Disclaimer: The characters you recognize described herein are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Alliance Atlantis Productions and CBS Entertainment. All other characters are my creation. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning: I make no claims about the accuracy of police department operations in this story - this is all pure speculation.

Timeline: Post-Hunger Artist. Season 2 spoilers implied.

Acknowledgments: Thanks as always to Anna - for taking the time to make this better.

Dedication: To the Under the Bridge board, and everyone who asked for this story. I wish I could retroactively dedicate "The Better Claim" to you all, but hopefully this will do.

Rating: TV-14 for mature themes.

*** Irrespective of Love *** It was very rare that the phone rang at all in Gil Grissom's office, but tonight it seemed like it had never stopped ringing. There was the call at a little before 9 in the evening from Catherine, who rasped that she had caught the flu and would not be coming in to work. The call at 10:15 was from a state trooper who'd gotten lost and had been redirected to many different extensions by the receptionist. The call at 11:45 was actually legitimate, but unfortunately the voicemail got that one. 2:07, 2:08 and 2:09 were attempts at fax transmissions. 4:50 was some technician that was clearly new, trying to be extra-proactive by informing him about the results of a routine lab test. 6:32 was someone from day shift, rasping to the wrong supervisor that he would be unable to come in to work that day (he wondered briefly if the two sick calls were related, though the voicemail had gotten the latest one). By the time the phone rang at 7 in the morning, he was half-expecting it to be some long lost relative he hadn't heard from in 15 years, one of those cousins who was going to be in town for the weekend with the kids and was looking for a place to stay.

But it wasn't.

"Hello?" he snapped at the phone that had done so much to offend him throughout the night.

A breath drawn in. "Grissom?"

He would've asked her to repeat herself, but he didn't have to.

"Grissom, hi...it's me - it's Sara."

It was a voice he hadn't heard in nearly a year, yet he was surprised to discover it sounded the same as the last time he'd heard it almost a year ago.

"I'm glad I caught you," she continued.

"I'm...glad you caught me, too," he thought, before he realized he'd said it out loud. "Uh, how've you been?"

There was a sigh, followed by silence. "I'm all right," she finally managed, though her tone betrayed her fake-sounding reassurances.

"How's San Francisco?"

More silence. "Fine."

"Good."

Then neither of them spoke. The silence unnerved and comforted him at the same time. "I'm actually in Vegas right now." Five words had never sounded so lonely.

"What are you doing here?" he wondered, choosing one of the thousand questions forming on his lips.

A smile colored her words as she spoke. "Looking for a job, if you'd believe it."

He offered her a response of shocked silence before tentatively continuing "Do you need a recommendation?"

"No, I need a _job_. Know anybody at the Las Vegas Crime Lab who'd hire me?"

For a minute, he couldn't tell whether she was kidding. "Well you'd have to come in for an interview, of course." He found himself falling back into a bantering pattern that had once been so familiar.

"I was hoping maybe we could meet now - I know shift just ended, right? Maybe I could buy you breakfast?" It should've been a friendly exchange, but her tone was forced and even a little desperate.

"Okay," he assented, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. She clearly needed to talk about something, job-related or not. "Say the diner on the corner - you know the one by the lab in...fifteen minutes?"

There was a long period of silence, and he was beginning to wonder if she didn't have particularly fond memories of the diner on the corner by the lab. As he was about to suggest another place, her voice responded once again "Grissom, I'm sorry - that was my call waiting. I can't make it for breakfast. I-I gotta go." Her last syllable was partially cut off with the click of the receiver.

He stared at the phone long enough to confirm the call had actually taken place, before he got up and left the office. The voicemail light was on, but he'd deal with that later. Nothing in that message could be stranger or surprise him more than the conversation he'd just completed. *** It was less than a week later that Brass knocked lightly on Grissom's open office door. "Got a minute?" his colleague asked, leaning against the door frame.

"Yeah," Grissom replied, as Brass took a seat in front of the desk.

"I just got the strangest phone call."

