CSI-Get To Me, Part 2 of 3
A continuation of the CSI fic I posted early in the week. Part 2 in a series of 3. I'm really pleased with this one.
CSI-Get To Me, 2/3
Author: kosmickway
Rating: Mature for violence and strong language.
Pairing: GSR
Spoilers: None for this section. Reference to "Nesting Dolls."
Disclaimer: I don’t own them but they sure as hell own me.
A/N: Lyrics are from Jennifer Paige’s “Get To Me.” I don’t own those either. A continuation of part 1 of "Get To Me."
Summary: He’s never insisted before, ever, on anything, and suddenly he’s crossed his own personal line with her.
I feel weak, I'm never weak.
I always know what to say.
Don't look at me, I can't speak.
How did you get to me this way?
All I know is what I feel.
And what I feel is way too real.
Who I am is what you see.
Baby, how did you ever get to me?
He goes to her apartment because he’s worried about her. Not as a supervisor-no, he’s gotten past that personal delusion. Ecklie’s twenty minute tirade in his office be damned. Even Catherine’s anger doesn’t matter to him now. He’s knocking on the door to her apartment because there is something very wrong with Sara and he has to know what it is.
She opens the door with the grim expression of someone who knows her head will very shortly be falling into the basket at the bottom of the chopping block.
“Well, if you’re here it can’t be good.”
“Can I come in?”
She steps aside and lets him pass. The smell of her shampoo and body lotion overrides the scent of alcohol from the open bottle of Heineken she’s holding in her hand.
“Wanna ask me if I’m drunk?”
She flashes a sharply unamused smile and tosses her hair back. The flash-in-a-pan anger that prompted her outbursts with Catherine and Ecklie is still there- the smile and the head toss confirm it. The anger’s been tamped down behind walls of crumbling concrete- mostly contained but likely to erupt again.
She won’t snap at him, he’s certain of that. She’s always been so careful to maintain a semblance of control with him, still so desperate to impress after all these years, the eager student to the brilliant master.
Sara, just let the walls down, he feels like saying. Show me the real you.
“We both know that’s not your problem,” he says. He has to school his features into something that more closely resembles a stern supervisor and not a concerned friend, simply to continue playing the role. “I spoke to Catherine.”
“Ecklie?”
“He wants me to fire you.”
There’s sharp, bitter almond disappointment in her eyes.“I figured. Can I get you anything?”
Resignation. It’s in her voice, her face, her body language. He doesn’t want that there, doesn’t want to see her giving in. To see the fire inside of her tamped down at all the wrong times and raging in all the wrong places is almost more than he can handle, mostly because he knows that part of what’s driven her to this place is him.
“Sure. An explanation.”
“I- lost my temper.”
He has to refrain from using one of Greg’s favorite expressions- “well, DUH.” He can see her temper still roiling beneath the surface, even beneath her carefully schooled features. He studies her just a beat too long and that prompts her into movement, a forced walk across the room to get away from the question that will inevitably follow.
“That seems to be happening quite a bit. Do you know why?”
“What difference does it make? I’m still fired.”
Belligerent, which is something she’s never been with him. He has to tread carefully now if he ever wants to get anything out of her. So he finally drops the supervisor act- and an act is all it has been, he admits- and lets his voice gentle on his next words.
“It makes a difference to me.”
She considers, giving him her eyes for a moment, then begins to recite, a wry smile twisting her lips.
“I have a problem with authority. I choose men who are emotionally unavailable-“ She gestures right at him, has no qualms about using him as an example of what is fucking her up so badly, and it’s all he can do not to wince with pain, frustration, and guilt. “-I’m self-destructive. All of the above.”
Self-destructive. A flash of stark black and white images hits his mind all at once- Sara, alone with a bottle of Jack, an old movie playing on a TV that she pays no attention to. Sara, hiking the trails in Icebox Canyon all by herself, pushing her body to its outermost limits, sweating, panting, furiously scrabbling over rocks and shale, mouth set in a grim line. Sara, at the shooting range, grimly pulling on a Beretta, plugging target after target. Sara, sitting on the bathroom floor, away from mirrors, an Xacto blade slicing thin, straight lines on the insides of her arms. Hasn’t he noticed the scars, old and white, and, just recently, the newer ones, pink or angry red? Hasn’t he longed to ask and then brushed it aside, none of his business?
“Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?”
When the anger flashes in her eyes, he realizes she not only doesn’t get the reference but that she thinks he’s mocking her, making light of her concerns. Fuck!
“It’s from The Big Chill,” he amends. “One of the characters explaining a basic fact of life, that rationalizations are more important to us than-“
He searches for an appropriate example and can’t come up with one so he finally reaches into his head and pulls out his own inappropriate thoughts.
