(Author's note--this is the bookend to the
earlier story Seeing Red, and all descriptions within are thanks to my
patient and unintimidated husband. Thanks go to VR too, for the
right words at the right time.)
It was a mistake, he
realized. As with so many of the wrong
decisions in his life, Grissom came to this conclusion too late to
avoid the
consequences. Some of these misgivings came slowly, days or months
after the
mistake, like that long-held regret of NOT accepting that full
scholarship to
Purdue, with their fabulous Department of Entomology. There were times
he was
seriously remorseful about not taking their offer.
There were other missteps
in his life too, some financial, a
few in the romance department, but those were all things he’d
shouldered and
accepted, moving forward with only the occasional brooding memory to
rise up in
his mind once in a while. THOSE mistakes he accepted as part of the
human
condition. Unavoidable and necessary, the legacy of free will and the
learning
experience.
But this misstep was
going to cost him dearly, he knew.
Let the suffering begin.
It had started
innocently, with a crime scene late at the
end of the shift, a suicide in suspicious circumstances. The case was
pretty
much open and shut, but given the familial connections of the victim, a
thorough investigation was deemed wise, so Grissom and Sara took it,
driving an
hour out to the edge of the suburbs to a boarded-up amusement park that
had
been taken over by a few homeless and a lot of rats and coyotes. Fun
Land was
no longer fun; just sad and depressing, the billboards peeling, the
buildings
decrepit and falling down. Everywhere, the sidewalks were cracked, the
handrails rusting in the exposed air of the desert.
The victim had shot
himself right in the middle of the
Tilt-a-whirl, which now tilted in ways not intended by the designers.
It sat
near the entrance of the amusement park, surrounded by rails and decay,
the odd
tumbleweed caught here and there in the handlebars of the cars. Sara
had helped
David lift the gurney over the barriers so the body was gone now,
leaving a
gory spatter across the backs and fronts of three of the cars. Grissom
watched
her processing muddy prints that would most likely match the sneakers
the
victim had been wearing. He noticed her hands, long and slender, moving
quickly
and efficiently in their work. He’d often fantasized about them
in other
contexts, daydreams that had them out of the latex gloves, but just as
graceful.
Sara looked over at him,
her brows drawing into a small
frown.
“Grissom? Why
here?” She gestured around the park with one
arm. He glanced at the boarded up hot dog stands, the graffiti-covered
buildings. The sun was coming up, casting long shadows everywhere.
“Maybe it was the
last place he felt happy. Some suicides
kill themselves in places that are part of their pasts.”
Sara glanced around
dubiously. Grissom waited for her to
make a comment, but she didn’t. He wasn’t sure if that was
good or bad. Around
Sara these days he wasn’t sure of anything anymore, except she
still got under
his skin and into his private thoughts as much as ever. Clearing his
throat, he
turned his glance to her kit, checking to see what she’d already
processed, and
impressed as usual with her efficiency and speed.
Brass materialized at his
shoulder, sighing softly.
“This looks pretty
cut and dried, frankly, and we just got a
call on a major bust happening on a meth lab out by the lake. How much
longer
will this one take?”
“We can wrap it in
twenty. If the site’s been secured, you
can take off, Jim—“ Grissom offered lightly. Brass
hesitated for a moment, and
the wispy memory of Holly flickered in his eyes. Grissom sighed.
“It’s pretty
conclusively a suicide, and I don’t think
anyone’s going to be returning to the scene,” he told Brass
gently. The other
man nodded, grateful for the comment, and scanned the park before
speaking up
again.
“Okay, but make it
quick, and check in if you see the
slightest bit of trouble.”
Grissom nodded, and
turned to Sara, who was so engrossed in
processing that she hadn’t even noticed Brass take off. He moved
to check each
tilt-a-whirl car carefully, and twenty minutes later when he’d
finished that, Sara
was packing up her kit. She flashed him a brief smile, tossing her hair
back.
