Trace Evidence
Title:Trace Evidence
Author: Fromgrissom
Rating: PG13 for language.
Fandom: CSI Vegas
Pairing: GSR
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make no money from pimping out CSI characters.
A/N: Hmm, Delving into Sara's past a wee bit. Will old problems come back to haunt? Big thanks to my fellow Brit butterfliedgsr for beta-ing. All reviews welcome :)
The dreadful realisation struck her like a punch in the guts. It had all gone to hell. Bile rose in Sara’s throat as sheer panic took over. How the hell did she always manage to fuck things up? Why couldn’t things go smoothly for once? Instead, this had to happen, right now, just when everything was going so well.
Grissom had given Sara his key and allowed her free rein of his house and, more surprisingly, his kitchen for the first time. She had been cooking, with one excited eye on the clock that would signal his return after shift and a smile on her lips born of excited anticipation. She had been listening to the latest in a series of CDs that Greg had lovingly made for her, much to her amusement and Grissom’s extreme annoyance. Unlike the usual trashy punk rock that Greg tried to poison her mind and deafen her ears with, Sara had been pleasantly surprised to find herself bopping around the kitchen to an upbeat melody that fit her excited mood perfectly. The beat coursed through her body and she had found herself dancing, shaking her hair out and waving her arms as she let the stress of the day roll off her.
That was when it happened. An ill-placed swing of an arm knocked a vase clean off the side. For a few seconds Sara just stared at the mess in complete shock, eyes wide in disbelief. How could she be so stupid?! Hadn’t she learnt by now never to let her guard down? This was what happened when you relaxed; you ended up breaking a vase, or an ornament, or worse. That was always the way. Just when you forgot yourself, allowed yourself just that one moment of freedom, of not trying with everything you had to be perfect, that was when it would happen. It would be Grissom’s grandmother’s or great aunt’s or some other family heirloom. It would be unique and irreplaceable, worthless but priceless with sentimentality. It always was. They would tell you that to make sure you knew exactly what you’d done. Right before they got that look in their eye, the one that told you that this would never be your home, that it was only a matter of time until they would find an excuse for you to move on, a forgotten chore, a jealous foster sibling. Even if you did everything right, they would find something, make something up if they had to. You would know then, in that instant, that you were temporary.
Sara’s rational mind tried to calm her, tried to insist that it would be different this time. She wasn’t a child anymore and Grissom was different. He would understand. However, the dread festering in her gut undermined all of her rationalisations. How many times would it take for her to realise even the kindest people in the world wouldn’t put up with her mistakes? Grissom is different, she tried to tell herself. Why? You think he loves you just because he’s getting some? Even as she tried to reassure herself, Sara’s ingrained insecurities attacked her with their needle-like claws, piercing deep into her most vulnerable areas, winning control over her rational brain with practiced ease. No. Only one option remained; to somehow hide what she’d done. If Grissom didn’t find out then she would be able to stay.
Adrenaline coursed through Sara’s veins as she tried to formulate a plan. Maybe she could sweep up the remnants of the vase and throw them into the trash. Perhaps Grissom wouldn’t check the trash. Don’t be stupid, her CSI training interjected. As soon as he saw it missing that was the first place he would look… She could remove the trash bag and dump it. No, that would make her look even guiltier. Suddenly feeling akin to the criminals she investigated, Sara felt her panic increase, as she realised she was trying to hide evidence from the greatest criminologist in the country; the one man rumoured to be capable of getting away with murder. No, she couldn’t move the trash bag; there would be too much evidence left behind, one way or another. A last, desperate idea hit her. She could try to fix it. With a quick glance at the clock she set off, heading for Grissom’s home office. She rummaged around in a few drawers until she found what she was looking for: superglue.
Returning to the scene of the crime, Sara had to fight back tears of desperation. The vase had all but shattered on impact. She gulped down air, as she tried to steady herself for the mammoth task at hand. Picking up one of the slightly larger pieces, she started to examine the smaller bits that looked like they might fit next to it. Turning it methodically, if shakily, until finally rejecting it and selecting another piece. She repeated the process with several pieces before finding the right one and gluing it in place. She set the two pieces aside to dry and began the process again with another shard.
