Title: Awkward 101
Author: Summer Reign
Rating: M (soft)
Spoilers: Grave Danger
Disclaimer: CBS own CSI. They don't own this fic. They probably wouldn't want to.
Summary: Throwing yourself into the world of geek love leads to awkward moments. GSR. Fluff.
Sara stood in the doorway of her bathroom looking at the man in her bed. When he woke up, she was going to ask him who he was and what he did with the real Gil Grissom.
In the countless times she had fantasized about this moment, she never envisioned anything like the reality before her.
She had never seen him so… disheveled. He was lying flat on his stomach, on top of fitted sheets that had half come undone, his hair completely messed up and a bit wild. And, well, there was the whole business of him doing all of this naked. Completely and totally naked. She never pictured that before: sleeping with him for the first time and waking up to him, in all his nude-y splendor. Nope, she hadn't pictured that at all. Maybe it was beyond her imagination because, most of the time, he seemed uncomfortable with the idea of opening the top two buttons of his shirt, never mind exposing his tushie to the open air as he slept. Speaking of which, that ass could not possibly have been hiding under the baggy pants he always wore. That was just impossible—or a crime—or both.
She just hadn't expected to wake from her post-coital slumber in such a bizarre way. Some time after she had nearly passed out from the surprise and wonder of it all, she found herself with her left arm grabbing air and her left foot seeking firm ground. She had grabbed hold of her nightstand and prevented herself from falling entirely off the bed as he flung his body haphazardly over her side of the mattress.
When they had gone to sleep, she had been curled up in his arms in the middle of the bed. She did remember turning away a bit later and moving over to "her" side. She vaguely remembered (dreamed, perhaps?) that he had spooned behind her. But, this? When had this happened? And why had her instincts told her to move further and further away until she was almost on the floor? She had learned, at quite a young age, the key to sleeping with others was to keep very still and to your own side of the bed. It was in this way that she avoided the more disturbing side effects of sleeping with other kids who were sweaty, or needy, or…not housetrained yet. She supposed she had expected Grissom to be the same kind of sleeper.
But, here she was. Recently kicked out of bed by a total naked bed hog, sore in all the right places and wondering if she should get back in bed or spend the rest of the night on the living room couch.
Oh, who was she kidding? She didn't want to leave. She went to the bathroom, washed up a bit, threw on a nightshirt (someone needed to demonstrate some modesty) and climbed in on the other side of the bed. Sara slowly made her way to where Grissom was now lying, with his head on her former pillow. She gently laid her own against his arm and moved her hand to his shoulder. Just a creamy expanse of clean, wonderful skin. So unlike her own freckled complexion. Another surprise.
On second thought, she probably wouldn't ask him where he put the real Gil Grissom. She kind of liked this one a lot. Actually…
She pressed her lips lightly against his skin and mouthed the words she was too afraid to say.
There was a "love" and a "you" and even, if one really was awake and good at lip reading, a "so much."
"So much," she whispered into the silence of the room before falling asleep.
Gil Grissom woke for a moment. Did someone say something? He felt something warm and wonderful on his shoulder. Lips? Oh, yes. Definitely lips. Sara's…Sara…
He tried to open his eyes but there was just no way. He should at least make an attempt at Round Number Two. She'd expect that, wouldn't she? Damn being fifty, anyway. Well, maybe he could have made Round Two if he didn't make that attempt at the Overachiever of the Year award in Round One. Was it really that important that she orgasm before he did? After all, it was their first time and she probably didn't hope for much more than him making it through the event alive.
But, yes, it was that important. She was that important.
He'd make it up to her when they woke up. For now, he would just sleep…with warm lips pressing softly against his shoulder and a strange, cool breeze caressing his behind.
12 hours earlier
"Go home, Sara," Grissom's voice breaking the silence of the room made her jump. She was processing…dirt. It was a long, tedious, and thoroughly welcome task.
"I will. Just let me finish this."
"No, you won't."
"I won't finish?"
"You won't go home. You'll assume I'll forget all about you and find something else to do. I don't want you here for another shift. Go home. You need your rest."
She continued to sift the dirt through the fine mesh she was holding. There was nothing in the dirt but dirt.
They were both fully well aware of that fact and, while the task was necessary to fully process the murder scene they had all but wrapped up, most of the time it would have been given to a technician or rookie. She had taken it upon herself to do it, off the clock.
It had been a difficult day. Nicky had returned from an enforced leave after his abduction. While they were all happy to see him, he was more than a little worse for wear, and seeing him jumpy and nervous hurt. What hurt more was the fact that he visibly stiffened when she embraced him as he came into the break room for the first time. Her hugs seemed to have that effect on people lately.