“Pretty much done
here.” She told him. Grissom nodded. He
watched her duck under the metal handrail, absently admiring her
agility. He
doubted he could bend that easily or that low anymore, and anything
that
required it would have to be worth the effort. Something like—
Giving himself a mental
shake to dislodge the lascivious
thought, He picked up his case and the bags of evidence. Carefully
shifting the
material, he lifted his kit in his right hand and the three evidence
bags in
his left and walked over to where Sara stood waiting. Underfoot the
loose
boards of the Tilt-a-whirl creaked.
“How long do you
think it’s been since this place was
condemned?” Sara asked, glancing around once more. Grissom began
to straddle
the rail, composing a reply to her question when
it--
--happened.
Just as his foot came
down on the other side of the railing,
the wood underneath him snapped, breaking with a dry, loud crack, and
Grissom
dropped hard onto the rusted metal railing, which slammed between his
legs as
his full body weight swiftly fell the six inches onto it.
For a brief, unreal
nanosecond, Grissom gawped, fingers
tightening around the handle of his kit, clenching on the evidence bags
in a
death grip. His torso folded forward swiftly, protectively but it was
too late,
and as he felt the veins in his nostrils flare, KNEW in that sickening
instant
that the pain was about to rise, immediate and terrible even as his
arms flew
to his groin and he swayed, all the breath forced out of his lungs in
one hard,
low wheeze.
The kit dropped, the
evidence dropped. Sara lurched forward,
her eyes wide as she reached for him, but Grissom already saw the edges
of his
perception softly grey out, felt the bright remorseless thrum of agony
sear
through his testicles as he slumped forward and tried to grip the rail.
Nerveless fingers grabbed, missed the rail and he tumbled forward,
sliding away
from the metal barrier and falling onto the splintered wood of the
decking.
He
had no air left to
gasp as he fell; Grissom dimly felt his shoulder hit the corner of the
evidence
kit, and the rail batter his inner right thigh, smacking the side of
his
kneecap in his graceless collapse. It didn’t matter, not when the
hard lurch of
nausea rose up, boiling bile surging through his throat in a flood of
primitive
panic. He turned his cheek, felt the rush of coffee-tinged acid gush
out to
spill from his helpless grimace. More followed, another steaming surge
splashing down his cheek and wetting his chin, glopping onto the boards
under
his face.
Sara flinched, moving
quickly, fear pounding through her
thin frame as she darted over to him. The puke momentarily stunned her,
but the
ashy pallor on Grissom’s anguished face was enough to make her
grab his
shoulder and try to roll him to his side. It was hard to do; Grissom
was heavy.
Sara pushed and he slowly turned from her as her adrenaline kicked in,
giving
her extra strength.
“Grissom!”
she blurted, horrified at the surge of out of
place giggles that threatened to bubble out of her constricting throat.
The
unreality of the situation hit her just as the stench of his vomit did,
and
Sara fought to keep her own stomach down as she leaned over him.
Grissom was
curled in a fetal position, hands cupping his crotch, moaning in a low
ongoing
rumble that made her ache herself. Somewhere within herself she fought
hard
against the instinct to laugh; that unkind all too human response to
this
awkward scenario. She crouched down, resting a hand on his shoulder,
the
muscles rock hard with tension under her palm. “Breathe! Do it
slow, breathe—“
she urged him.
He tried. Sara’s
voice was echoing in his ear, audible
between throbs of acid racing through his head, eating the nerves raw
from his
groin upward. Nothing mattered but the pain, thick and relentless.
Grissom felt
as if it would go on forever, this tense cocoon of perception. His jaw
ached;
the tendons in his neck standing out as sweat bubbled up to roll down
his face
and drip into the vomit.
Forever.
The grey moved in on his
vision, closing like an iris lens,
and Grissom faded into it.
She felt him slacken in
unconsciousness, and was grateful.
At least it meant some respite from the pain, Sara hoped, but now that
Grissom
was out, she hesitated. Quickly she fumbled at her waist for her cell
phone,
trying to flip it open while still keeping one hand on Grissom’s
shoulder, then
jabbed the buttons with her thumb. Hearing nothing, she looked down at
the
blank screen and realized the thing had died. With a sharp oath, Sara
snapped
it shut again and shoved it in her pocket, then shifted her glance to
the
unconscious man next to her.