“- sex even.”
Subtle Gil. Real subtle.
“I am not rationalizing anything. I crossed the line with Catherine and I was- insubordinate to Ecklie.”
“Why?”
Her whole face closes down as her jaw tightens. “Leave it alone.”
“No, Sara!”
She’s shocked that he’s insisted. It’s in her eyes and all over her face. He’s never insisted before, ever, on anything, and suddenly he’s crossed his own personal line with her. She stares at him, eyes wide and almost angry.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to know why you’re so angry.”
She thinks about this, thinks long enough that he has to qualify by saying, “I really want to know. I don’t want something you’ve made up.”
“You want the truth?”
“I always want the truth, Sara.”
“It isn’t pretty,” she warns. She stands up and starts to pace around the room, all pent-up energy and long restless limbs, a caged panther. He stands still in opposition to her movement, hoping to project strength and solidity, hoping he doesn’t look frozen or as out of place as he suddenly feels.
“What in life is?”
“You’re going to think I’m making--” she grins sourly, “-rationalizations.
“I’m hurt that you think so little of me.”
And he is. And she knows it, because she stops and stares at him, and finally says, “I’m sorry. It’s just- I haven’t told this to anyone.”
“Anyone here?”
“No, anyone at all. It’s too- I just-“ She breathes out, hard, harsh, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. “You’re the first.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just sits down on the couch and waits for her to calm down enough to join him.
“You’ve read my file?”
“Parts of it.” A lie. He’s read all of it. In great detail. “Nothing in-depth.” He’s memorized her vital stats. Allergies- Erythromycin. Amoxycyllin. Bee stings. Emergency Contact- anyone from the lab. Previous Surgeries-Tonsils at 8. Appendix at 15.
“You know my parents are- That my father is-“
“Your father passed away. I know. It mentions that.”
“It doesn’t say how.” She walks to the balcony door, slides it open, letting in cool air and the sound of traffic. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright.
“No, it doesn’t say how.”
“He was murdered.” She sits down on the small chair nearest him, draws her long legs close to her chest, hugs her knees like a small child. He moves to the edge of the couch, hoping to hear her better, wanting to be closer.
“It’s funny the things that you remember and the things that you don’t, you know? There was a smell of iron in the air, cast-off on the bedroom wall. There was this young cop, puking his guts. I don’t remember the woman who took me to foster care. I can’t remember her name. Which is strange, you know, because I couldn’t let go of her hand.”
Oh no. No, no, no. Not this. Please not this. Not the nightmare that he’s seen- that they’ve seen-- so many times. The blank eyed child, quietly uncomprehending. The hysterical child, wanting only Mommy or Daddy. The crying child, clutching a favorite animal and unable to let go of the case worker. Not this. Not for Sara. Please no.
“Well,” he finally mumbles inadequately, “The mind has its filters.”
“I do remember the looks. I became ‘the girl whose father was stabbed to death.’”
Their eyes lock and he sees the fear in her eyes, sees the black featured spectre that keeps her up nights, looking for solace in the bottom of a bottle. It twists his heart completely in his chest when she finally asks, voice breaking, “Do you think there’s a murder gene?”
There’s so much that he wants to say to that, so many ways he wants to respond. It’s a struggle not to take her in his arms. Finally he just says, “I don’t believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior.”
“You wouldn’t know that in my house. The fights, the yelling, the trips to the hospital- I thought it was the way that everybody lived. When my mother killed my father ... I found out that it wasn’t.”
There’s anguish written all over her face in the way her eyes are filling with tears, in the tremble of her chin when she says the word “father.” Immense sadness. Pain so intense he can hardly bear to see it written so large on so delicate a face. And looking at her face, now, he can see the remnants of a violent childhood, scars he hadn’t taken the time to see before. The slight bump in a re-set nose, a fading scar on her forehead, the gap in her teeth that is suddenly less adorable and more pitiful.
He doesn’t say any of the thousand things rising inside of him.
Baby ...
Sweetheart ...
Honey ...
Angel ...
Sara ...
He doesn’t do what he really wants to just then, which is pull her to his chest and hold her, stroking her hair, easing the tension out of her neck, kissing the tear tracks off of her cheeks.
Instead he sits, watches, waiting for the dam to break, knowing that it needs to, that the tears must come, that she must grieve before it overwhelms her completely.
At the first choked sob she looks away from him, trying to hide her face. When more sobs shake her body, she shades her forehead with her hand, still trying not to let him see. Then the torrent starts and the tears are wracking her and she’s crying gut-wrenching, soul-shaking sobs.
Only then, as she’s letting the emotion loose, does he take her hand and hold it steadily, hoping like hell that she’ll never know that he, too, is crying- just on the inside.
