Through the Blinds chapter one By Cappuccino Girl Pairing: Grissom / Sara, with smatterings of Catherine / Sara. Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: When did you ever think they were mine? Notes: This story takes place right after Felonius Monk. The threesome in abstencia epic is turning into my little labor of love. It's been a pleasure and a nightmare at once. Thanks to Devanie for the beta and the fabulous descriptive aide of intense puppies. Now there's one that's gonna stick. Also, moochas smoochas to Andi and Amber for listening and ideas. Summary: Maybe he holds her to his chest at night so she won't cry when she awakes from the same repulsive image. Lindsey's fast asleep. When you came home, you'd barely even kicked off your shoes before you snuck your head around her bedroom door to see her dreaming the innocent dreams of childhood. Ponies and princesses and evergreen forest. If she has a bad dream on your nights off, she'll crawl into your bed, whispering "Mommy, I'm so scared," and you'll kiss her forehead, make it all better. It's so simple, so effective. Sara sits across from you on the couch now. She stood outside and rang the doorbell five minutes ago and since you've welcomed her inside, she's hardly said a word. You notice her studying your half empty glass of vodka. "It's been one of those weeks," you say, avoiding any details. "I bet." "Do you want one?" you ask her, motioning to your glass. She nods. You do your best not to trip over the Malibu Barbie doll on the floor while going to fetch a glass from the kitchen. Standing in front of the shelf, you realize that none of your glasses match, and each individual one has a back-story. You chose the short one that's wider at the top than at the bottom, and fill it with vodka before carrying it and the half full bottle back to the couch. Sara's picked up the Barbie doll and is swinging it around by its left leg. You smile at the combination of Barbies and vodka. Sara takes the glass from you, sips the clear liquid. "Thanks," she tells you with a soft sigh. You study each other for a moment. Sara's feet are up on the table. She wears odd socks. One black, and one grey with the heel growing thin. "How are you holding up?" she eventually asks. "This is why you came here, isn't it? To find out if I was okay." "If you really want to know, yeah, it is," she says firmly. "And I know I'm not the only one who was a little worried about you when you left the lab this evening." "I'm the least of your worries." "Grissom was concerned too." "Oh, I'll bet he was. He's always concerned about 'his women' in the lab. Just because we're women he seems to think we can't handle things as well as he can." You're startled by the bitterness in your tone, but it doesn't stop you. "We're women, so we're going to get all emotional about things." "But you did this time, didn't you, Catherine?" It's precious, the way your name sounds on her lips. You don't answer, just take a long swig of your drink. "You know that Nick kept the magazine?" she asks, her tone less serious. "The tit one?" "Yeah, made up some stupid reason about it being required for court." You both laugh, Sara almost choking on her drink. "They're all just adolescent boys when it comes to things like that," you say. She grins. "Nick and Greg are." "Grissom too." "No he's not," Sara blurts emphatically. "My ass." You drop your glass onto the table, and lean back smugly. "You don't think he likes working with me so much because I'm such a wonderful CSI, do you? All he has to do is picture me taking my clothes off in a bar. You don't think he gets off on that?" Sara raises her eyebrows and tries to hide behind her legs which are tucked up on the couch. She's so fucking innocent sometimes. Harvard and the odd long-term boyfriend every now and then. You bet she's never jumped into bed with someone before the third date. "He thinks I'm beautiful," she whispers. You sigh. "Who doesn't. Charm will get you anywhere, especially in a field like policing." "I guess," she shrugs. "But I never like to think of things that way." "And that's exactly why you're sitting here with me, drinking vodka, expecting me to be a wreck, when I'm not." Sara's eyes say, then what are you? You look away to avoid answering. Lindsey must have forgotten her coat at a friend's house, because it is missing from the hooks. Maybe you should call Danielle. It's one twenty two AM. Maybe not. "It had to be awkward between you and your mentor," Sara says while flipping carelessly through the comic book on the table. "Jimmy was a good guy," you tell her, trying to convince her as well as yourself. "Even good people make mistakes sometimes." Sara's idealistic, so she says, "I think this was more than a mistake." "He was doing what he thought was best at the time. Views get warped so easily." "They do." "He thought I would have fucked people for money," you find yourself explaining. "He thought I was a whore." "Did you ever?" Sara wonders, and you can't believe that she's asking you this with those huge