Crap. What to do?
Grissom was sure to have
a cell phone—but considering where
it probably was, Sara didn’t think she’d be able to reach
it; not with his
hands clamped tightly between his legs. Feeling frustrated, she reached
for the
nearest evidence kit (his) and pulled out some wipes. Carefully she
mopped the
vomit from his face, trying not to let the fearful hilarity well up in
her own
throat.
God, he’d racked
himself, and damn hard, if Sara understood
it. She’d heard her brother talk about it; had various male
friends and lovers
share their own experiences, and to a man they’d all indicated it
was THE most
profoundly horrible thing that could happen to a guy.
“Ya wanna
die—it’s the kinda pain that paints your whole
fuckin’ world black, Sare. You hang on to your nuts because you
know if you let
go, the hurt’s gonna triple on ya. Ya get a migraine from your
nose to the top
of your skull, and moving ain’t an option for a long, LONG
time.” Came her
brother’s low cynical ones in the voice of memory.
Great. She didn’t
know if she could play the waiting game,
especially if Grissom was more seriously hurt than she thought.
Carefully she
leaned over him again and bent down, shaking his shoulder.
“Grissom? Wake up.
I need you to wake up!”
“Don’ttouchme!”
came the moaned gasp, low and urgent.
Startled, Sara leaned back as his eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and
unfocused.
His shoulders hunched a bit more, but he was aware now. Sara felt
relief and
frustration again.
“I’m going to
clean your face a little bit more. You can lie
there as long as you need, but I’m NOT going to watch you roll in
vomit.” She
tried to sound matter of fact, but her voice quavered, and once again
the
giggles pushed in her throat. Carefully she gripped his shoulders and
pulled,
angling his upper torso away from his recycled coffee. It was tough; he
was
dead weight but she managed, and then fished in his kit for more wipes.
Coming around again, she
mopped up his face, working as
gently as she could. Grissom flinched at every stroke of contact, and
Sara
found her throat aching as she watched him struggle against the pain.
He looked
vaguely better after the cleaning, and she sealed the wipes up in a
spare
baggie.
“Should I call
someone?”
“Nnno.
Justgivemmesometime.” He gritted out in a hoarse
tone, not looking at her. Sara nodded, moving around again so that she
was
kneeling behind his back, instinctively giving him some privacy. She
longed to
rest a hand on his ribs, just for the contact, but sensed even that
would hurt
him.
Grissom tried to think
between the throbs, which was neither
easy nor effective. The nausea bubbled through his stomach again, but
he fought
it, his grip around his groin tightening.
This had to be THE worst.
Scenario. Ever. Lying here on
battered boards, clutching himself with no chance of regaining his
dignity or
respect. Why Sara? Grissom moaned inwardly, blinking hard. Out of all
the
people on the planet for this to happen in front of, why HER? Warrick,
Nick,
Brass would understand and let him get through his suffering with a
soft
commiserating comment. Even Catherine through her choked snickering
would have
a modicum of sympathetic support and give him time.
But Sara. The one woman
he strived so hard to impress. The
one woman he was never sure he consistently succeeded in impressing.
And now,
this. Brought low by stupid, avoidable accident. He gritted his teeth
more
tightly, feeling a hot trickle in his nose. Blood, probably.
Nothing to do but wait.
Ride it out and let the agonizing
minutes crawl by, each one an eon of embarrassment, eroding poise. He
squeezed
his eyes shut and listened to his own labored breathing. God it was
bad. It
hadn’t been this bad since he’d taken an elbow in the
jewels during baseball
practice senior year in high school. Miguel Avila had collided with him
at
second base, and while he’d been called safe, Grissom remembered
dropping into
the grass, barfing noisily. The game had been called and he’d
been carried out
amid a few sympathetic moans from both teams. Miguel had apologized
later,
Grissom recalled, bringing homemade tamales from his grandmother.
“I’m serious.
Should I call somebody?” Sara’s husky voice
broke into his dazed reverie; Grissom sucked a breath in between his
teeth.