But, unlike Grissom, Nick was one of the most naturally affectionate people she had ever known. She didn't want that quality to disappear because of some psycho out for revenge. She had backed away, giving him his space, as she wandered around the lab, trying to find something to do that required physical activity. Paperwork wouldn't distract her enough and Grissom had assigned the two cases they had to the others.
Sara knew Grissom had been watching her on and off for weeks. He never would say anything when she'd look up to find him staring. She was tempted to ask him why, but if he didn't want to answer her, and she was pretty sure he wouldn't—he'd just walk away, and she had no patience for that kind of behavior.
"What if I don't want to go?" she asked quietly, feeling the strength of his stare again.
"I will send you home anyway."
"That doesn't seem right."
"Well, it's a tough job, sometimes."
She put the mesh down and removed her gloves. "I won't sleep, you know."
"Don't aim for sleep, then. Just rest. Close your eyes, listen to some music," he sighed. "Look. I know it's been hard, Sara. For all of us. We all see Nicky back in that grave—and probably with a different outcome. It's kind of a mass-post-traumatic stress syndrome. We just have to do the best we can."
Yeah, we all do, she thought. But the fact of the matter was, Nicky wasn't the only one she was seeing in a grave. Grissom had been right in there with him, on top of that 'casket' and seconds away from being blown to Kingdom Come. It was that thought that compelled her to wrap her arms around him when everyone had left the scene. It was what finally let the tears flow. And, for one split second, she felt him melt into her embrace, until he came to his senses and stiffened up again. She pulled back, apologized quickly, and took herself and her tears home with her.
"I'm sick of doing the best I can," she said with a soft smile. She felt like going the petulant child route this time.
"Well, you're going home anyway."
"Yeah, yeah," she said, sealing the dirt already processed into a container and marking it. The rest could be done by someone else. She heard him clear his throat.
"You, uh, want company?"
She looked up so quickly, she thought she might have dislocated her neck. "What?"
Sara watched in semi-horror as Grissom looked at her with an "oh, shit" expression on his face. Then, he did something surprising. He took a deep breath and continued, "I asked if you wanted company. Because, if you did, you could ask me to come over to your place."
"What?" she asked, this time with a small squeak in her voice. She just couldn't help herself. The moment it left her mouth again, she regretted it but, this time, there was a definite amused expression on Grissom's face. He shrugged his shoulders in a totally endearing way, as if he was surprised at himself.
It was her turn to swallow hard. He was reaching out. It was a baby step, but a step.
"Uh, Gris, would you like to come to my place for breakfast?"
"Yes. I'd like that very much."
And just like that, she had a date with Grissom.
Gil Grissom had officially lost his mind. No doubt about it. God, he was insane. For years and years, he was able to overcome any temptation she presented him with: the flirting, the dinner invitation, even the hurt in her eyes and the tears.
And then, today, he had seen Nick tense up when Sara hugged him. And had seen Sara, obviously hurt, hugging herself. That was followed by the really stupid thought that it should have been his arms around her, which was followed by the even stupider reality that his arms had been around her a few weeks before and he not only acted like Nick (with far less valid reasons behind his actions) but had also done nothing to stop her from believing that she somehow breached every kind of protocol in and out of the book.
But, there was always a nine hundredth and ninety ninth chance. And he was taking his.
Maybe now was not the time to wonder if he lost his mind. Maybe now was the time to rejoice over finally finding it.
11 hours earlier
She was going to make him breakfast. Waffles, to be exact, since she did have pancake mix and the back of the box said she could make waffles out of it. Who was she to go against the sacred word of Aunt Jemima? All she needed to do was stir it up, slap some of that into the waffle maker and…instant breakfast.
She removed her jacket and went to hang it up in the hallway closet. She looked over her shoulder and saw Grissom moving into her living room and gingerly sitting on the couch. Good, that was the first real moment of hesitation he had shown in the last hour. He was actually rather full of himself during those sixty minutes or so since he rather boldly (for him) asked her out. Or, rather, invited himself in. Confident, self-assured. Not like him in a situation that was purely social.
Unless, of course, it wasn't purely social.
It could be him acting in his tough role of supervisor. Making sure she didn't fall off the wagon in her spare time.
No, it was a non-issue. She knew he believed her. This was…whatever it was.
She mixed up the pancake batter with the extra oil, per the instructions on the box, while warming up the waffle iron. She had used it once since she received it as a gag gift, years before. After putting the batter in, she went to the refrigerator to get the syrup, only to find she didn't have any. Sara looked around. She didn't have much of anything. The time she spent in her apartment lately had been minimal, at best.
