10 – The Shadow of a Doubt

Continued from The Nightmares that Come from Good Intentions.

It was late Tuesday afternoon and Sara was busy working her way through the latest batch of specimens. As the next day was Christmas Eve and Ana had decreed that work would stop midday and not resume until after Christmas, she was trying to get as much done as possible before then.

Christmas —

Christmas had never been one of Sara’s particularly favorite holidays, not that she was a huge fan of holidays in general. Most of the time, holidays meant coming into work early and staying late and having to deal with a higher rate of insanity than usual.

But of Christmas, she had long had a particularly strong aversion.

Because of the rampant commercialism associated with the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years, the holiday season meant more than a month long reminder of what she hadn’t had growing up. True, there had been a tree and even presents, but then there had also been the drinking and yelling and fighting and the inevitable trips to the hospital.

No, there hadn’t been much peace on earth, goodwill toward men in the Sidle household, not even at Christmas.

With the steady series of subsequent foster families, even those that were well-meaning enough, the holidays hadn’t proven much better. There were always too many kids, too many responsibilities and too few things to really celebrate.

When she went off to college, she knew she was probably the only one there who actually dreaded winter break. Thankfully, several of her professors had projects that still needed to be attended to, holidays or no, so she worked and kept busy.

Working and keeping busy was something she could do. And well.

Since she had entered into the San Francisco police department as one of the lowest ranked staff members, she didn’t have to worry about being offered the day off. She would have signed up to work anyway. Why should she take the time off to spend it alone when there were plenty of other people in the department who had families to go home to?

In Vegas, she had done the same. Been happily willing to take the holiday shift.  True, she did attend the practically obligatory staff party that even Grissom couldn’t find a way to worm his way out of. But of the day itself, there was seldom anything celebratory about it, apart from the drink or two she’d share with which ever of the guys hadn’t scored the day off.

Since Grissom in spite of rank and seniority had typically volunteered to work holiday shifts, the two of them had spent quite a few Christmases together over the years. Of course for that rather long stretch where they weren’t really speaking to each other, those really hadn’t been the happiest of occasions.

Even after they had begun dating, they often worked their own shift and usually parts of Days or Swing as well, in order to help with coverage, so that by the time they got home, there was usually little left of the actual day to even observe. But the time they did have and their own private celebrations, while perhaps unconventional, had been pleasant and peaceful in ways Sara had never known.

But this year would be their first genuine work-free holiday together. True, there would still be Ana and Stephen and Bridget and Luis and Bernie around, but there weren’t going to be any jangling phones, no call slips, no robberies or arsons or worse, a dead body or two, to spoil the day.

And if Sara was honest with herself, she was actually looking forward to the prospect.

Perhaps, she thought almost absently, it had been a good thing after all, that she had kept putting off mailing that package she had been intending to send Grissom, as this way she even had a gift to give him on Christmas Day.

Not that gifts were all that important. Thankfully, the two of them had long ago agreed to a policy of moderation when it came to presents (any attempt to banish them altogether had failed miserably on both their accounts). Besides, Grissom tended to enjoy giving gifts more on the spur of the moment and for no reason at all, rather than confine himself to birthdays and holidays. Sara figured it had something to do with his liking of being on the giving rather than the receiving end of surprises.

And speaking of Grissom —

As if her thoughts had conjured him into being, when she looked up from her work, it was to find him trudging up the path with an almost and unusually obsequious looking Bridget in tow.

As Sara took in Grissom’s untidy appearance, the way he seemed more discomposed and damp, as if from more than just sweat, the smudges on his face, and the not yet dried mud on his clothes, she weighed whether or not it would be prudent even to hazard to ask.

Considering that Grissom did not even pause to give her any sort of greeting, let alone an explanation, she was glad she hadn’t.

Besides, the way he was so seemingly intent on his destination she knew from ample past experience meant one of two things. Either he was intrigued over something to the point of distraction so that he was ultimately hopelessly oblivious to the rest of the world (as he frequently could be) or he was hurrying because he wanted to dispatch an unpleasant task as soon as possible.

She only needed to wait for him to pass to determine it was the latter.