“No.” he
repeated, a little more strongly this time.
“I’lllive.”
“Not by the sound
of it,” he caught her unconvinced mutter,
and a flicker of amusement swirled through his aching brain. Good. She
wasn’t
going hysterical. He wished she’d laugh and get THAT over with.
Everyone did;
fact of life. Guys winced then laughed; women laughed; older people and
younger
people did too. Whenever a male took a hit to the testicles anyone
witnessing
it laughed.
Not Sara, apparently.
He wondered about that a
little, then shifted. The agony was
dulling a bit, but still pulsing through his crotch in time with his
heartbeat,
leaving the deep muscles aching each time. Grissom gingerly started to
let go,
steeling himself for the throbs to deepen.
Sara waited. She hated
waiting for anything but in this case
it really seemed the only thing to do. Grissom wasn’t in any
condition to walk,
and she sure as hell wasn’t strong enough to carry him. Even if
she could roll
him onto a tarp, dragging him would be one hell of a daunting task too,
not to
mention painful given the terrain of the amusement park. Then she
thought of
something.
“Grissom. I’m
going to move the car closer. I know you’re
not getting up anytime soon, but I can make the walk a lot shorter when
you’re
ready, okay?”
“’Kay.”
No argument from him in that strangled little gasp.
She reached into his evidence box, for the little tray where he kept
the spare
keys for whichever vehicle he was using, and scooped them up. Gently
she patted
his hip, then strode off. Grissom listened to her go, and for a brief
moment
felt a flare of panic at being abandoned. The logical part of his brain
fought
it, and when he heard the comforting rumble of the engine coming closer
he
unclenched a tiny bit more.
***
*** ***
Grissom didn’t give
a damn about dignity anymore. He shifted
in the seat, squeezing his already tired thighs together and kept his
eyes
closed as Sara drove. It was a bright morning now, and traffic was
relatively
light, but it wasn’t the speed that he was focusing on; rather it
was the road.
Potholes and speed bumps
were going to kill him.
“I have to go slow,
Grissom. You’re not wearing a belt, and
if we get pulled over—“ Sara reminded him. He nodded,
feeling cold sick sweat along
his hairline. He was still
trying to recover from the agony of just getting into the
They reached the
townhouse, and Sara parked as close as she
could. Carefully she opened the door and helped him out, slipping her
arm under
his shoulder and supporting Grissom as he painfully clambered out. His
skin was
still ashy pale, and she watched him swallow hard before blinking.
“Keys?” she
asked gently, fighting a wave of interest
flooding through her own body in response to the proximity of his.
She’d never
been this close to him, hugged him this way before, and it was
pretty—intense.
Apparently under his jackets and shirts he had a pretty solid chest,
and even
through the fear sweat, the rest of him smelled nice. She hoped he
didn’t
notice her nipples were hard. She steered him towards his front door
after he
handed her a heavy ring from his pocket.
Slowly, carefully she got
him into his house and to his
bedroom, which she studied surreptitiously as she took off his boots.
Queen-sized bed, stacks of books on the nightstand and dresser, several
overstuffed bookcases all around the room, and an interesting seascape
on the
wall. She set the boots down at the foot of the bed.
“Okay, need ice,
Sara, please. Wrap it in one of the kitchen
towels hanging off the oven handle. After that you’ll probably
have to take the
evidence in to keep the chain intact,” Grissom rasped. Sara
nodded.
“Sure.”
She went out to the
kitchen, marveling at the tidiness, and
remembering this was Grissom, so of course it would be this way. One
rooster
towel loaded with ice—she liked the little moon-shaped pieces his
icemaker
created—and she returned to his bedside, shifting the makeshift
pack from one
hand to the other, blushing as she hesitated. Put it on him herself or
not?
“Um—“
“Thanks,” he
snapped, reaching up for it, his eyes strained.
Sara looked down at him, feeling a twisted surge of frustration and
tenderness.
Grissom lay there on his own bed, an image straight out of her
fantasies, and
despite his pain was still looked so sweetly handsome that she wanted
to bend down
and kiss him.