Okay. She wouldn't panic. There was chocolate topping for ice cream. She could microwave some of that and make it chocolate sauce, and there was some whipped cream and maraschino cherries. Who said it couldn't be a festive, dessert type of breakfast? She opened the waffle iron and saw a lovely golden brown waffle. She removed it, drizzled chocolate sauce on it in a Sara Sidle original pattern, sprayed the last of the whipped cream on top in a swirl that ended in some weird spatter-like pattern as the cream ran out, and covered the mistakes with cherries.
She quickly threw some more batter in the machine and called Grissom to the table. She set the waffle and coffee in front of him. He looked down, eyebrow slightly quirked, but didn't say anything beyond a "thank you."
She smelled the waffle. She hadn't smelled the first one. This one obviously cooked up faster. She went over and it was definitely on the dark bronze side of golden. She quickly removed it, unplugged the machine and then looked around for some powdered sugar to hide her overzealous cooking. The batter was gone. She wasn't able to make more and hoped that Grissom's overpacked waffle would be enough for him, or she'd have to resort to offering him a slice of Velveeta on some brownish lettuce leaves.
She joined him at the table and he looked at her virtual snowflake of a meal. She knew he noticed the dark brown edges peeking out.
"Sara? Why is your waffle so…flat, compared to mine?"
"I have to watch my figure."
He smirked and pressed his lips together. It would have been nice if he didn't censor himself. Might be interesting to hear what the man had to say.
He quietly went back to eating. After he was halfway through, he sat back and looked at her again. She glanced up from her burnt offerings, took note of the staring and then looked down. She hadn't taken more than a bite or two of her breakfast, and played with the rest.
"What?" she asked, slightly annoyed that he was still looking at her intently while she was trying to get away with not eating.
"Nothing. I just needed a breather. I usually don't indulge quite this much for breakfast."
"I'm sorry," she said, putting her fork down. "I should have made you something else but I didn't have too much in the refrigerator."
"It's fine. But I feel guilty having dessert while you're eating…whatever that thing is under the pound of sugar."
"Sweetened ash," she smiled a bit and picked up her fork again.
He slid his dish over. "Here, finish mine."
"No. I was just joking. It's fine. Really."
Grissom stared again and then picked up his fork. He reached over and cut a piece of her waffle and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly.
"That's…burnt food, Sara," he cut a bit of his own waffle and held it to her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"It's okay, Gris. Charcoal is good for the digestion."
"Sara…it's disgusting. Here, try this. A little rich for breakfast, perhaps, but it's definitely good."
She opened her mouth and took the waffle from the tines of the fork. He reached over and wiped a bit of whipped cream from her upper lip and licked his finger. Then he put more of his waffle on the fork and held it out to her. His actions didn't seem to be intentionally sexy, but…there was a certain casual intimacy that was at odds with…everything that defined their relationship over the past decade.
Okay. It was time to talk.
Or babble.
"I've been spending so much time in the lab and have just been grabbing bagels on the way home. I never realized my refrigerator was so empty. You should have at least had an omelet or something. "
"I'm perfectly happy with what I've had."
"Yeah, but now you're feeding it to me," she said, telling her inner teenager to stop cheering about it, "and what if you're still hungry? There's next to nothing left."
"If we get hungry later, we'll go out to dinner," he said, simply, moving the fork closer to her mouth.
She opened it a bit in shock and he smiled and pushed the bit of waffle in. She took it and chewed, still staring at him.
Dinner? They just had breakfast. Was he ever planning on going home? Or did he make the leap from casual breakfast to cohabitation in one fell swoop?
He was loading up bite number three when she reached her hand out and put it over his own.
"No. I don't want anymore. Just…talk to me."
"About what?" he asked, feigning innocence even as his eyes told her he knew exactly what she meant.
She just pressed her lips together and sat back in her chair. Two could play this game.
"I'm tired, Sara," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Okay."
"I know, you want more of an explanation," he said. "And you deserve more. I'm just…not good at these things. You know what I spent half the night doing after we all went home the night Nick was rescued?"
She shook her head.
"I spent half the night kicking myself for missing the perfect opportunity. And many days and nights since then doing more of the same. When you put your arms around me, God, Sara…I wanted you to stay there. And if you had, if I hadn't ruined things by being…myself…we wouldn't even have to have a long conversation. We'd just…be." He shook his head. "I'm not making any sense."
"Yes, you are. If we started something that night, it would be an automatic fast forward into a different kind of relationship and you wouldn't have to talk about it. And, now, you feel you do."
"That sounds…pretty bad, doesn't it?"
"But accurate."
"Yes," he said, looking down at his own plate.
