Author's Note: Thank you all, you've all been wonderful! Hope you enjoyed this as much as I have! This was my first CSI story, and I had so much fun with this, I expect to be doing more.

A Note On Music: In my own opinion, Joni Mitchell is one of the most beautiful lyricists of her time. This epilogue was written to her song "A Case of You," Death Cab for Cutie's "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," Jets to Brazil's "Sweet Avenue," and the Barenaked Ladies' "Light Up My Room." It may be because all these songas are rather romantic in their own way that one could tilt one's head sideways and see a little bit of romance in this chapter. I was aiming for a deep intimate feeling, which is definitely something that comes with romance, so read this as you will. I briefly considered having Sara listening to Joni Mitchell while she vacuumed, but then realized it would be hard to hear over ther noise. Still, Sara strikes me as a Joni Mitchell fan. Anyways, that was completely irrelevant. Enjoy the story!

"I remember that time you told me, you said 'Love is touching souls.' Surely, you touched mine because part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time."
--Joni Mitchell, A Case of You

Two Months Later…

It was raining outside. It used to be that Sara would sit on her couch with a cup of tea and a good book and listen to the drops outside her window. But now, she had become a compulsive cleaner. The roar of the vacuum drowned out the sound of the rain, and the screams she still heard in her head.

She had gone back to work a month ago. She had insisted on it. She had wanted to go back after two weeks of recovery, but Grissom had wanted her to take another month off. They settled on a compromise of waiting for another two weeks, and even then Grissom resisted her every step of the way. He wouldn't send her on any intense cases, or ones that were far away. In a way, it pissed her off that he was treating her like a rookie, but every time they got in an argument about it, the look in his eyes always made her feel guilty.

She worked out her frustrations by cleaning, generally vacuuming or obsessively scrubbing her dishes to loud music. She didn't tell anyone, least of all Grissom, about the dreams she still had in which bits and pieces of the things she blocked out came back to her. Specifically, what happened in that mind-altering frenzy of Woodward's sexual assault. Her bruises had faded since then, but his stench was permanently scarred on her memory.

She didn't let anyone touch her anymore. And instead of growing closer to Grissom, she felt they were growing further apart. Their roles had reversed. While he tried harder to get close to her, she kept pushing him away. Occasionally she had considered talking to a psychiatrist, but every time she dismissed the idea. She could barely open up to people she knew, let alone a perfect stranger judging her every minute. So instead of dealing with it, she cleaned.

More than once, Sara dreamed that Woodward had succeeded in violating her. When she woke up, she still felt like he was inside of her, crawling around like some sort of viral centipede. She always showered and scrubbed her skin raw before the feeling finally went away and she could go back to sleep. Needless to say, these nightmares made her lose an hour or so of sleep every time they occurred, and what sleep she did have was never restful. It had begun to take its toll on her work. Grissom had noticed. When she went in a few hours ago for her shift, he'd asked her to take a few days off and get some sleep. She'd made a huge scene in the lab before she left, screaming and yelling at him. She felt a little sheepish about it now, but not enough to apologize. And now, instead of sleeping, she was vacuuming.

There was a knock at her door. Sara turned the vacuum off and walked over to answer it. She had the slightest limp left over from her bullet wound, but it was only noticeable if one was looking for it. Grissom looked for it everyday.

She had expected to find Grissom, probably trying to figure out what was going on with her. But instead, a nervous Greg smiled at her and held out a bouquet of sunflowers.

"I, uh, didn't think you'd like roses," he said. "Also, thought I'd brighten up this rainy day. Can I come in?" Sara nodded and stepped aside. Greg's left arm was still in a sling, but that was the only real sign of the terrible events that had happened, apart from a few scars on his face and his newly shaped nose. Greg looked around. "Wow, I've never been here before."

"Pretty dismal, I know," Sara said, closing the door. "Sorry for the mess."