As to the cause, all she had to do was breathe normally. The odor was rankly obvious.

Instantly, Sara knew what must have happened and had to conceal her mirth, especially at the sheepish look Bridget was giving her when she met Sara’s inquiring gaze. The poor girl looked about as hapless as Greg had that one day when he had served as the catalyst for Grissom having returned to the lab covered in something far worse than primate pee. Deciding to put Bridget out of her misery, Sara indicated that she would take care of Grissom and wordlessly sent her back to traipsing after her troop. The young woman gave her a grateful nod and mouthed that she would tell her later.

Pausing only long enough to shut the case she was working on and make a quick detour to the kitchen, Sara hurried after him.

She found Grissom sans shirt up to his elbows in soapy water, scrubbing vigorously. The sight gave her pause. There was always something about seeing him engaged in the most woefully mundane tasks that made her smile. After years of blood and bodies and the chaotic disarray of crime scenes, it was good to know that a man like Gil Grissom ever did anything as ordinary as laundry.

“I see you’ve located our state-of-the art washroom,” Sara said, joining him in front of a pair of large metal tubs. “Unfortunately, with all this humidity, nothing you wash will ever get completely dry.”

Grissom didn’t seem to find this particular piece of information helpful and only continued scouring.

Sara placed a bottle of vinegar on the table beside him. “You might want to add some of this first and let them soak for a while. The acetic acid will help neutralize the smell. Believe me, you aren’t the first person around here they’ve done that to.”

“That’s a comforting thought,” he muttered, although Sara could detect a hint of amusement amongst his rue.

“I take it Bridget didn’t warn you that the howlers like to mark their territory with urine?” she asked.

“Not until it was too late, no,” Grissom replied. As he was adding the vinegar to the wash water, he said, “I’m beginning to think Bridget might be Greg’s long-lost cousin.”

“While he certainly does have plenty of them, I seriously doubt it. Besides, you make it sound like that would be a bad thing,” Sara chuckled. “And after all, it could be worse.”

“How?” queried Grissom.

“You’ve never seen chimps at the zoo?”

“I think Greg managed to replicate that experience for me just fine.”

“True,” Sara agreed. “At least urine is sterile.”

Grissom gave her a disbelieving glare. Although she could tell that by now the shock had finally begun to wear off and he was more bemused by the absurdity of the whole incident than actually annoyed.

“It is,” she insisted. “And actually good for laundering. The ancient Romans used it to bleach their clothes.” When his look turned incredulous, she said, “You aren’t the only one whose head is full of seemingly useless information.”

“There is nothing useless…” Grissom began, but Sara cut him off with a kiss.

He quickly retreated protesting, “You’ll get dirty.”

“I don’t care,” she replied and pulled him close and kissed him again.

“You know,” Sara began as they broke away, “They arrange it with the monkeys especially. Initiation by pee.”

“Really? That’s one I haven’t heard of before.”

“This from the man who required every new hire to donate a pint of fresh blood on their first day,” she laughed. “Strange how I don’t remember you ever asking me for any.”

“We were a little busy at the time.”

“Right, that was it,” Sara grinned, then giving his disheveled appearance another once over said, “Why don’t you grab a shower? I can finish up here.”

“You sure?”

“They’ll need to soak for a little while anyway.”

He gave her a thankful nod and turned to go.

“Gil,” she called after him. He stopped. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked and then when he persevered to look oblivious, added as if it were obvious, “The rest of your clothes.” At his continuing uncharacteristic hesitation, Sara shook her head and sighed, “No one else is here. Besides,” she smirked, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, dear.”

As he couldn’t quite dispute the logic of that particular assertion, Grissom hurriedly stripped and exchanged his soiled clothes for the towel she was extending to him before disappearing off to have that much needed shower.

********

Sara left the sodden, stinking mess to soak for a while before proceeding back to their tent to lay out fresh clothes for Grissom to wear.

It was his trunk that had suddenly given her pause.

Not what she found in it when she opened it for she had simply removed the first shirt, pants and pair of underwear she found. It was what she realized wasn’t there.