CSI-Get To Me, 2/3
Author: kosmickway
Rating: Mature for violence and strong language.
Pairing: GSR
Spoilers: None for this section. Reference to "Nesting Dolls."
Disclaimer: I don’t own them but they sure as hell own me.
A/N: Lyrics are from Jennifer Paige’s “Get To Me.” I don’t own those either. A continuation of part 1 of "Get To Me."
Summary: He’s never insisted before, ever, on anything, and suddenly he’s crossed his own personal line with her.
I feel weak, I'm never weak.
I always know what to say.
Don't look at me, I can't speak.
How did you get to me this way?
All I know is what I feel.
And what I feel is way too real.
Who I am is what you see.
Baby, how did you ever get to me?
He goes to her apartment because he’s worried about her. Not as a supervisor-no, he’s gotten past that personal delusion. Ecklie’s twenty minute tirade in his office be damned. Even Catherine’s anger doesn’t matter to him now. He’s knocking on the door to her apartment because there is something very wrong with Sara and he has to know what it is.
She opens the door with the grim expression of someone who knows her head will very shortly be falling into the basket at the bottom of the chopping block.
“Well, if you’re here it can’t be good.”
“Can I come in?”
She steps aside and lets him pass. The smell of her shampoo and body lotion overrides the scent of alcohol from the open bottle of Heineken she’s holding in her hand.
“Wanna ask me if I’m drunk?”
She flashes a sharply unamused smile and tosses her hair back. The flash-in-a-pan anger that prompted her outbursts with Catherine and Ecklie is still there- the smile and the head toss confirm it. The anger’s been tamped down behind walls of crumbling concrete- mostly contained but likely to erupt again.
She won’t snap at him, he’s certain of that. She’s always been so careful to maintain a semblance of control with him, still so desperate to impress after all these years, the eager student to the brilliant master.
Sara, just let the walls down, he feels like saying. Show me the real you.
“We both know that’s not your problem,” he says. He has to school his features into something that more closely resembles a stern supervisor and not a concerned friend, simply to continue playing the role. “I spoke to Catherine.”
“Ecklie?”
“He wants me to fire you.”
There’s sharp, bitter almond disappointment in her eyes.“I figured. Can I get you anything?”
Resignation. It’s in her voice, her face, her body language. He doesn’t want that there, doesn’t want to see her giving in. To see the fire inside of her tamped down at all the wrong times and raging in all the wrong places is almost more than he can handle, mostly because he knows that part of what’s driven her to this place is him.
“Sure. An explanation.”
“I- lost my temper.”
He has to refrain from using one of Greg’s favorite expressions- “well, DUH.” He can see her temper still roiling beneath the surface, even beneath her carefully schooled features. He studies her just a beat too long and that prompts her into movement, a forced walk across the room to get away from the question that will inevitably follow.
“That seems to be happening quite a bit. Do you know why?”
“What difference does it make? I’m still fired.”
Belligerent, which is something she’s never been with him. He has to tread carefully now if he ever wants to get anything out of her. So he finally drops the supervisor act- and an act is all it has been, he admits- and lets his voice gentle on his next words.
“It makes a difference to me.”
She considers, giving him her eyes for a moment, then begins to recite, a wry smile twisting her lips.
“I have a problem with authority. I choose men who are emotionally unavailable-“ She gestures right at him, has no qualms about using him as an example of what is fucking her up so badly, and it’s all he can do not to wince with pain, frustration, and guilt. “-I’m self-destructive. All of the above.”
Self-destructive. A flash of stark black and white images hits his mind all at once- Sara, alone with a bottle of Jack, an old movie playing on a TV that she pays no attention to. Sara, hiking the trails in Icebox Canyon all by herself, pushing her body to its outermost limits, sweating, panting, furiously scrabbling over rocks and shale, mouth set in a grim line. Sara, at the shooting range, grimly pulling on a Beretta, plugging target after target. Sara, sitting on the bathroom floor, away from mirrors, an Xacto blade slicing thin, straight lines on the insides of her arms. Hasn’t he noticed the scars, old and white, and, just recently, the newer ones, pink or angry red? Hasn’t he longed to ask and then brushed it aside, none of his business?
“Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?”
When the anger flashes in her eyes, he realizes she not only doesn’t get the reference but that she thinks he’s mocking her, making light of her concerns. Fuck!
“It’s from The Big Chill,” he amends. “One of the characters explaining a basic fact of life, that rationalizations are more important to us than-“
He searches for an appropriate example and can’t come up with one so he finally reaches into his head and pulls out his own inappropriate thoughts.
“- sex even.”
Subtle Gil. Real subtle.
