Stairs

DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI or any of its characters. POST NESTING DOLLS.

First part in a three part series, Catherine's POV.

I'm sitting at an evidence table, feeling terribly guilty for what I've done. Sure, I was angry at her, she was angry with me and when that occurs a fight is bound to happen. Bound to happen more often then not, unfortunately. I'm feeling guilty because I didn't bring this into a more secluded area, and she got suspended for it. I mean, if Ecklie had heard me instead of her, I probably would have been suspended.

Who am I kidding; Ecklie hates Sara and is constantly looking for an excuse to can her ass. What's troubling me the most is the look on Gil's face when he told us he had taken the disciplinary action. It really bothered me, and it made me re-evaluate what I had done. Before that, I was Queen of the Jungle, striking down her prey. Now I feel like an alley cat, digging for an answer to what I was thinking. Greg probably thinks I'm the alpha bitch now. And I certainly agree.

Should I go over and try to apologize? I doubt she would even open the door for me. Maybe I should send a card… No, that would be chickening out. Maybe I could leave a message on her machine… Pfft, what am I talking about; I don't even know if she even HAS a machine! And I can't go over; I haven't the slightest clue of where she lives!

Fuck, I am such a dumbass!

Well, I guess I'll just have to suck it up and go. I'll find out the address from Gil. Now, where the hell is that bug man? Ah, there he is, at the end of the hallway. I call out to him, quickening my step enough to catch up to him.

"What is it, Catherine?" Ouch. That hurt. He really is angry. Well, suck it up and go for gold, you chicken.

"Gil, what's Sara's address?" He stops in the middle of the hallway, his eyebrow raised. I put my hands on my hips and sigh.

"This is hard enough, Gil… I'm going to apologize," I state. He'll probably just brush me off or make some strange, over-sophisticated analogy meaning 'leave her alone'.

"She lives at 1045 Venice road, apartment number one-hundred and four. I'm warning you though. She's very vulnerable right now. Don't hurt her." And with that he turned down the hallway and into his office. That was much easier than I thought it was going to be. I go and gather my stuff from my office and head out the door, evading people as I go. When I finally reach my car, I breathe a sigh of relief. I can do this. I need to do this.

Before I even realize it, I'm driving down the packed Vegas streets. I hate driving, to tell the blunt truth, but I suppose it's a necessity. Man, Sara lives far. Venice road is at least 3 miles away from the lab. I suppose she likes the solitude, she's always alone. I used to wish I could change that, but nothing I seem to do has any effect. I've tried a few times to invite her for coffee or lunch, but she always says she has to do something else, or continue working.

I turn onto Venice road, already nervous. I have no idea what I'm going to say or what I'll do. I barely have the guts to call her, let alone go up to her space, her home, and dig answers from her. It's not my style. Well, it's about time I make it my style. I pull into the parking lot of building 1045, slipping into the visitor section easily enough. When I step out of the car, I straighten my shirt, adjust my jacket and walk towards the door. There's no way I'm going to look defeated, even if I feel that way.

When I enter the building, I'm slightly shocked. The place is nowhere near 'Venice' style. This is definitely one of the lower class apartments. The paint on the walls is chipping off. I walk up to the elevator only to find an 'Out of Order' sign. Now the real question is how many floors till the one-hundred mark? I start on the first set of stairs.

Why would she live here? With the amount of money she makes she could afford something closer and much ritzier than this, not counting the amount of overtime she works. Maybe that's why; she's barely home so why pay for a closet? That can't be it… She dresses in quality, so why not live in quality? Come to think of it, I notice a lot of quality things about her. Like how she's always clean and crisp. Her hair is clean and shining, her nails are clipped and her eyebrows are always clean plucked. Or waxed, who knows nowadays with all these weird beauty things…

I check the door numbers on the floor. I'm only at numbers one to thirty. So that would mean roughly three more flights… Why did I wear heels? Oh yeah, because they were sexy. Does Sara really think I use my sexuality to an unreasonable extent? I don't really want to think so, but I guess it's true. I want to change that. If everyone notices my sexuality but her, what's the point?

I guess I should admit at this point that I'm totally smitten with her. I won't even admit that to Warrick. Just to my inane inner thoughts and fantasies. And oh, what fantasies indeed! Bah, I better not go down that path, especially when we're nowhere near such a thing. I hit the second floor and check the numbers. I read closely to find the numbers thirty-one to fifty-nine and I immediately begin to hate Sara's apartment complex. The grey bricks of the stairwell are beginning to tick me off.

I take another five steps before I flop down on the stairs and take off my heels. Screw the sexy look or the extra inch it adds on, I can't stand walking in these. I can't help but wonder if Sara's ever worn heels just for the look. I can't really picture it, she seems more for comfort and security than appeal and sex. But for some reason, she doesn't have to put any effort into looking beautiful. Her dark, shimmering hair and her nearly black eyes make her look like a mystical creature out of one of Lindsey's fantasy books.

I remember once that I compared her to a river. Just like a river, she never remains idle and the surface is a mere reflection of how deep she really runs. I guess I'm just terrified to see what is under there. Which brings me back to my question; why do domestic cases affect her so much? I've never seen anyone work to such an extent on something with no evidence backing it up. I almost don't want to know what's happened to the subject of my dreams, but at the same time I feel I need to know in order to understand her temperament.

At times, she's light-hearted and smiling, constantly joking with the boys or playing that ridiculous 'Devil May Cry' game with Greg, seeing who can get the best score on a 'Bloody Palace', whatever that is. On the other hand, she's dark, depressive, ill-looking and snappy. Her irrationality shoots through the roof, which explains her mouthing off to Ecklie, of all people. It almost explains her attack against me, too. Or am I to blame for that?

Floor three comes along quicker now that I don't have my heels on. I check the numbers again, although I'm now certain I'll be on floor number four or five before I get to her apartment. The numbers for this floor are sixty to ninety. I was right in my assumption of where to go. Now if I can just speed this damn process up I think I would be in a slightly more pleasant mood.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm in a horrible mood; all because I know what I've done really hurt her. I used to tell Lindsey that if you don't have anything nice to say, you shouldn't say anything at all. It worked until she started getting into fights at school because she was a little bit different. Good thing she got over that phase, but now she's into the 'I'd like this pair of two hundred dollar jeans, please'. I can feel my wallet getting lighter already, and I'm not even buying them for her.

Sara wouldn't buy two hundred dollar jeans. Maybe a two hundred dollar jacket, but that's only if it'll serve its purpose for the next five years. I heard her say once that she has a leather jacket that she's had for twenty-three years. Is it a sad fact that I have no idea how old she is, or when her birthday is? I've known her for five years, and yet I haven't a clue about this woman! What does Sara like other than work? Who does she hang out with, what was she really like in high school?

Floor number four appears before me and I'm suddenly nervous. I step into the hallway, counting the doors I pass until I come to number one-hundred and four. I'm exhausted from all of those stairs, my feet are hurting from the cold cement floor and my fingers are straining to hold my stupid high heels. My day has turned to shit because of a stupid fight that should have never occurred. I raise my hand and knock on the door, no longer caring if I look good or not. Maybe that's how I should be more often…

I don't have anymore time to think as the door opens.

Oh god, I don't think I can do this.