Instead, she turned on
her heel and headed out, but he
called, “Sara—“ She stopped but didn’t face
him. “I’m sorry--thank you.”
She managed a smile.
The phone call was brief
and to the point; Sara felt glad
she’d done it when the calming voice on the other end responded
to her
questions. She hung up, then feeling a little restless, she wandered
back to
Grissom’s bedroom, poking her head in and gasping a little as she
realized he’d
failed in his efforts to get his jeans off. They were around his knees
now,
which she couldn’t help noticing where somewhat cute in all their
muscular
bow-leggedness. His boxers--what she could see of them under the towel
wrapped
ice pack--were pinstriped blue and red.
“Sara—!“
Grissom looked mortified and accusing. Sara
pretended to cough to cover her laugh.
“Sorry, just wanted
to make sure you were okay. Let me help
you get those off and get you a blanket, all right?”
Resigned, Grissom gave a
tiny nod, and at that, Sara
squatted at the end of the bed, gripping one leg cuff in each hand. She
tugged,
sliding the jeans off him in one smooth gesture. His socks were white,
she
noted, with blue and red bands around the tops at mid-calf. Carefully
Sara
folded the jeans and set them on the trunk at the foot of the bed, on
the quilt
there. She tried not to stare at Grissom, poor wounded, Grissom, but
her mouth
hurt from tightening her lips for so long.
“Laugh. Please.
Just—get it out of your system. I won’t take
it personally, Sara,” Grissom muttered, his eyes closed, his face
red. Sara
half-turned to face him, and he opened his eyes, caught her gaze,
sharing a
moment of connection so tangible Sara felt it like a squeeze to her
shoulder.
And then very
deliberately, he crossed his eyes in dramatic
comic relief.
That did it; the peals
erupted out of her in a rush of
hilarity. Sara bent forward, laughing in husky giggles that echoed in
the
bedroom, staggering a bit as she did so. Grissom grinned a little
himself,
pleased to have tapped into her repression, and relieved to finally
hear the
sound of her response. If she could let go enough to laugh, then there
WAS a
chance to regain some dignity. Maybe.
“S-s—sorryGrissom,
but
. . . honesttoGOD you looked just LIKE that when . . . when . . . “ Sara wheezed, her eyes watering,
her
nose red. Grissom gave a tight nod.
“When I racked
myself? Took one to the nuts? Cracked my
eggs?” he rattled off, each remark making Sara choke harder and
clutch her
stomach. It was perversely satisfying to send her into further
paroxysms, and
he waited until she gripped the headboard to support herself before
adding,
“Severely Tilt-a-Whirled my testes?”
“Gr-Gr-Gri—“
she choked, bright red, tears running down her
face. And just like that, the tears become real ones; Sara’s face
twisted with
pain of her own as she began to sob. Alarmed, Grissom tried to sit up,
but she
swayed a little and her legs gave out letting her slowly drop down to
the side
of his bed. He hooked an arm around her shoulders, feeling the wet heat
of her
tears on his neck, startled at how hot they were. Scalding.
“Sara
honey—“ he began gruffly, and stopped, utterly at a
loss as to what to say next. The sweet warm scent of her hair, so
familiarly
intoxicating washed over him as she pressed her nose harder into his
shoulder.
She cried silently, choking off the sounds she couldn’t avoid.
Grissom ached in
a new way. It hit him like an arrow of painful insight that Sara had
probably
taught herself not to grieve loudly for anything in her life.
Somehow that hurt worse
than his body did.
He tightened the arm
around her slender back, worrying about
how bony it was, how thin, and took his other hand off the icepack to
grip her
farther shoulder.
“Sara . . . “
“Sorry,
sorry—“ came her muffled voice, already regaining a
forced steadiness, “I know you’re going to be okay, for a
while there . . . “
“Nobody ever died
of a kick in the balls,” Grissom assured
her gravely. “That I know of, anyway.”