brown eyes of hers gazing right at you. "No," you spit, shake your head. "I would never-" "I'm sorry," she says, and you know she means it. "It's just that you seem so confident when it comes to such things, and…" "You didn't know. It's fine, Sara." She smiles a little. "There's something allusive about it." "You think?" "Sure. The lights. The nightlife. Those pretty girls and drunken men." You laugh, drinking while laughing. "It's shit. The pay's good, but as a whole, it's shit when I look back on it. I mean, which child dreams that when they grow up they want to take their clothes off for money." "True. But then which child dreams they want to study the bruises on dead bodies for money?" "Point." You pause to watch her as she tries to catch the drops of condensation on her glass before they reach the table. "My past. Peroxide and lipstick and leather," you say. Sara smiles. "That's your present too." ~* *~ This is becoming a regular occurrence, your pager going off just when you about to reach the lab, telling you to go to an alternative location. You woke at around 3.20 pm, staggered out of bed and completed all the menial tasks before showering and getting ready for work. It's now 6.50 pm due to a slight detour and taking the wrong turning. The road is wide, with trees lining it on both sides, secluding the houses with their huge backyards and the artistic wrought iron gates that adorn their driveways. The blue lights of numerous police and paramedic vehicles cast a faint blue hue onto the pale stone of the house as both you and Sara make your way through the congregation of police, press and on-lookers. "Catherine. Sara," a familiar voice calls from behind the yellow police tape. The reflective print on Grissom's standard issue windbreaker is the only thing enabling you to pick him out from the mass of officers on the front lawn of the house. It's quite a fancy place, and you can't help but notice the black BMW parked in the drive. If that's in the driveway, what do they keep in the garage? You mumble something incoherent while holding up the tape for Sara before ducking under yourself. "Woman found dead in the bathtub. Man presumed to have hung from the bathroom door before the home help opened it and found them both lying there," he tells you rapidly, striding towards the front door. You blink your eyes. Your head's still pounding, reminding you why you shouldn't get drunk when you have to go to work the next day. Peering down for a moment, you check your purse for ibuprofen. The packet's empty. "Catherine, are you okay there?" Grissom's classic expression which combines disproval and concern is plastered on his face. He should get that registered with the patent office. "Yeah, its just- Have you got any headache pills or something?" You brush your fingers over your forehead. "No," he responds brusquely. "Can you and Sara give the bathroom the once over?" "Sure. I don't care." Which is true at this moment. Sara hands you two Advil from her pocket which you swallow dry. "Let's go dust." You attempt a smile and wander through the front door together. "Get a look at this house." Sara's eyes widen to the size of teacups. She's such a simple girl. You run a finger over the white marble countertops. "Plenty of bucks in here." "Slick furnishings. Fancy electronics. Swanky cars. These people had made it." "Sure did," you sigh. The painkillers seem to be taking exceptionally long to kick in, even though they are of the allegedly super-fast-working variety. Some left-overs from dinner sit on the kitchen counter, their smell seeping into your nose. You walk out into the hallway, choke back bile. "Where's the bathroom?" "We under time pressure?" Sara inquires. "Well, if I need to throw up, then it might be best to have printed the toilet first," you say over your shoulder while clambering up the stairs. "Okay." The hallway upstairs is rather standard issue, eggshell walls, dark oak floor. The bathroom is the last door on the right. Grasping the door handle, you pull back to reveal your puzzle. The bathtub is covered in spatters of blood, deep crimson standing out in the otherwise white room. The shower curtain has turned a rather vile shade of pink. Ms. Patricia Mann isn't quite blue yet, but there's not a breath left in her. All her life has spilled out into the tub, a pool of red in which she now lays. From the corner of your eye, you watch Sara shudder. This is why Grissom tends to work such cases with her, because he'll comfort her and she won't think it inappropriate when his hand wanders to her shoulders, when he holds her close. Maybe he holds her to his chest at night so she won't cry when she awakes from the same repulsive image. Or maybe he just uses it as an excuse to kiss her. Mr. Nigel Foster lies on his back beside the toilet. His eyes are marginally contorted, and within his proximity lies a brown leather belt. All the better to hang yourself with. "He could have stood on this, then kicked it back once he'd attached himself," Sara remarks, pointing out the wicker chair in the