As they wouldn’t be picking up the rest of his belongings from town until Saturday, the trunk was, apart from the neat piles of clothes, a couple of books and the tin she had given him, empty.

She fingered the collar of one of his camp shirts. His current clothes wardrobe was so different from what she was accustomed to seeing him wear, but this was really the first time that the difference and what it meant struck her.

Sara knew Grissom wasn’t really the materialistic type. Yes, he owned nice things, liked nice things, but they didn’t seem to be absolutely necessary for his happiness.  But here he was with barely enough clothes to fill a backpack and no more than a handful of books when he had shelves and shelves of them back in Vegas.

And then when she thought about it, the tent they were living in was little more than a canvass covering to keep out the sun and rain and to deter the encroachment of insects and too had the tendency over time, to develop slimy overcoats of fungus and mold in the same way the fur of a three-toed sloth might. The cots they slept on were more uncomfortable than not. There was no air conditioning.  No real reprieve from the heat, at least not during the day and certainly none from the nearly 100% humidity, which really did mean that your clothes never did ever dry.  There was no running water. No privacy. The camp food was often monotonous. The fieldwork frequently backbreaking. The cataloguing slow, tedious, unglamorous, but necessary work. Not that there hadn’t been plenty of that in Vegas, but still.

And then there was the forest that despite its almost haunting beauty was no proverbial Garden of Eden.

After six hours of sweating to the point where it looked like you had taken a shower with your clothes on, the forest started to loose a little of its wonder. At some point, a tree became just a tree and a flower a flower and that pesky bug that insisted on hovering right by your left ear, just a pesky bug hovering right by your left ear. And at the end of the day, you were lucky if all you returned with was stiffness, sunburn, sore muscles, bug bites, blisters and a mild case of heat exhaustion.

At some point, Grissom, as smart a man as he was, would figure all of that out.

Even if he was at the moment more at ease and happier than she could remember seeing him for a long time and did seem both so blithely content to remain in the current present and equally unconcerned about the future, he would figure it out.

And then…

Sara didn’t really want to think about the and then....

But that nasty little voice that she had been mostly able to banish over the last couple of days had begun to pipe up and not so quietly began to whisper again all of her fears and doubts again in earnest.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Grissom or his intentions. She did — wholeheartedly and unreservedly.

But logic and reason told her that at some point he would realize that everything he had given up far outweighed anything he could have possibly gained by coming and staying here.

After all, he had been shift supervisor and de facto head of the number two lab in the country, a lab he had personally helped elevate to that position. He had spent years, decades, building a reputation for himself as a widely respected forensic entomologist — one of the few in the country, if not the world.

And he just walked away from all of that as if the act were nothing, nothing at all.

While it was a very grand romantic gesture, how could all of this really satisfy him? How could any life with her make up for everything he had so readily given up?

Sara knew she was no prize. She was a mess. Their conversation the night previous certainly made that fact plain. And she would likely always be a mess. For she did believe that there were just some things you couldn’t fix and she was just one of those things.

But then Grissom had never sought to fix her or her problems or tried to turn her into something or someone she wasn’t. True, there may have been suggestions (sometimes strongly worded suggestions) that she not allow herself to get too involved in her cases and to make sure she had interests and a life outside of work, but they were always cautions more than criticisms. And when she had finally stopped trying to be what she had mistakenly thought he wanted her to be and just relaxed and was herself, Grissom had responded with all the acceptance and love she had so long mistakenly attempted to earn from him at work.

True, they might tease one another from time to time.

Sara was known to give him a hard time about his wanting to disappear off to sit on his pumpkin for a while, but she still let him do it and was still there when he got back.

And when she had left Vegas because it had just gotten to be too much, Grissom had come after her and as unbelievably as it still seemed even after the last four days, had come to stay.

Part of her still believed that one day she would wake to find everything returned to the way it was, or that she would blink and like a mirage, Grissom would be gone. And she really didn’t want to wake or blink or go back to the way things were even just a week ago.