“It wasn’t
the cause,” Sara snuffled a little, raising her
head and running the back of her hand over her eyes. “It was the
effect,
Grissom, the end result. You at my feet in agony. I mean, God, it could
have
been a gunshot, or a stabbing or a hit and run—it doesn’t
matter, okay? The
POINT is that seeing you hurt and not being able to do a damn THING
about it is
not something I’m prepared to deal with.”
“Me either,”
he muttered, trying to lighten the mood, but
Sara scowled at him, her lashes dark with drying tears. She tried to
pull away.
Grissom tightened his hold on her for a moment.
“Sara—accidents happen. I can’t
promise I’ll always be able to avoid them, but I’ll
try.”
He wondered why he was
telling her this, but her fierce
smile breathlessly wiped that thought away.
“Try harder,
Grissom.”
The doorbell rang, and
Sara rose, smoothing down her shirt.
Grissom’s brows drew together in consternation.
“Who--?”
“Robbins. You need
to be checked out.”
***
*** ***
The coroner let the
blanket drop back into place and
straightened up, adjusting his glasses to hide his twinkly smirk.
“Personal
reaction: Ow. Did quite a number on yourself here, Gil. Despite the
ice, you’ve
got serious swelling, and they’ll be some heavy bruising
tomorrow.”
“Really?”
came the sarcastic mutter. Robbins turned to look
over the top of his glasses at Grissom, who lay propped up on his
pillows,
looking annoyed.
“Sorry if the exam
was less than gentle—I’m not used to my
patients moving or swearing you know. Severe hematoma to the scrotum,
edema
resulting from blunt force trauma. I recommend ice, rest and
analgesics. I can
write up a workman’s comp report and get you some time off
too—“
“No thanks, Al.
Considering how many desks that paperwork
would cross, I’d rather not have Conrad snickering over my
on-the-job
emasculation.” Grissom growled, making Robbins chuckle softly.
The coroner
leaned on his cane and sighed.
“Fair enough, but
you WILL be limping a while. As far as I’m
concerned, you fell—maybe in the shower. Need a cane? I’ve
got a spare in the
car.”
“Thanks, but
I’ll manage.”
Robbins nodded, then
shook his head a little. Grissom
immediately understood the gesture and sighed as the other man snorted
a
little.
“She saw the whole
thing, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re
lucky. Sara will stick to whatever story you
want to go with. Anyway, I’ll take the evidence in while you
chill your
cojones. Last bit of advice—next time you see a metal handrail,
go under, or
around.”
The only reply Robbins
got for this sage advice was the
patented Grissom glare; shifting his crutch, the coroner swung his way
out of
the bedroom catching sight of Sara leaning on the breakfast bar,
waiting.
“Hey Sara.
Grissom’s probably going to be fine. Embarrassed
as hell; but fine. Keep the ice up, but don’t let it sit longer
than fifteen,
twenty minutes at time, otherwise he’ll risk more damage.
Probably wouldn’t
hurt to get something into his stomach too, to buffer whatever
pain-reliever
you can get him to take.”
Sara nodded, rubbing her
nose and shifting a little; taking
pity on her, Robbins cocked his head, his smile gentle.
“Did you
laugh?” Nervously she looked up at him, big brown
eyes startled. Robbins pursed his mouth. “It’s okay,
Sara—everyone does. The
majority of second-rate comedies thrive on that universal constant.
Well, I’m
going to go. Feed Gil some chicken broth and don’t let him fall
asleep with the
icepack.”
“From soup to
nuts?” Sara blurted, and Robbins broke into a
deep chuckle.
“See what I mean?
Oy.”
He left, toting the bags
with him.
***
*** ***
“
. . . And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like
her I
sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my
song.” Sara read
softly. The book was small, and old, the leather covers sweet-smelling.
She lay
on her stomach next to Grissom on the bed; bare feet in the air, ankles
languidly crossed. He looked over at her propped in a typical
schoolgirl pose
and smiled a little.
“Sonnet
102. Not one of his more familiar ones, but it makes a point.”
“Which
is?” Sara asked, aware that literary analysis wasn’t her
strong suit. Grissom’s
mouth twitched at her little frown.
