TITLE: ALL ABOUT HER
SUMMARY: ONE-SHOT FIC REGARDING SARA FROM GRISSOM'S POV
DISCLAIMER: NOT MINE. HAPPY NOW?
DEDICACTED TO THOSE WHO READ MY STORIES
Where to start? There are so many people I have met in my lifetime (Hell, I'm almost fifty, for God's sake - that means I've met a hell of a lot of people), but she is the only person who has ever really meant anything to me, whether or not I've cared to admit it in the past. Of course, people like my parents, and friends like Jim and Catherine are important to me, but there is something about Sara Sidle that is so encompassing, all-consuming. Like a moth to a flame, I'm drawn to her. Christ, that sounds so cheesy and cringe-worthy.
When Sara and I met, after a lecture I'd given on Forensic Entomology at Harvard, I was drawn to her straight away, but in the way a lecturer or teacher would be naturally drawn to a pupil who was so willing to learn. I guess I spotted in her thirst for knowledge that I have. So that's probably why we found it so easy to talk to each other. She came to talk to me at the end of the lecture, I can't even remember why. Of course, being a thirty-odd year old guy, I was starting to become attracted to the younger sort of woman, but whilst she was pretty - and I mean really pretty, with her brown hair and her brown eyes and her diastema that was unimaginably cute - she had an air about her, she wasn't just some pretty airhead that would pass her exams by giving the professor a lap dance. Not that I would have minded, but I'm going off the point. Anyway, she had an air about her that although she could manipulate men with her looks, she would even more capable of knocking them to the ground with her intelligence.
I had pretty much a whole day to kill in Boston, seeing as my flight wasn't due until eight in the evening, so I asked her if she'd like to go for a spot of lunch, and then along to another forensic entomologist friend of mine to check out his collection of bugs. She, quite happily, agreed to do so, and we got on great - we talked about so many different things, her Theoretical Physics course, her classmates, how she'd got into Harvard early, but also general things, like music and books and art - we didn't have any difficulty in finding a topic of conversation. Even when we were silent, it was like we were communicating in some sort of secret language. I began to think I'd found my equal, intellectually speaking. Being a guy, and being an older guy at that, whose main interests consist of corpses and bugs, a lot of people get freaked out - even Catherine and Jim, whilst being my friends, don't understand my motivations, no matter how hard they try. I kind of wish they'd stop trying. But anyway, she had to go back to her dorm in the late afternoon to get an essay finished, but before she went, she asked for my contact details. She told me that she found it hard to relate to people, even at an Ivy League, and said that I had greatly interested her, that maybe she would consider some sort of CSI-related work in the future. I was quite flattered, but also very relieved - I too had found a person to whom I could relate, and I would have asked for her number, but I'm a guy and I'm me, and I'm a teacher, which made it about three times more inappropriate. I told her that I didn't mind keeping in touch with her, and that I'd like to know how she got on, and that if there were any lectures coming up that she might be interested in, I'd let her know.
So we kept in touch regularly, meeting up two or three times a year to go over notes and cases, just a way of passing time, and by this time she was closer (somewhat) to me in Vegas when she started to attend Berkeley. Nothing much changed while she was there, we'd still keep meeting up, and then she moved to San Francisco to do CSI work. And then Holly Gribbs died, and I asked Sara, whom I trusted implicitly - in fact, I still trust her - if she would be interested in coming to Vegas to take the missing place, but to also give me a hand with a lot of the shit that Holly's death stirred up.
And here we are know. I'm actually beginning to wonder about the sagacity of my decision to ask Sara to come and work for me, I think I may have contributed to the deterioration of our relationship. For the first two years, things were great between us, except for the occassional set-to, which would happen in most friendships. Warrick ad Catherine are close, but they've had one or two bust-ups that have not been pleasant, as have Sara and Nick, as have me and Catherine. With Sara, it would when she threw herslef so hard into a domestic abuse case - she might get mad at the suspect and lose control, or she might stay up for three days searching through records of missing persons so she could ID a Jane Doe we found. Shit, she even pulled me up about my behaviour on a case. And I gotta say, we got on so well, like we did when we would see each other while she was at Harvard and Berkeley, that her little foibles were endearing. We flirted, comforted each other - in general, had a really good dynamic. I guess it went slightly wrong when I told her she needed to get a life outside of work, and she started dating that asshole of an EMT. Without knowing it, I got jealous, unaware that she had piqued not only my intellectual interest, but also a darker, more primitve hunger that was tucked away in a small, unobserved compartment of my psyche.