But it could, that little voice kept telling her, things could so easily —

Sara didn’t want to have to think that thought all the way through or accept the possibility that he could go away. That all of this — the happiness, the joy, the warmth and wonder and contentment — could all so easily be gone once Grissom realized that she wasn’t worth it.

She really had meant it, too, when she said she wanted to when he had asked her if she believed that the two of them could survive anything. She did. She wanted to believe it with all her heart and soul, with every fiber of her being.

But then faith had never been one of her strong suits.

It was just so hard to simply believe without reason or facts or evidence, without memory and experience to back things up.

Except Grissom didn’t seem to be in any doubt.

Of course, he had always been far better at the whole faith thing than she was.

For Sara recognized that his coming and all that he had done in preparation for that coming, had been acts of faith. He had no idea what he would find when he came, what sort of reception he might receive. Yet, while he had looked nervous, even shy, when she turned to find him standing there that afternoon, there hadn’t been the slightest shadow of a doubt in his eyes.

That he carried the surety of that belief with him even now was too hard to simply disregard.

As hard as that choice had been for her to intuitively comprehend, Grissom had chosen to follow his heart rather than his head and had gone and risked it all.

It was a grand romantic gesture, a profound and breathtaking one —

But —

Why was it in life that there always were and had to be buts?

*******

Sara hadn’t heard Grissom return to the tent. Hadn’t heard him begin to hurriedly dress, hadn’t heard him call to her, nor heard the tread of his boots on the ground behind her. But she did feel him. Feel one of his warm hands slide around her waist to come to rest on her stomach in order to draw himself nearer to her.

That it was an intimate, rather than a sexual gesture, made the knot in her stomach tighten all the more.

This and all the other little displays of affection he had shown her over the last couple of days had awed her. Something as simple as a not so nonchalant brush against her or when he would stand just a little nearer than what was necessary. That his fingers would linger a little longer when he took things from her, or how his hand would casually settle on the small of her back when he leaned in to see what she was working on.

Yet, his touch was never demanding or intrusive, just a gentle reminder of his presence, as quietly reassuring and unassuming as Grissom himself was. It was almost as if he simply could not get enough of the feel of her and no longer cared who saw or knew.

But the two of them had spent so many years first assiduously avoiding almost any kind of physical contact and then later on so restricting it to their private lives, that the sometimes public nature of his recent gestures surprised her, pleased her, yes, but surprised her all the same.

She had wondered over it for a while, until she, without even realizing it at first, had begun to do the same. While it had started as simply a desire for a tangible confirmation of him being real, it was more than that – an expression of a desire for closeness and connection. And in the end, Grissom appeared to appreciate her touch as much as she did his own.

Sara wanted to close her eyes and relax into him and just allow his nearness to banish her errant thoughts back to the deep, dark recesses of her mind where she kept all the things she did not want to feel or have to think about.

Except the previous night’s conversation wouldn’t let her dismiss her apprehensions so easily. After all, what had become of all of their denials and good intentions, but heartache and distance and she didn’t want that, even if part of her still feared that if she voiced her concerns, the worries would become more than just worries, but actual realities.

Despite all of her gloomy thoughts however, somehow — she wasn’t sure how — Sara was still able to keep her voice something approximating steady and even light, so that when he asked her if she was okay, she could actually get out the words, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

For as difficult as the night before had been for her, she knew that it had been equally if not more so for him.

Although there had been something, something about the night and the dark and the quiet that had made it easier to talk about all the things they never could quite seem to say in the harsh bright light of day.

“I’m good,” Grissom replied. “Still a little damp, but other than that, okay.”

“You still glad you came?” she hazarded to ask, a little of her unease slipping through.

“Very,” he murmured. “But you never answered my question.” When she made no reply, he said, his thumb caressing the nape of her neck, “Sara?”

When she turned to peer up at him, the slight smile she gave him didn’t quite reach her dark eyes. And while they had both been up half the night, Grissom was quick to recognize that it wasn’t from tiredness.

Since he seemed to sense her disquiet, Sara knew there was no point in telling him she was fine, that nothing was wrong. So she decided to go with the truth or at least the beginnings of it:

“Sometimes I still wonder if you are real.”