Grissom nodded, knowing instantly where this was going.

"Sara Sidle. Said she was in Vegas and wanted to know if there were any openings in Vice."

"Vice?" Grissom couldn't help repeating, now becoming just as bewildered as the expression on his colleague's face.

"Did she switch departments when she moved back to San Fran?" Brass asked.

The other man shrugged. "It was a lateral transfer to Frank Willard's department - he runs the crime lab there." Grissom glanced at the ground. "But I didn't actually sign it - I was...out...at the time."

Brass shrugged. "Anyway, Sara said she was coming here tonight. Something about an interview?"

"Tonight?" His colleague sat up at his desk, his eyes widening.

"Tonight" came a voice from the doorway.

Grissom looked up at the sound of that voice, where she had somehow materialized in his doorway with her arms folded as if it was still a year ago, looking at him with that smile that only seemed to appear on the rarest of occasions.

Brass looked back and forth between the two other people in the room, before quietly getting up and taking his leave. "We'll talk later," he stated. "Nice to see you again, Sara."

"Hey Brass," she responded quietly, not taking her eyes off the man at the desk.

As Grissom stared at her, he suddenly realized she had not moved from the doorway. "Uh, come in," he offered, awkwardly.

A moment's hesitation crossed her face before Sara stuffed her hands in her pockets and slowly walked over to his desk.

He rose to greet her, but was unsure how. He had decided on a simple handshake and reached his hand out to take hers.

"Grissom, I'm engaged," she blurted out, whipping her hand from her pocket to display the piece of gold and diamond evidence.

Instead of a shake, he clasped her hand, examining the evidence as was customary. "Congratulations," he remarked once he was done.

"Thank you." A brief smile, but she seemed to have taken a couple split- second steps backwards so she was standing at the edge of his desk. When he remained silent, she continued. "I'd still like my old job back, though."

"Wouldn't you prefer a job in Vice?" He moved to sit back down.

Sara took the seat in front of him. "What?" she asked, looking blanched.

"I hear you might be looking to change departments...again," he couldn't help adding.

The look on her face grew puzzled, then brightened. "What-oh! Brass told you. No, that inquiry wasn't for me, it was for a-a friend."

"A friend?" He sounded skeptical.

"Yeah. My, uh, future husband." She might as well have been speaking a foreign language, sounding like she was unsure of the word herself.

Grissom was silent for a minute before quietly asking "So...he's a cop?"

She did not answer, glancing toward the ground, then at a space on the wall to his right. "I met him at work, if that's what you're asking," she responded, a little defensively.

He nodded, then a different look appeared on his face. "You didn't answer my question," he pointed out.

Sara sighed, throwing her hands up in defeat. "No, he's not a cop, all right? He works in the forensics department," she snapped. Her tone conveyed irritation at being forced to reveal this information, but her expression remained calm - almost relieved.

Grissom took another moment to process this latest development in her story, his face remaining blank. "Would I know this...forensics department worker?"

"No," she replied, a little too quickly.

Another moment passed, before he shrugged and commented "I could always give Willard a call and find out from him."

She was silent. Eyebrows raised, his eyes took in this information, his expression wavering only slightly when he came to a conclusion. "But I take it he's moved to Vice," he declared.

Her silence confirmed his theory. "He asked for the transfer for my sake," she insisted. "So we wouldn't have to work together."

Grissom nodded. "Well, Brass is the person to talk to about a position in Vice." He paused a moment, weighing his next words in his head. "But how do I know you won't quit again?"

The question was firm, but also genuinely curious. As he expected, she did not take it well.

"Should I ask you the same question?" she shot back, icily.

"That was different."

"Right, because I actually told everyone why I was leaving."

Conflicts and emotions long since buried were starting to surface. He was about to respond, when she decided to touch on yet another aspect of their past. "I quit because you quit. You seem to have forgotten."

Their eyes locked and memories of a year ago passed between them. Grissom only told his team he was leaving the department for a while. He hadn't wanted to bother or burden them with his medical leave. When he came back several months later, she was gone. Put in for a transfer the week after he left and was back in San Francisco before the second week was over.