The fear in her gut had her attention flicking between the clock that steadily encroached on the time she had left before Grissom would arrive and the pieces of broken glass that she was desperately trying to fix. Her lack of focus eventually resulted in a nasty cut with the piece of glass she was holding, finally sending the tears she’d been holding spilling down her cheeks.
That was how Grissom found her; kneeling with glass all around her, tears streaming unchecked down her face and blood running unnoticed from her thumb onto the shards of glass on the floor. The chink of his keys on the side made Sara look up. As soon as she met his eyes, she began to babble her excuses, as fast as her brain could create them, a feeling of hopelessness rising up hysterically in her.
“Gil, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I’ll pay for it. I’ll replace it. I’ll find one exactly the same. I promise. I’m so so sorry.”
Without a word Grissom swept her up into his arms and carried her into the living room, laying her on the couch before disappearing briefly to find his first aid box. When he returned he began to gently clean her hands and dress the wound, watching her intently as he did so. Sara stared down at her trembling hands, unable to meet his gaze. Small sniffles and sobs still shook her sporadically. She felt small and stupid, but part of her was convinced that this was the calm before the storm, that when she pulled herself together Grissom would tell her exactly why it wouldn’t work out between them, and he would have that same look in his eye; the disappointment, the realisation that she wasn’t what he wanted after all, and the look that screamed ‘you don’t belong here’. Finally he found his voice and Sara could feel his searching eyes on her face.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s only a vase. I never really liked it anyway. In fact I was thinking about getting rid of it.” He spoke softly, as if trying to calm a child. He raised a hand to stroke her chin with the pad of his thumb.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She raised her eyes as far as his chest, but was unable to force them any higher. Her voice sounded resigned, as if reading the lines from an over-rehearsed script.
“Well yeah, I guess I am.” This won a small chuckle; more like a sharp exhale of air than actual laughter, and also the first fleeting eye contact.
“Griss, I’m so sorry…” She started to say, but Grissom hushed her, pulling her into his arms. His lips fell on her hair and forehead, kissing her repeatedly until she began to relax.
“Sara. Honey. I’ve spent years filling this house with objects, bugs, journals, paraphernalia… things. It used to make me proud, to show the places I’ve been, the things I’ve collected, but somehow the house was still empty. Since this thing started between us, you’ve made this place a home. Every chipped mug, every stain on the carpet reminds me how pristine my life used to be, how sterile, and makes me grateful that you came and turned it all upside down. I guess having physical evidence that you’ve been here helps to reassure the criminologist in me. I may not feel able to shout about us from the rooftops, but seeing the trace that you leave around my house helps me to know that this is real. What you do to me, the way you make me feel. It’s real.”
A few months later, after he had helped Sara move the majority of her stuff to his house and they collapsed exhausted on the couch, Grissom produced a box gift-wrapped in shiny paper.
“A house-warming present.” He explained, a twinkle in his eye. Sara attacked the paper, and opened the box to reveal a glass vase, meticulously reconstructed from thousands of shards of glass. There were still small holes in some sections that had obviously been unsalvageable. She held it up and saw how the light refracted beautifully through the uneven glass.
“What’s this?” Sara asked. A small smile showed that she already had some idea.
“Reassurance for both of us.”
“Trace evidence?” She asked, reading the card.
“Well I can’t see the evidence you leave here…” He touched his hand to his head. “…or here…” He moved it to his heart. “The vase, however, is conclusive, irrefutable proof that Sara Sidle lives here with me.”
Sara lent in and kissed him softly on the lips. She placed the vase on the coffee table and stood up, reaching an arm down to Grissom.
“Where are we going?” His confusion was met with a minxy smile as she pulled him to his feet and began to lead him upstairs to the bedroom.