Grissom replied with a knowing nod and a slight half-smile, “I’ve been wondering that for almost eleven years now,” before reaching for her hand and whispering, “Close your eyes.”

Sara did as he asked.

********

Gently, Grissom pressed her palm against the bare skin just above his heart that his having not finished doing up the rest of the buttons of his shirt had left exposed. His actions were rewarded with the ghost of a grin on her lips. He narrowed the slight space left between them, leaned in and drew out the two syllables of her name as he whispered “Sara” into her ear. But her breath seemed to quicken rather than even out, the grasp of the tips of her fingers tightened instead of relaxed and there was an abrupt inhale as she buried her face into his neck. Her other hand settled on his arm as if she needed to steady herself.

Grissom brushed his cheek against hers, murmuring as he did so, “I’m here,” before allowing his lips to graze hers once, then twice and then lightly kissing her until an unexpected whimper tickled at the back of her throat and he drew away confused.

At the abrupt loss of contact, Sara’s eyes flashed open and he saw before she quickly looked away that they were wet and wide, with what he wasn’t sure, but it seemed that what he had intended as acts of comfort and reassurance had been anything but.

“Honey,” he said, “Honey, look at me. What is it?” he asked, his voice and his touch tender with concern.

Sara didn’t reply for a while and he thought that perhaps she wasn’t going to, so he was taken aback when she finally opened her mouth and a torrent of words poured out, all running together as if she just couldn’t contain or control all the insecurities that were weighing so heavily on her mind. Grissom simply stood there listening and waited for her to get it all out.

When it appeared that she was finished, he said, “Sara, we’re surrounded by thousands of species of insects, how can you think that this is some sort of an end to a career?” Then realizing that all her worry about him having left his job wasn’t what was really bothering her, he said, “But you aren’t afraid that I am going to get tired of the work.”

“No.”

“Sara –”

“I don’t want you to regret –”

“I don’t,” Grissom insisted.

“Maybe not today or tomorrow or even next week or next month or next year. But Gil, I know right now it’s easy to say that you don’t regret it. Everything is new and exciting and different –”

He held up a hand to still her. “I didn’t come here for the bugs,” he said. “I came because I wanted to be with you.

“Sara, is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes.”

It was the honesty that resounded in that single syllable that struck him hard and despite the fact that it grieved him to own it, Grissom understood.

He knew all too well that the world treated those it considered damaged or broken as if they weren’t worthy of love simply because they were “damaged” and “broken.” He knew, too, that it was precisely those people who wanted for love so badly, but then didn’t have any idea what to do when they actually found it.

He knew because he had been one of them, was still one of them.

For so long he had thought he had no right to love or be loved or hope or dream of a life beyond that of professional achievement and success.

But then the unexpected happened.

Sara happened.

And changed everything.

“Sara –” he whispered, wanting to say more, wanting to say I love you — I need you — I want to be with you and knowing he should have told her, told her that every day, I’m sorry. So sorry.

And while those were simple words, he could not seem to get them past the lump in his throat. Besides, he knew there was nothing he could do to erase the past or even make up or hope to atone for it, all he had was the present.

So instead of speaking, he reached for her, hugged her to him, closed his eyes and let out a long sad sigh, understanding but not quite sure how to make her understand. As his palms came to rest on the small of her back and he placed a lingering kiss into her hair, Grissom felt her take a long deep breath, which it sounded like Sara had desperately needed and then another and a third.

That was when he, even though it pained him to do so, risked asking after something that had been worrying him. “Do you want me to go?”

Her emphatic “No!” startled them both.

“Look,” he began, “I know this isn’t going to be easy. And by this, I don’t mean,” he said gesturing to the forest surrounding them, “but us.

“It’s never been easy. And it probably never will be.”

He paused in the truth of his own words.

For it wasn’t like they never fought or disagreed, had never said or done, intentional or no, things that had hurt the other. And he knew they would again. That was certain.

Grissom had seen enough of life, of real life, to know better than to blindly believe in the existence of fairy-tale endings. That all he had to do was show up and everything would be fine.

He might be a moron and a coward and a fool when it came to loving Sara, but he wasn’t stupid. Well, not that stupid.

