
“They will,” he insisted simply, and turned to go.
Sara picked up the jacket again, only to be startled by his voice.
“You’re a great CSI, Sara,” he said
quietly from the doorway. “You’d be an asset on
anyone’s team.”
Then he was gone, leaving her staring after him. Since
when has he started handing out random compliments? Is that his way of
telling me he wants me to switch, or is he trying to tell me he wants
me to stay? Or leave?
Well, it doesn’t matter, Grissom. You won’t have to
work around me for long.
Chapter 6
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