He broke the tension hanging heavily in the air by reaching into one of his desk drawers and pulling out an official-looking form. He then opened a folder on his desk and began to copy information from whatever was in the folder. When he was done, he handed the form and pen to her, all without speaking once.

Pen moved across paper in small, firm strokes and for a brief second, it was a year ago and he was watching her fill out paperwork with the same intense stare she normally reserved for suspects and evidence. Grissom only realized she was done when he heard the paper and the pen being set down in front of him.

He picked up the form and scanned it with mild interest, pausing a moment before pointing out "Under marital status, you marked 'single.'"

"Yeah, Willard and I haven't set a date yet," Sara offered, before realizing he hadn't actually asked for that information.

"I need to notify HR if you're going to be changing your name," he told her. This time, she simply nodded.

He gave her a look indicating he now understood how this game would be played. "Are you changing your name, Sara?" he asked, a trace of mild irritation coloring his voice.

"No," she replied firmly, before adding "I wouldn't take any man's last name, Grissom."

He cleared his throat slightly. "Your address is where you and Willard will be living."

"It's just me for now," she informed him.

Unconsciously, Grissom glanced down at the address again. She was now living down the street from his own house. He searched her eyes to see if they were searching his for a reaction, but both pairs of eyes remained deliberately blank. He put down the form and shifted back in his chair slightly.

Changing his mind, he then sat straight up and asked her "Why'd you go back to San Francisco?"

The question seemed to throw her off balance, as she glanced down at the floor and quickly at her ring, neither of which offered her any help. "There were more...opportunities for advancement there," she answered, carefully choosing her emphasis.

"Willard promoted you?"

"No - we were, uh, involved and he didn't think it would be- is this really necessary?" she broke off pointedly.

"But you weren't involved when he asked you to come back - did he promise you a promotion?"

Sara's posture stiffened, as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I'm not sure these questions are appropriate-"

"Why'd you come back?" The inquiry came out more softly than he'd intended.

Her lips parted slightly, a short gasp of breath escaping. "Willard didn't promise me a promotion," she declared, now responding to his previous question. "I called him about a job - he didn't call me. But he offered me more than this lab did," she finished, her gaze once again dropping to the ground.

"Then why'd you come back?" Grissom asked her again.

Her smile was mirthless, her expression distant. "I..." she trailed off, now meeting his eyes once more. Her mouth open in mid-thought, again she glanced hastily at the floor. "This is the #2 lab in the country. I wanted to give Willard the chance to work in a lab of this caliber."

He ignored for the moment the fact that Willard would not have that chance working in Vice. "Do you think you'll change your mind?" he questioned, trying to keep his tone neutral. But she must've read something into it, as the defensiveness swirling around her was almost palpable.

"About what?" she snapped.

"Being here," he responded almost immediately. "Twice you've requested to be transferred out of this lab - what if this isn't really what you want?"

Sara sighed, her defenses rapidly wearing down. "I want my old job back." She was practically pleading now. "Grissom, I- I just need to know if you'll hire me again." Her voice was breaking as all her emotions settled upon her.

He looked at her for a moment, the silence between them growing louder until he was forced to quell it. "Of course," he replied, forming the words as endearments.

That smile reappeared, less bright than he'd remembered. "Thanks," she murmured back, before rising from her chair and walking out of his office, as reserved and sullen as she'd been when she first asked to leave. *** Grissom dreaded seeing her at shift the next night, and all the nights that followed. But as hard as it was to try to interact with her, to try to rebuild whatever the dynamic had been between them, it was harder to go home at the end of shift, knowing he'd experience the same sense of awkwardness and bewilderment the very next night and all the nights that followed, until she - or he - couldn't take it anymore.

He sensed she was as uncomfortable with the situation as he was, and that limiting their contact was a good idea. She, however, did not seem to share that sentiment when she showed up at his door four days later.