corner. "Makes sense, although-" "Officer found this," you hear Grissom say from behind you. You spin on your heels to find him standing in the doorway, clutching a piece of paper. "Love letter?" He purses his lips. "Suicide note." You take the note from him. Sometimes nothing makes sense anymore… Forgive those who have forgiven you… So sorry… Blah, blah, blah, bullshit. "It reads like a cheap soap opera." "I'm going to send it off to be compared with samples of the couples' handwriting," he says, slipping the letter into an evidence bag. "So you're not buying it either?" "Take a look at this," Sara remarks from the other side of the bathroom. You size up the distance between you and the wall before cautiously stepping over the late Mr. Foster. Sara is transfixed, her eyes riveted to some damage on the window. Grissom, however, appears more interested in his view of her ass. "Forced entry?" you wonder aloud. "Possibly." Sara wiggles the window frame. "It looks like someone shoved some sort of metal object under here." She holds up a latex covered finger sprinkled with silver shining dust. "Take photos first, then samples," Grissom states, watching Sara turn her finger this way and that so the light reflects off the particles. You look too, but with less fascination and more curiosity. "It's almost blue." "Yeah. I'm thinking metallic paint," Sara says. "Photo shoot?" You flip open the lid of the camera case and remove the heavy apparatus from it's foam padding. The lens cap pops off easily. Sizing up the most useful angle from which to take the entire bathtub, you lean forward a little, place the camera to you face, and toggle the zoom. Sara steps out of your way, straddles the doorway instead, thereby pushing Grissom out of the room. He continues peeking over her left shoulder for a few moments, while you snap photos and advance the film. Why don't you work for Vogue? ~* *~ You stretch your arms out in front of you, trying to ease out the tensions of the day. Leaning your head forward until you feel a slight pain in your back, you scan the items scattered on the conference table. Newly developed photographs. Manila folders of varying colors. Enough post-it notes to stock three stationers. Too many ring-binders to count. "What have we got?" Grissom looks first at Sara, then at you. You should probably say something right about now. "Both vics are in pathology, so until we get briefed on that, we're relying on the evidence we have." "Which is?" Sara's eyes light up, so you motion for her to explain. "When we first walked into the room, we presumed murder, especially the way Ms. Mann was lying in the bathtub. Not common for suicide. Mr. Foster showed no entry or exit wound, but there was bruising on his throat. We'll have to wait to hear from pathology to know more. Catherine noticed a belt on the floor, though." Sara hands a large eight by ten photograph to Grissom. He studies it. "Hanging?" You reach over to the folder on Sara's side of the table to produce another picture and hold it up for the both of them to see. "There was also a chair in the room, which would further indicate the possibility of hanging. I checked the top of the door for prints." You draw an invisible circle around the evidence displayed on the photo. "There was some dust missing, the identical width as the leather belt on the floor, indicating that the belt had rested between the door and doorframe." "So we have a hanging?" Grissom asks again. "That's what I'm guessing." You sip your coffee. It needs more sweetener. "What's more interesting than the missing dust on the door, is the window frame." Sara tilts her head fractionally to the left, then says, "It shows clear signs of forced entry, and there have been no burglaries reported by residents of that house since it was built in 1981." Grissom takes a deep breath, reaches out and touches Sara's hand. "But who's to say that the owners didn't once forget their keys in the house and had to get in somehow?" "The front door requires a key in order to be locked. Also, the bathroom is on the top floor. You'd chose a ground floor window if you'd locked yourself out." He's still touching her. You push your chair back from the table. "And then we have the suicide note." He stops tracing the bones in Sara's hand, turns towards you, gives you an appraising stare. "We had the handwriting analyzed. It doesn't belong to either of the victims." You rest your arm on the empty chair beside you, flick your hair out of your face. "Doesn't leave many alternative scenarios, does it?" No one answers, so you flip through the file in front of you. "The police ran a relatively basic background check on the victims. Most of it is being used by profiling, but some of this stuff is interesting regardless. Mr. Foster moved to Las Vegas in 1997, leaving behind a veterinary hospital in Seattle. He purchased his house in cash, and moved in with Patricia Mann a mere six weeks after coming to Vegas." Sara nervously thumbs through the stack of pictures she's holding. Every now and then she casts