“I am not rationalizing anything. I crossed the line with Catherine and I was- insubordinate to Ecklie.”
“Why?”
Her whole face closes down as her jaw tightens. “Leave it alone.”
“No, Sara!”
She’s shocked that he’s insisted. It’s in her eyes and all over her face. He’s never insisted before, ever, on anything, and suddenly he’s crossed his own personal line with her. She stares at him, eyes wide and almost angry.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to know why you’re so angry.”
She thinks about this, thinks long enough that he has to qualify by saying, “I really want to know. I don’t want something you’ve made up.”
“You want the truth?”
“I always want the truth, Sara.”
“It isn’t pretty,” she warns. She stands up and starts to pace around the room, all pent-up energy and long restless limbs, a caged panther. He stands still in opposition to her movement, hoping to project strength and solidity, hoping he doesn’t look frozen or as out of place as he suddenly feels.
“What in life is?”
“You’re going to think I’m making--” she grins sourly, “-rationalizations.
“I’m hurt that you think so little of me.”
And he is. And she knows it, because she stops and stares at him, and finally says, “I’m sorry. It’s just- I haven’t told this to anyone.”
“Anyone here?”
“No, anyone at all. It’s too- I just-“ She breathes out, hard, harsh, somewhere between a sigh and a sob. “You’re the first.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just sits down on the couch and waits for her to calm down enough to join him.
“You’ve read my file?”
“Parts of it.” A lie. He’s read all of it. In great detail. “Nothing in-depth.” He’s memorized her vital stats. Allergies- Erythromycin. Amoxycyllin. Bee stings. Emergency Contact- anyone from the lab. Previous Surgeries-Tonsils at 8. Appendix at 15.
“You know my parents are- That my father is-“
“Your father passed away. I know. It mentions that.”
“It doesn’t say how.” She walks to the balcony door, slides it open, letting in cool air and the sound of traffic. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright.
“No, it doesn’t say how.”
“He was murdered.” She sits down on the small chair nearest him, draws her long legs close to her chest, hugs her knees like a small child. He moves to the edge of the couch, hoping to hear her better, wanting to be closer.
“It’s funny the things that you remember and the things that you don’t, you know? There was a smell of iron in the air, cast-off on the bedroom wall. There was this young cop, puking his guts. I don’t remember the woman who took me to foster care. I can’t remember her name. Which is strange, you know, because I couldn’t let go of her hand.”
Oh no. No, no, no. Not this. Please not this. Not the nightmare that he’s seen- that they’ve seen-- so many times. The blank eyed child, quietly uncomprehending. The hysterical child, wanting only Mommy or Daddy. The crying child, clutching a favorite animal and unable to let go of the case worker. Not this. Not for Sara. Please no.
“Well,” he finally mumbles inadequately, “The mind has its filters.”
“I do remember the looks. I became ‘the girl whose father was stabbed to death.’”
Their eyes lock and he sees the fear in her eyes, sees the black featured spectre that keeps her up nights, looking for solace in the bottom of a bottle. It twists his heart completely in his chest when she finally asks, voice breaking, “Do you think there’s a murder gene?”
There’s so much that he wants to say to that, so many ways he wants to respond. It’s a struggle not to take her in his arms. Finally he just says, “I don’t believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior.”
“You wouldn’t know that in my house. The fights, the yelling, the trips to the hospital- I thought it was the way that everybody lived. When my mother killed my father ... I found out that it wasn’t.”
There’s anguish written all over her face in the way her eyes are filling with tears, in the tremble of her chin when she says the word “father.” Immense sadness. Pain so intense he can hardly bear to see it written so large on so delicate a face. And looking at her face, now, he can see the remnants of a violent childhood, scars he hadn’t taken the time to see before. The slight bump in a re-set nose, a fading scar on her forehead, the gap in her teeth that is suddenly less adorable and more pitiful.
He doesn’t say any of the thousand things rising inside of him.
Baby ...
Sweetheart ...
Honey ...
Angel ...
Sara ...
He doesn’t do what he really wants to just then, which is pull her to his chest and hold her, stroking her hair, easing the tension out of her neck, kissing the tear tracks off of her cheeks.
Instead he sits, watches, waiting for the dam to break, knowing that it needs to, that the tears must come, that she must grieve before it overwhelms her completely.
At the first choked sob she looks away from him, trying to hide her face. When more sobs shake her body, she shades her forehead with her hand, still trying not to let him see. Then the torrent starts and the tears are wracking her and she’s crying gut-wrenching, soul-shaking sobs.
Only then, as she’s letting the emotion loose, does he take her hand and hold it steadily, hoping like hell that she’ll never know that he, too, is crying- just on the inside.