And Sara was right. The rush and flush of it all, the newness of it all, would fade and reality and the everyday would resume. But he wasn’t so sure that was a bad thing.

“Honey,” he said, giving her an uncertain smile, “I don’t know how to do any of this any more or better than you do. But I do know I want to try.”

He wished he knew how to explain it. Explain to her what it had been like having her gone and how wonderful it was to be back with her again. The pleasure he felt even in just being able to kiss her goodnight and then good morning. But as they were often wont to do, his own words failed him.

When words are scarce indeed, he rued and considered the small cloth-wrapped bundle secreted beneath his shirts, wondering if this were the moment.

But he knew it wasn’t, wasn’t quite yet.

Yet the quote from Richard II and the thoughts of the contents of his trunk reminded him both of something else he had brought with him and the rest of the advice Sara had scribbled into the Shakespeare book she had given him two years earlier: Talent Borrows, genius steals.

And while the words he was suddenly considering might be borrowed, it didn’t make their meaning any less true.

He motioned for her to sit down on the cot beside him. Sara watched him pull a thin unfamiliar volume from his things.

It didn’t much appear like a book Grissom would carry. The cover was populated by what appeared at first blush to be delicate blue flowers, irises, perhaps pansies, Sara couldn’t tell.

“New book?” she asked.

“Actually, old book. New to me. Sonnets,” he explained. “The book you gave me wouldn’t fit in my carry-on. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me you could never have too much Shakespeare?”

“No, that was you,” she replied, her lips twitching slightly at the corners.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she readily conceded.

Before he began to carefully thumb through the old and yellowed pages, he turned to her and said,

“‘How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December’s bareness everywhere!’”

For that had been what the last months, the past year had been like — a seemingly endless winter without any hope of a spring to come.

Then he found the passage he was looking for and handing the volume to her, asked her to read it aloud.

Sara started, her voice still shaky, but steadying as she made her way through the measures.

“‘When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;’”

Grissom added his voice to hers as he recited the last few lines from memory:

“‘Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;’”

Until he alone finished,

“‘For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’”

He took the book from her and gently easing it closed said, “I felt that way when I had just the hope of being with you again. Having it –” His voice trailed off, the thoughts themselves were too overwhelming to be spoken.

After a while, he said, “The only regret I have is the one I always seem to have when it comes to you. I only wish it hadn’t taken me so long to come in the first place.

“So no, Sara, I’m not worried about being disappointed and unless you ask me to go…”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

She nodded.

“So I think we both need to stop worrying,” he said. “Or at least try,” he added with a smile that they both ended up sharing.

This time when he bent to kiss her, there was no hesitation or doubt on either of their parts. Sara’s lips met his eagerly and she was the one to lengthen the kiss until the soft warm glow of desire that had unhurriedly flowed between them over the last couple of days, flashed and flared into wanting and longing and perhaps the kiss might have led to something else — something more — but for the sounds of Bernie and Luis returning to camp.

For while in the forest, the pair were frequently so quiet that they could emerge right behind you and you wouldn’t even know they were there, at camp, the two seemed more like a couple of proverbial bulls in an equally proverbial china shop with all the clamor and chaos they created.

So no matter how tempted they both were to linger a little longer alone together than what was, considering the fact that the tent flaps were currently opened wide, prudent, Grissom and Sara reluctantly broke away. But before they went to go, Sara moved to do up the rest of Grissom’s buttons and gave him a mystified glance when he covered her hands with his so as to still her motions.

“Don’t you think you’d better let me do that?” he asked by way of explanation. “We both know you’ve never been all that good with buttons. Well, fastening them anyway,” he qualified with a barely contained smirk. “As for unfastening them –”

She flushed at his insinuation, the appearance of which was heightened all the more when she caught sight of the way he was looking at her.

Sara had long known that Grissom was the kind of man who was equally adept at making love to a woman with a mere whisper, the briefest of touches, with just a single long held look.

Like he was doing now.

Those bright blue eyes of his deepened and darkened as they were, vowed Soon.

Continued in Upping the Ante.

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