“Only DNA evidence will stand up in court.”
Author: Fromgrissom
Rating: PG13 for language.
Fandom: CSI Vegas
Pairing: GSR
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make no money from pimping out CSI characters.
A/N: Hmm, Delving into Sara's past a wee bit. Will old problems come back to haunt? Big thanks to my fellow Brit butterfliedgsr for beta-ing. All reviews welcome :)
The dreadful realisation struck her like a punch in the guts. It had all gone to hell. Bile rose in Sara’s throat as sheer panic took over. How the hell did she always manage to fuck things up? Why couldn’t things go smoothly for once? Instead, this had to happen, right now, just when everything was going so well.
Grissom had given Sara his key and allowed her free rein of his house and, more surprisingly, his kitchen for the first time. She had been cooking, with one excited eye on the clock that would signal his return after shift and a smile on her lips born of excited anticipation. She had been listening to the latest in a series of CDs that Greg had lovingly made for her, much to her amusement and Grissom’s extreme annoyance. Unlike the usual trashy punk rock that Greg tried to poison her mind and deafen her ears with, Sara had been pleasantly surprised to find herself bopping around the kitchen to an upbeat melody that fit her excited mood perfectly. The beat coursed through her body and she had found herself dancing, shaking her hair out and waving her arms as she let the stress of the day roll off her.
That was when it happened. An ill-placed swing of an arm knocked a vase clean off the side. For a few seconds Sara just stared at the mess in complete shock, eyes wide in disbelief. How could she be so stupid?! Hadn’t she learnt by now never to let her guard down? This was what happened when you relaxed; you ended up breaking a vase, or an ornament, or worse. That was always the way. Just when you forgot yourself, allowed yourself just that one moment of freedom, of not trying with everything you had to be perfect, that was when it would happen. It would be Grissom’s grandmother’s or great aunt’s or some other family heirloom. It would be unique and irreplaceable, worthless but priceless with sentimentality. It always was. They would tell you that to make sure you knew exactly what you’d done. Right before they got that look in their eye, the one that told you that this would never be your home, that it was only a matter of time until they would find an excuse for you to move on, a forgotten chore, a jealous foster sibling. Even if you did everything right, they would find something, make something up if they had to. You would know then, in that instant, that you were temporary.
Sara’s rational mind tried to calm her, tried to insist that it would be different this time. She wasn’t a child anymore and Grissom was different. He would understand. However, the dread festering in her gut undermined all of her rationalisations. How many times would it take for her to realise even the kindest people in the world wouldn’t put up with her mistakes? Grissom is different, she tried to tell herself. Why? You think he loves you just because he’s getting some? Even as she tried to reassure herself, Sara’s ingrained insecurities attacked her with their needle-like claws, piercing deep into her most vulnerable areas, winning control over her rational brain with practiced ease. No. Only one option remained; to somehow hide what she’d done. If Grissom didn’t find out then she would be able to stay.
Adrenaline coursed through Sara’s veins as she tried to formulate a plan. Maybe she could sweep up the remnants of the vase and throw them into the trash. Perhaps Grissom wouldn’t check the trash. Don’t be stupid, her CSI training interjected. As soon as he saw it missing that was the first place he would look… She could remove the trash bag and dump it. No, that would make her look even guiltier. Suddenly feeling akin to the criminals she investigated, Sara felt her panic increase, as she realised she was trying to hide evidence from the greatest criminologist in the country; the one man rumoured to be capable of getting away with murder. No, she couldn’t move the trash bag; there would be too much evidence left behind, one way or another. A last, desperate idea hit her. She could try to fix it. With a quick glance at the clock she set off, heading for Grissom’s home office. She rummaged around in a few drawers until she found what she was looking for: superglue.
Returning to the scene of the crime, Sara had to fight back tears of desperation. The vase had all but shattered on impact. She gulped down air, as she tried to steady herself for the mammoth task at hand. Picking up one of the slightly larger pieces, she started to examine the smaller bits that looked like they might fit next to it. Turning it methodically, if shakily, until finally rejecting it and selecting another piece. She repeated the process with several pieces before finding the right one and gluing it in place. She set the two pieces aside to dry and began the process again with another shard.