Greg raised his eyebrows and tried not to say anything. He couldn't help it. "Sara, your mess is my mother's Garden of Eden," Greg said. "If my apartment ever looks as clean as this, please demand that the alien imposters return me to Earth immediately."

He looked over at her and smiled sadly. "He cut you pretty bad across the forehead, didn't he?" Greg said.

Sara's fingers flew to the scar on her head and she frowned at him, irritated. "Is there a reason you came over here or did you just feel like annoying me today?" Sara asked.

Greg looked at her, confused. He suddenly felt very awkward. "Oh. Yeah. I know, we haven't really talked since… it happened, but I saw your little spectacle at work today and it occurred to me that you haven't really talked to anyone in a while." He gestured at an arm chair. "Can I sit down?"

Sara nodded, regretting the way she snapped at him. "Do you want a drink or something…?"

"Nah," said Greg, taking a seat. "But where do you want these flowers?"

"I'll take them," she said, and she did. She couldn't help but notice his hands, the bandages gone, but the scars remained.

He saw her staring. "Dead skin. Can't feel a thing. It'll go away and I'll be good as new again."

"I see you're out of the wheel chair, too," Sara said, putting the flowers in a vase. "Your feet are fine, then?"

He smiled at her. "See, Sara? I've been back at work and out of a wheel chair for two weeks and you haven't even noticed."

"I'm sorry," Sara said, somewhat bashful. "I haven't been myself lately." She sat down on the couch across from Greg

"Neither have I," Greg admitted. "I just hide it better than you do."

Sara didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything at all.

She didn't need to. Greg continued unprompted. "I still get nightmares. I can tell by the bags under your eyes that you do, too. Now, you don't have to say anything at all. I guess I just wanted to come here today to remind you that I was there too. Everything you went through, I went through with you."

"I know that, Greg," Sara replied.

"I know—I know you know that, Sara, but I don't think you take advantage of that knowledge," Greg said. "You're not OK. I'm not OK. We don't have to talk about it, frankly I don't really want to anymore than you do. What happened still scares the hell out of me and I sometimes wonder how we survived at all. I just wanted to come over here and maybe make you laugh a little, give you your flowers, and be on my way. Unless, that is, you need me…" Greg paused, hoping she would say something, but she didn't say a word. He sighed and rose to his feet. "Yeah, I know. I'll get out of your hair now."

He got up, inwardly sighing, and made his way to the door. His hand was on the doorknob before Sara said anything.

"When you have nightmares, Greg," she said, sounding very small, "what do you see?"

Greg didn't turn away from the door as the images flashed in his mind. "A lot of things," he replied. "You, mostly. I hear things, too. The hissing burning of my skin. Your sobs. Woodward taunting me."

"When I dream," Sara told him, "your screams are all I hear. His reek is all I smell. His hands are all I feel."

Greg slowly turned and leaned against the door as he looked over at the back of Sara's head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Sara replied. She closed her eyes. "Yes."

Greg walked over to her and sat down next to her on the couch. She looked up at him. "I was afraid of that," Greg said, with a scared smile. "I'm all ears."

Sara turned away from him. "He didn't rape me," Sara said, "but in my dreams he does. Over and over again."

"In mine too," Greg replied. "He destroys you."

"You're always screaming," Sara said, shaking her head. "Even after he kills you."

"I die in your dreams?" Greg asked, looking at her.

She still wouldn't look at him. Her voice was completely emotionless. "Sometimes. In different ways. He makes you drink the lye. And your vocal cords burn, but you keep screaming. Or he shoots you in the heart. Slits your throat, bleeds you dry. And then he comes after me, and you're not there to stop him. But you keep screaming. And he keeps…" Her throat tied itself in a knot and she couldn't continue. When she could speak again, she spoke in a whisper. "I haven't even told Grissom this."