a glance at Grissom, then immediately stares back at the photos. He doesn't look particularly comfortable either, but is more practiced in hiding his anxiousness. This is like unintentional couples' therapy for dysfunctional science nerds. "Six weeks seems a little soon, don't you think?" you ask the two of them. "It depends," Sara says softly. "When did Foster move here?" "May, nineteen ninety three," you read from the document." "And where did she live previously?" "Seattle, Washington." Grissom shifts uncomfortably in his chair, before standing up. "It's late. We might as well all go home and review everything tomorrow evening once we've got the pathologist's preliminary report." You lean over the table and gather together the relevant folders while Sara collects pictures and slips them into their relevant brown envelopes. She's still not meeting Grissom's eyes. "You want me to take those back to my office?" you say. "Sure." She passes you the envelopes, watches Grissom depart behind you. "Well, I'm off home. You need a ride?" Sara stands now too and collects her coat from behind her chair. "No. Brought the car today. See you tomorrow." And with that she's walking down the corridor and out of sight. Stuffing the last remaining items into your bag, you rummage around in your pocket for your keys before wandering to your office for your laptop and jacket. There are no new messages on your voicemail, but a CD rests on your desk with 'tox screen' written on it in black sharpie. You trash that into your laptop case, brandish your coat. It's time to lock up, and probably take another aspirin before you go to sleep. It's far too late to still be wide awake with a stomach like a blender. You grasp the pen which dangles down from a long chain and sign out, doing your best not to let your signature cover three boxes rather than one. The ink has barely dried when a shrill tone comes from your bag. "Catherine Willows." It's the coroner's office. "When did you send the fax?" You were just about to reach the main exit, and now you find yourself closing your phone, turning around and going back inside. The corridors of the lab are empty, and the clock on the wall says 5.07 AM. No one is here. Everyone who was on night shift have long since gone home and are fast asleep, praying that their pagers won't wake them. The day shift doesn't start until 8.30. You open the door to your office once more and flip on the light switch. Five sheets of paper rest in the tray of the fax machine which you tell yourself you'll look at tomorrow, and avoiding any further fuss, you lock the door again and stride down the hallway. Unexpectedly, a familiar voice catches your ear. You pause at the Venetian blinds to your left which provide you with a clear, yet unobtrusive view to the lab. "Six weeks. Six weeks," Sara deplores, her eyes as confused as you've ever seen them. "What about it?" "It's six weeks, Grissom. Not one year. Not two." Her voice is bitter like medicine and stale coffee. He continues staring at her, his confusion plainly visible. "I'm not understanding." "You never did, and that's precisely why I'm here now and you're giving me those innocent-school-boy eyes." He touches his forehead with his index and middle finger while he tries to make the dilemma fit a formula and fails. "I don't- What's got into you?" She doesn't flinch, glares back at him with, and from your angle you can see her drumming her fingers on her thigh. "I could ask you the same question. What got into you to expect me to just drop my life to come out here to help you?" "It was an offer." "Bullshit. You begged." "I didn't. But you came anyway." His tone is calm, unshaken. "I did, and you want to know why? Because, when you were on the phone, you said that we could try again." She takes a deep breath. "Try what? You sleeping over at my apartment when your air conditioning was broken? You showing up at my door at three AM expecting me to forgive you for not having called to say where you were? Or was it so that you could just walk all over me and then say you were sorry and climb right back into bed with me?" "You're so pretty when you're angry," he says carelessly. "Don't. Don't fucking do that. Not this time." She shoves his left hand away from her shoulder, but his right hand takes its place, combs through her tousled hair. He slides his leg closer to her thigh, causing her to squirm a little, but not enough to throw him, and you think you hear a soft moan coming from the back of her throat. Now might be the time to leave if you ever wish to plead the fifth. You've barely had a chance to blink, when his lips are on hers, and his hand is all the way up her top. Two more inches and you'd see her bra. They lean back over the table. You're open-minded, but this is a little excessive. Brandishing your car keys, you strut out of the office. Everyone has a past they can't seem to ever erase. ~ to be continued ~ all feedback to cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com visit the author's website at www.cappuccinogirl.com