The fear in her gut had her attention flicking between the clock that steadily encroached on the time she had left before Grissom would arrive and the pieces of broken glass that she was desperately trying to fix. Her lack of focus eventually resulted in a nasty cut with the piece of glass she was holding, finally sending the tears she’d been holding spilling down her cheeks.
That was how Grissom found her; kneeling with glass all around her, tears streaming unchecked down her face and blood running unnoticed from her thumb onto the shards of glass on the floor. The chink of his keys on the side made Sara look up. As soon as she met his eyes, she began to babble her excuses, as fast as her brain could create them, a feeling of hopelessness rising up hysterically in her.
“Gil, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I’ll pay for it. I’ll replace it. I’ll find one exactly the same. I promise. I’m so so sorry.”
Without a word Grissom swept her up into his arms and carried her into the living room, laying her on the couch before disappearing briefly to find his first aid box. When he returned he began to gently clean her hands and dress the wound, watching her intently as he did so. Sara stared down at her trembling hands, unable to meet his gaze. Small sniffles and sobs still shook her sporadically. She felt small and stupid, but part of her was convinced that this was the calm before the storm, that when she pulled herself together Grissom would tell her exactly why it wouldn’t work out between them, and he would have that same look in his eye; the disappointment, the realisation that she wasn’t what he wanted after all, and the look that screamed ‘you don’t belong here’. Finally he found his voice and Sara could feel his searching eyes on her face.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s only a vase. I never really liked it anyway. In fact I was thinking about getting rid of it.” He spoke softly, as if trying to calm a child. He raised a hand to stroke her chin with the pad of his thumb.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She raised her eyes as far as his chest, but was unable to force them any higher. Her voice sounded resigned, as if reading the lines from an over-rehearsed script.
“Well yeah, I guess I am.” This won a small chuckle; more like a sharp exhale of air than actual laughter, and also the first fleeting eye contact.
“Griss, I’m so sorry…” She started to say, but Grissom hushed her, pulling her into his arms. His lips fell on her hair and forehead, kissing her repeatedly until she began to relax.
“Sara. Honey. I’ve spent years filling this house with objects, bugs, journals, paraphernalia… things. It used to make me proud, to show the places I’ve been, the things I’ve collected, but somehow the house was still empty. Since this thing started between us, you’ve made this place a home. Every chipped mug, every stain on the carpet reminds me how pristine my life used to be, how sterile, and makes me grateful that you came and turned it all upside down. I guess having physical evidence that you’ve been here helps to reassure the criminologist in me. I may not feel able to shout about us from the rooftops, but seeing the trace that you leave around my house helps me to know that this is real. What you do to me, the way you make me feel. It’s real.”
A few months later, after he had helped Sara move the majority of her stuff to his house and they collapsed exhausted on the couch, Grissom produced a box gift-wrapped in shiny paper.
“A house-warming present.” He explained, a twinkle in his eye. Sara attacked the paper, and opened the box to reveal a glass vase, meticulously reconstructed from thousands of shards of glass. There were still small holes in some sections that had obviously been unsalvageable. She held it up and saw how the light refracted beautifully through the uneven glass.
“What’s this?” Sara asked. A small smile showed that she already had some idea.
“Reassurance for both of us.”
“Trace evidence?” She asked, reading the card.
“Well I can’t see the evidence you leave here…” He touched his hand to his head. “…or here…” He moved it to his heart. “The vase, however, is conclusive, irrefutable proof that Sara Sidle lives here with me.”
Sara lent in and kissed him softly on the lips. She placed the vase on the coffee table and stood up, reaching an arm down to Grissom.
“Where are we going?” His confusion was met with a minxy smile as she pulled him to his feet and began to lead him upstairs to the bedroom.
“Only DNA evidence will stand up in court.”