"Hi, neighbor," she said, brightly, giving him that heart-melting smile before the brightness of her ring flickered in the sunlight, stabbing his eye with its sparkle. "Can I borrow a cup of sugar?" Her tone was joking, although the humor of the situation was lost on Grissom. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and adjusted her grip on the garment bag she was carrying over one shoulder. "Can I come in?" she asked, dropping all traces of humor from her voice.

He opened the door a little more and Sara strode into his living space, carelessly tossing the garment bag onto his sofa. "My wedding dress," she explained. "Just picked it up. Don't look, though," she admonished him, playfully spreading out her arms to block his view of the garment bag. The smile had returned, just as he'd caught a glimpse of the reflection of her ring dancing on the wall in front of him.

"I...don't think that applies to me," Grissom declared.

She shrugged. "I still don't want you looking at it." She plopped down on his couch, looking years younger here than she had in his office. Impending marriage must do that to people, he mused.

"So, what's up?" Sara asked, interrupting his train of thought.

He was puzzled. "You're the one who came here."

"Yeah, but you said you wanted to see me."

He was about to protest, when he remembered she was right. At least partially. "At work. I asked to see you at work two nights ago."

Clearing her throat, she replied "I was busy then."

This flippant attitude and almost obnoxiously infectious spirit was new for her and he couldn't decide whether he was amused or annoyed by it. Then he figured since she was here anyway, he might as well say what he needed to tell her two days ago. "I got a call from HR - they want to know when you'll be taking time off for your wedding."

Sara flinched slightly at his question, but quickly answered "I don't think I'll be taking a honeymoon."

These games between them were definitely becoming tiresome. "Sara, when are you getting married?"

"I don't know - I haven't set a date," she responded, her eyes darting around the room under the scrutiny of his look.

Grissom sighed, drawing upon his seemingly endless reserves of patience. "But you have a dress," he pointed out.

Again, the casual shrug. She seemed to be growing younger each time her shoulders rose and fell. "It was on sale," she answered.

He stared at her and wondered when she'd become so unfamiliar. Surely one year couldn't possibly change a person that much. It had been years since he'd seen her when she'd first come to Vegas and even then, she was still someone he recognized. This woman in his living room was now a mystery. Sitting there in front of him, her form perfectly still, her gaze fluttering around the room like butterflies before they were encased in their glass prisons. There had to be another reason for her behavior. "Sara, how long have you and Willard been engaged?" he asked casually, testing out a theory.

She looked shocked. "Uh...a week or two, I think," she responded cautiously.

"How did it happen?"

Her shoulders rose and fell, and she regressed further into a sullen teenager. "He said 'Will you marry me'." Her tone indicated she did not like where this conversation was going, but she made no move to get up and leave.

Grissom nodded - a gesture he knew she would interpret as condescending. Sure enough, her stare hardened, her eyes narrowing. "But how did it happen - did he surprise you, get down on one knee...?"

"I don't remember- how is this any of your business?" Irritation had turned to indignation.

He was pushing her hard, and he knew she'd break soon. Her pain was tangible, but she hadn't walked out the door yet - indicating that perhaps she too needed this forced confession.

"Getting engaged...it's supposed to be one of the happiest moments of a person's life. And I've...I've never seen you so unhappy."

Sara sighed and kept her eyes trained on the ground. She did not speak for several minutes before timidly admitting "I told Willard I was leaving town because he couldn't... commit...to me. The morning I arrived in Vegas, he called up - he had followed me here - then came over and proposed. Got down on one knee, the whole bit." She slowly raised her eyes, full of shame and disgust. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The phone call, Grissom realized suddenly - that was her call waiting. A marriage proposal. He paused a moment before posing his next question. It was softer than the others, but equally as important. "Sara..." Her gaze had returned to his floor. "Do you want to get married?"

She looked shaken and did not answer him for what seemed like a long time. When next she spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"No."

Her strained confession hit him harder than he would've thought, and he struggled for coherence. "Then...why...?" he managed, finally.

"Because I need it more than I don't want it," she replied, matter-of- factly.

