Title: The now and then, entwined as a Celtic knot.

Disclaimer: Looking through the multiple stacks of stocks and bonds, I realise that those for CBS and Viacom are nowhere to be found. Perhaps I should check the trash…

Spoilers: As this is yet another post-episode story to Nesting Dolls, you can betcha that there are spoilers there. Perhaps one or two latent ones from season one and two. If you haven’t seen them yet, you’ll gloss right over them.

A/N: My muse has been surprisingly dormant over these last few weeks. Therefore, constructive criticism, a general ‘thumbs up’, or any form of positive reviews are received and read with gratitude.

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Surveying the fridge quickly for any outdated produce, she grabbed one of three tall-neck, green bottles and walked over to the living room. Her shelves held an eclectic range of books and objects, ranging from entomology textbooks to a scarab beetle which sat pinned in its box in front of her. There was a picture of her brother too, depicting him with his kid sister and dog. Looking at it wistfully she settled herself at her desk. With Joni Mitchell on the radio, a pen in hand and the occasional drink of beer, her body slowly relaxed, yet her thoughts kept churning around. Like a Celtic knot, there was no beginning, nor end, and it kept her in a state of constant agitation.

Rationally, she knew she had been out of line, insulting both Catherine and Ecklie. Both above her in rank. Yet, rank didn’t mean anything to her. One should be respected based upon integrity and solved cases, not on administrative duties and selfishness. To hell with them, and she cranked up the volume of Both Sides Now, her foot tapping on the hardwood floor, and her voice joined the chorus, resembling the pose of someone who had been there, done that, and didn’t have a care in the world. But looks were deceiving.

Opening her notebook, she glanced through the last pages, her eyebrows occasionally scrunching up as a particularly raw entry caught her eye.

“… unwanted memories are slowly coming back, and I don’t know what to do with them. They haunt me; at work, when buying groceries. In my quest for sleep. And I can’t tie them together. They’re coherent, yet they’re not. I see her standing in the bedroom, defeat tingeing her posture. But her eyes… Her eyes are what scared me, still scare me. They’re so cold, but there’s fire in them too. And I’m paralysed again. All I can see is her, not my dad. It’s all so vivid that I can smell the copper, taste the hatred and despair.

Each time I see a Pamela, or Kay, or Melissa, it’s as though I want to hate mankind, and it’s useless. I know that not everyone is like this, not every man beats their wife into submission, not every woman cheats outright, not every teenager is raped. But damn if it doesn’t hurt. All the psychological profiles, explanations, excuses. I don’t want to forget. Forgive. I’ll take the pain and anger above forgiveness any day. My counsellor tells me that it isn’t ‘healthy’, that my life revolves around seeking validation, praise, acceptance. As if I didn’t know most of that. But don’t most people want praise, validation in what they do? Without it, what’s the point?I don’t know, it’s all becoming too much. And I … I want to change. Not have to put up a shield each time I see yet another victim, not having to see my friends drift further and further away. Not have my heart slowly chiselled away until there’s only a granite, impermeable core left. I guess I just want to be me. My own.

The sound of a knock reverberated through her apartment, and she closed the journal. She debated on whether or not to answer. Dealing with the over-excited rambles of her eight year old neighbour wasn’t high on her ‘to do’ list. Then again, she acquiesced, she might as well start making changes now. The girl was sweet enough, and intelligent. What could it hurt to befriend her. A child wasn’t a grown-up, and would likely hurt her less than adults had done. Talking about adults, she wondered if the person behind the barrier might possibly be one of her colleagues. God forbid it would be Grissom. Having him coming up here would only mean trouble. She gave herself a mental shake, and walked up to the door, belatedly realising that she held a beer bottle in hand.

“Well, if you’re here, it can’t be good.”

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She had thought about telling him some parts of her history. Aspects which she could gloss over, not having to go into too much details for fear of breaking down. And she wanted to stay strong. She had been strong ever since she could remember; the consequences were too grave if she wasn’t. And she was damned if she would break down now. Her hands trembled slightly, and she looked across to her supervisor who was silently playing a game of Solitaire. Or Patience, as her English teacher had called it once. She snickered silently. Patience and Grissom. A combination that was invaluable in their line of work.

And invaluable for their friendship. He hadn’t backed off, run for the safety of the proverbial hills. Instead, he was here, his posture conveying determination and stubbornness, but with honesty in his eyes. Tucking her knees loosely underneath her chin, arms around them, she hesitantly spoke.

“It’s funny, the things that you remember… and the things that you don’t, you know?” The words were still filtered by her emotions, but she was saying more in the span of five minutes than she had done in over twenty-five years. It wasn’t everything; it was too soon for that. Too intrusive, abrasive for both parties. But it was a start, one that had been a long time coming.

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Sara felt cold, drained of everything but the fatigue that spread through her. Shivering imperceptibly, a hand came up to her eyes to swipe the tears away. It had been too long since she had cried, relish in the albeit it temporary, stress-reliever. Now, she found that the tears came, and she tucked her knees in closer to her, directing her gaze to some random object, anything to avoid looking at him. Finding him staring at her with… She didn’t even want to consider the implications of the word ‘pity’. Not that she was convinced that Grissom would feel, think, that way, but her doubts were persistent enough not to face him. Because, even with the tiniest fraction of pity, both his and her opinion of herself would be damaged. She wasn’t a basket case, one that needed constant guidance and care. Not from her foster parents when she was younger, not from her high school advisor, not from her former PEAP counsellor. And most certainly not from him. Comfort, honesty, perhaps even love, yes. But not pity and all that it entailed.

Her sight was blurred by the tears and a little popped vein, something she always had a problem with when she cried. The sight of his hand curling around hers went unnoticed, but the feel surprised her only momentarily before she squeezed back, allowing herself to gather some strength, some faith from the touch. They might never be lovers, but as for friends… Who knows.

The End