“Which
is, just because other poets are louder and more frequently published
doesn’t
make the love the writer feels any less important.”
“Don’t
ask, don’t tell?” she saucily responded, closing the book.
She’d seen the
inscription along the fly leaf of the volume, the elegant ink beginning
to
fade, but the words still clear: Spring, 1903. To my
dearest Lily,
With deep love and affection from Your Benjamin. The image of
Grissom
browsing in a used bookstore and picking this book up, choosing it over
other,
newer editions of Shakespeare made Sara smile.
“Not
quite, but close. Sometimes the most deeply felt emotions are the ones
least
visible. Or least heard.” He added. Sara blinked at that, and she
lowered her
feet. For a moment they lay there together on the bed, not moving,
existing
with that keen edge of awareness between them. She kept her gaze on the
cover
of the book. Grissom cleared his throat.
“Sara,”
he spoke softly, “Did you ever stop to consider that one of the
reasons I quote
things so much is that I don’t have much confidence in my own
ability to
articulate?”
“No.”
“Oh.
Well, maybe you ought to.” He muttered, feeling as he usually did
around Sara;
confused and slightly thrilled. At this proximity it was good he had an
icepack, he thought dimly.
“I
always thought you quoted things because you were well-read and just a
little
bit smug about it.”
“Ow.”
He replied, shooting her a dry look. Sara snickered, and for a moment
the bed
was a cozy raft adrift in the bedroom. She shifted into a graceful
cross-legged
position, still toying with the book of sonnets.
“At
least you’re honest enough to cite your source,” she
conceded. Grissom shifted
a little himself and reached under the blanket, pulling the icepack out
and
setting it down off the end of the bed. “How are they? You? I
mean YOU?”
“I’m
fine. My testicles are fine. Sore, but intact. At this point I have two
choices. I can limp in tomorrow and lie about my injury, or I can limp
in and
be completely honest. Both options have benefits and
disadvantages.”
Sara
looked skeptical, so Grissom folded his hands behind his head and
stared up at
the ceiling, speaking slowly.
“If
I lie, I’ll get scant sympathy, but scant notice as well. I can
catch up on
paperwork and no one will think much of it. Not a bad choice in a lot
of ways.”
“So
why even consider the other one? The truth?” Sara persisted,
wishing she had
the confidence to reach over and touch the rim of his ear, so
temptingly close.
Grissom’s
grin was small and knowing; he shot her a sideways glance.
“Because the macho
factor would be so high. To take a serious hit and still come into work
ranks
up there as manly.”
“Okaay—“
came Sara’s bewildered reply. Grissom’s dimples flashed a
little at the sound
of her mystification.
“I
know, I know—on the face of it, the whole concept seems stupid.
To limp around,
proud of an injury that by its very nature emasculates you seems
contradictory,
but human behavior hinges a lot on those dichotomies.”
Sara’s
shoulders shifted, and he realized she was laughing silently, so he
demanded,
“what?”
“After
you got hurt, I was so mad that—I wanted to shoot the
railing.” Came her husky
laugh. “Blast away at it with my weapon—is that a charming
response or what?”
Grissom
pictured it; Sara drawing her gun and calmly blasting away at the rusty
barricade, one hand braced in the other, and blinked, aware of how that
idea
left him feeling alarmingly close to breathless again.
“Well,
it tells me you feel pretty protective of me.”
“I—“
she began, and stopped, her face flushing. Seeing it, Grissom felt a
surge of
courage.
“--You
take good care of me, which I’m just starting to appreciate. So
if this
accident had to happen, then I’m glad it was YOU there over
anybody else.”
His
hand shyly sought out hers, sliding along the top of his blanket, and
Sara
silently wove her own fingers, cool and strong, with his, her grip
tight. She
shifted closer.
“You
know, Grissom, the REALLY macho thing would be—“
“Yes?”
“To
re-enact it for Greg and the guys. Now THAT would take--”
“—Stupidity,
and a bigger pair than I’ve got, even now. Sleep, Sara.”
And
they did, holding hands as they drifted off in the later afternoon
light.
END