To get my own back, I attempted to instigate a relationship with a dominatrix. Not the best of moves, I'll agree, but it wasn't until we almost slept together that I realised I didn't like Lady Heather's ability to be able to read me so easily. With her there would be no secrets, which would also mean that there would quite possibly be judgements. Plus, I wouldn't have been able to teach her anything. The one thing that bolsters my ego is the fact that Sara needs me, she needs me to tell her she's good, she wants me to teach her things because she's so receptive to my need to control her. That sounds cocksure and arrogant, and the sad thing is that I actually believe it could be true.
But even with these little distractions, we still gt on fairly well, we had our synchronised patterns of thought, little one-liners that would cheer us up throughout the day. The day it really went wrong was when Catherine inadvertently blew up the DNA lab. Thanks, Catherine. I saw Sara sitting on the curb, staring off into the distance, her hand all cut and bloodied, her wanting to help other people so much, wanting to process the lab. I know she wasn't hurt that badly, but it still sent rumbles through my body. And that's why I couldn't accept her dinner date. By 'this,' I meant that I wasn't sure whether it would blossom into anything. But I couldn't accept her offer because, for one brief moment, I could see the Laius complex within me. I'm fifteen years older than her. Een out in the real world, that's still a hell of an age gap, even if it doesn't bother her. But what really got to me was the feeling of protectiveness I had when I saw her injured hand. I liken it to the instinct mothers have when their child gets injured. The horror I felt at seeing her hurt was so sharp and deep and painful that I mistook it for paternal concern. Now I can tell by the way my dick stirs whenever I think about her that it was nothing like paternal concern.
So things really did deteriorate then. She was cool with me when I told her I hadn't seen her in while, because by now I could see that I did know what to do about this. We didn't work together that much, but one the cases we did share, I could feel some of our old dynamic returning. Then came the DUI. Throughout that whole case, Sara had been edgy, and I thought I could see that something was getting to her. She used that tone she has when she really wants to hurt someone, what I like to call her 'retribution tone'. I can't say I didn't deserve it. But my first instinct when I heard they'd picked her up ... I was scared shitless, but I was also so goddamn relieved to hear she was safe. I couldn't be angry at her. I could wonder why she was drinking, as Brass had reported to me that there was a damn good chance she had been doing. And in a vulnerable way, she looked so beautiful sitting there, when know that deep inside she felt humiliated. I should have taken her in my arms and told her it was okay, but I thought that if I gave her time, she might be able to sort herself out. But what, aain, disturbed me was the fact that I was almost aroused to sit there with her and tell her I'd take her home. I think that's related to my control issue. Like said, it bolsters my ego to know that she needs me, and she needed me then, she needed me to tka eher home, and to be put in that position of control and responsibility - it bolstered my ego and sent sensual tingles down my spine.
Even after that, she still had a slight sparkle left - she was confident and hard-working, and God knows she still is, and I still didn't open my mouth. We'd smile, flirt slightly ... hell, we've always flirted. There's always been some sexual undercurrent in our interraction, whether it's just us two sitting at the table in the breakroom, or sharing a comforting glance during a particularly harrowing case.
But it wasn't until she stood up to Ecklie for the second time that I really pulled my damn head out of my ass and saw that she was going to crash and burn even more literally than she might have done on the night of her DUI. Holding her hand as she cried - that wasn't arousing, or sexy - that was just plain fucking harrowing. I sat there trying to keep control over my own emotions so there weren't two people there crying. But it felt like my heart had been ripped out of chest. And when I left her, reluctantly, I went home, opened a bottle of whiskey, got plastered, then cried myself to sleep. And she still doesn't know. But I think after that, she came to trust me again, ever so slightly. It's just so emasculating to see the person you care for break down or get hurt, and there's nothing you can do about it. So when she got attacked by Adam Trent, that was one more dent to my ego. Nick getting kidnapped was another one - even though Sara was safe, it didn't stop me thinking of how I would have reacted to each of my CSIs if it had been them. So what I thought when I considered what might have happened to Sara is too personal to tell anyone.
And now? More things have happened today. Brass was shot. Lindsay's been in a car accident. And I'm standing here at Sara's door, knowing that finally, far too goddamned late, I have decided to take the steps that need to be taken. I'm going to tell her that I love her, that I have done ever since I first met her, whether or not I knew it then. I've always felt like this, I've just never had the balls to admit it to myself. Then I'm going to ask her to spend the night with me. In the sense of the word that doesn't involve sleeping in pyjamas.
Wish me luck. I just hope I've got the right apartment.