If that answer was supposed to render him coherent once again, it didn't work. "You...need it?" Grissom repeated, disbelievingly.

"I need security. Stability. Willard...he was there for me after..." She paused, her glance moving to rest on the garment bag to her right. "He'll take care of me. And I...I need that."

Still bewildered, he struggled to comprehend what she had just said. "You're marrying him because he was 'there for you'...when?"

"'You won't miss me'," she snapped at him, suddenly.

Her words stung, even though they weren't hers to begin with. They were the contents of the note he had left the team when he'd gone on medical leave. Hearing it read back to him, seeing the hurt and anger it still inspired in Sara almost a year later, he stared at the woman across from him and wondered where they'd be today if he'd simply confided in his team. Or at least confided in her.

"I will not go through that again," she stated, firmly. Then, more softly "I can't." Her hand tugged at her ring, like it was an abnormal growth on her finger.

He stopped her hand, covering it with his own. "Sara, what do you want?" he murmured.

She looked at him with eyes that had long run dry of tears. "Irrespective of love? Safety, security, commitment...I guess I want it all." Along with her wish list, she offered him a small smile. Then, leaning forward, she offered her lips to his. When she sat back, all her pent up feelings and emotions glistened on her cheek in the form a final solitary tear, before she quickly wiped it away.

"Can...can you give that to me, Grissom?" She clasped his hand, much like he'd done when he'd first examined her ring. Then, before he could respond, she had removed her ring, placing it on the table in front of him as some kind of gauntlet thrown between them.

Rational thought pushed aside, his emotions took over and all he could see was his second chance. "I won't leave you again," he promised, the words catching in his throat as he struggled to communicate his feelings to her.

Then, his lips met hers and communication with words became unnecessary. *** The light was bright, that same stab of light he remembered dancing off her engagement ring - the one she had recently discarded - before Grissom realized it was only the glitter of the setting sun peeking through the window shade. It was evening and they'd have to be at shift in a few hours. As the last remnants of sleep slowly evaporated and he fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand next to his bed, the room shook with the sudden piercing sound of the phone. Almost blindly, he reached for the receiver.

"Hello," he managed, not quite coherently. "Really?...I will...Of course...Thank you."

Guilt weighed heavily on him as he put on his glasses and turned to the woman at his side. "That was Willard, he said you-" The world came into focus, and she had disappeared.

"Sara?" Grissom called, stumbling out of bed. She must be in the bathroom. "Sara?" He padded toward where she must be, passing his closet on the way. Stopping abruptly, he turned back. She wasn't in the bathroom, he realized, staring at his open closet door. His clothes, his shoes...and her wedding dress.

Feeling his throat grow tighter, he dressed quickly and hurried out of his house, walking quickly down the slowly darkening street, turning familiar corners and crossing familiar roads until he found himself standing at the door of a building whose address had been permanently etched in his mind the first time he'd read it on her job application almost a week ago. Apartment 22.

Two distinct options presented themselves. First, he knocked.

No answer.

He then moved on to the second option, which had been his instinct all along. He tried the door.

The knob turned and he was standing inside her empty apartment.

She couldn't just leave, he told himself. Something must've happened. Feeling like an intruder, he opened drawers, cabinets, closets - searching for any piece of evidence to contradict a truth he had known on some level since the phone had rang - when Willard had said he'd found her ring in an envelope slid under the door, along with a long letter explaining why she couldn't get married.

Grissom thought she'd chosen love, but she had said she wanted it all. Clearly, neither man could give it to her. At least not now.

So she'd left him her wedding dress. That had to be some form of hope, didn't it? A sign that if he was ready, when he was ready to make that commitment, she might come back and claim it. Or maybe it was just there as a reminder of what their relationship could never be. Still, he stared at the note he had discovered on the top shelf of her closet, and tried to understand why. Perhaps his confusion, his disbelief mirrored what she had felt as she had tried to comprehend the words perpetuating the lie between them that he had started almost a year ago.

'You won't miss me.'

The End.