"You get shot," Greg said. "It's the same every time. The only thing that's different is where. Sometimes it's in the stomach and you die slowly. Others, it's a shot to the head and it's instant. It always happens after he's shattered you. And when I try to hurt him for what he did, he just laughs and then he shoves a knife down my throat." He looked away from her. "I haven't told anyone about this either."

"The dreams won't go away," Sara said.

"Maybe now that we've voiced them," Greg said, "they won't come back."

"I doubt it," Sara said.

"At least you have someone to talk to now," Greg said.
Finally, she turned to look at him and smiled at him wanly. She looked at his hands, which rested on his knees. "Is it true you can't feel anything in those?"

Greg shrugged. "Pretty much."

Tentatively, she reached out and put her hand on top of his right one. His skin felt coarse and dry beneath her palm, but it was the warmest thing she'd felt all month. It brought a genuine smile to her lips.

"You don't have to do that," Greg said, feeling embarrassed. "My hands feel like raisins, I know."

"I want to," Sara said, her eyes never leaving his hand. She gently ran her fingers across the back of his hand. "You really don't feel that?"

"I really wish I could," Greg said. "But no, I don't."

Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't feel her touch, or maybe it was because he had been through a lot too, or maybe it was because he was simply Greg, sweet adorable Greg, but for the first time in months, Sara wasn't afraid of physical contact. Slowly, she picked up Greg's rough hand and placed it against her cheek. He smiled at her as she held his hand there.

"Thank you Greg," she said.

"Any time, Sara," Greg replied. Slowly, he stood up, and Sara dropped her hand from his, but he kept it there on her cheek. He bent down and kissed her on her forehead. He smelled her strawberry hair again. "Be safe," he whispered, and his hand slid away from her cheek as he walked towards the door.

"Greg?" Sara called after him. He turned back to her to see her looking up at him with her dark eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind… sleeping here tonight?" she asked. "I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but—"

"Nah," said Greg, a smile tugging at his lips. "I don't mind. Your couch is pretty comfortable anyways."

"Wanna watch a movie?" Sara asked, standing up. "I could make popcorn."

"I'd like that," Greg said. She walked over to the kitchen and he kneeled in front of her DVD collection. "What movie do you want to watch?"

"I don't care," she said, from the kitchen. "Nothing depressing."

Greg scanned the titles. "You're a Hitchcock fan?"

"What?" Sara called. "Oh, Grissom is. He gave those to me. I think Hitchcock's OK."

"OK?" said Greg. "He's a genius."

Sara poked her head out of the kitchen. "You want a drink with your popcorn?"

"Do you have any beer?" Greg asked.

She disappeared again, before popping her head back out. "Guinness or Miller Lite?"

"Guinness," he said. "None of that lite beer crap."

Sara smiled at him before disappearing again. Greg turned back to the movies. "Dogma?"

"I watched Chasing Amy earlier. Too much Kevin Smith for one day."

Greg checked again. "Independence Day?"

"As much as I'd like to see the white house blown up," Sara replied, "there's too much death in that movie for me right now."

Greg smiled. "The Princess Bride?"

Sara came out holding a bowl of popcorn and two beers. "I didn't have you pegged as a Princess Bride fan, Greg."

He grinned at her. "Are you kidding? That sword fight between Inigo Montoya and Wesley is absolutely hysterical. When I was a kid, I broke my friend's finger when we were reenacting the scene with sticks and I hit it really hard."

Sara put the popcorn down on the coffee table and shrugged. "OK, put it on."

He obeyed and then sat down on the opposite end of the couch. She handed him his beer as the movie started. In the beginning of the movie, she stayed far away from Greg. Around the time of the famous sword fight, Sara got Greg another beer so he wouldn't miss it and when she came back, she sat down next to him. Greg felt the warmth radiating from her. As time went on and she grew tired, she rested her head on his right shoulder. Slowly, he put his arm around her. By the end of the movie, they were both asleep.

It was the most peaceful sleep either of them had had in two months.

THE END