She sighed. He liked her arms around him, but stiffened at her touch. He regretted doing so because it would have saved him a conversation. He seemed to now want something more than they've had but not enough to talk about it. Great.
"I've never wanted you to agonize over the decision to be with me, Grissom. I still don't." Translation: Aw, just go home and play with your bugs.
But, of course, he had difficulty understanding her when she spelled things out. Forget about subtext.
"You thought about me," he said, somewhat wistfully. "When we rescued Nick. I know you thought about him—as we all did—but you also thought about me. I'm sure no one else did and I wouldn't expect them to. I didn't really even stop to think about my own mortality but the fact that you did really showed me how much you …value my life."
"As opposed to all the other times when I've told you, point blank, that you meant something to me?"
He gave a small smirk and ran his fork over the whipped cream. "Yeah, as opposed to all those times."
"I still see you there, Gris. That's why I hate going to sleep lately. I just dream of us being a split second too late."
"Everyone would have died, Sara. Not just me."
"You and Nick would have been first," she cleared her throat a bit and forced herself to eat another bite of her now cold, burnt waffle.
"I …have my own nightmares. It could have been you, instead of Nick," he said, softly.
"So, that explains the turnaround?"
"Partially."
"This is all a kind of a weird, desperation type of thing?" Sara asked.
"No. It's a kind of 'how many chances are you going to be given' type of thing."
Sara put her fork down but continued to stare at the remnants of their rather pathetic breakfasts. He was trying. She never wanted him to reason it all out so precisely. She wanted him to feel. But she had never questioned the man and who he was and she wasn't about to start now. If the journey she had wanted to take for so long was to begin today (and she doubted there would be a second chance), she had to accept whatever was being offered and let go of the fantasy.
She reached out with her fork and speared one last bite of his breakfast. She held it to his lips.
"Open," she said, and he did, taking the food from her fork. He ate, swallowed and pushed his plate back. She looked in his eyes and smiled.
"If my waffle wasn't so disgusting, I would give you some so I could wipe off the powdered sugar from your lips," she said, and he smiled right back. There was a warmth there, along with a bit of fear. He really didn't do this often. She knew that. Partially because she didn't either. Ah, well. If they could just get through Clumsy Flirting 101 this morning, perhaps in a month or so, they'd progress to Mild Innuendo 102.
But Grissom was a true scholar and was trying to skip a few classes. He slid his hand over to the side of her neck and pulled her closer to him. She was straining in her chair, leaning across the table. So was he. A few seconds passed and she felt the pressure of his hand increase. She moved even closer and closed her eyes. There was a definite strain in her back but she was willing to go with it. Still, nothing happened.
"Sara?" he said and she finally opened her eyes. This time, there was a look of sheer embarrassment on his face.
"You've changed your mind," she stated, simply. Her heart was breaking (again) but she wasn't entirely surprised.
"No," he said. "It's just that…if we do this with this table in between us, it's only going to take a few moments before we both need chiropractors. "
She almost laughed with relief. "What do you suggest?"
"Stand up," he said, and she did. He was a few inches taller but she was still almost at eye level with him and now they were standing pretty close together. She suddenly felt awkward herself. He seemed to know something was wrong right away.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Have you changed your mind?"
"No, it's just…odd."
He put his hands on her upper arms and started rubbing them slowly, "I know. I…it's…ah…"
She looked at him and smiled, "For me, too."
He rubbed her arms a little harder and moved his hands up to her shoulders and kneaded her flesh a bit. "Feel a little more comfortable?"
"Yes, but I don't necessarily think a requirement of a first kiss is comfort."
"It's not. But we've waited a really long time, haven't we?"
"We have," she said with a small smile.
He moved his hands behind her neck and pulled her closer. This time, she kept her eyes slightly opened—enough to see him move in very close and line up his mouth to hers, before closing his eyes and descending. One soft, moist, perfect kiss. Followed by another, and then a quick swipe of his tongue against her lower lip. Sweet. She knew if she touched her own tongue to her bottom lip, she would taste sweetness. She could already feel it. Not only from their desserts disguised as breakfast but from this gentle, hesitant man before her who was kissing her like she was fragile, tender, important. Sara wasn't used to anyone treating her that way.
It didn't last long, but Sara didn't mourn the loss. He moved his arms to her upper back and pressed her closer to him. This time, there was a wet swipe against her upper lip and she gave in completely. A moan from her, a groan from him and then…all bets were off. Skip introductory classes and move straight on through graduation (with honors). He deepened the kiss and stole her breath away. They both needed and wanted more. They both wanted everything. Her hands came up around his neck as he encircled her waist and tried bending her over the kitchen table. She put one hand out on the top of the table…right into his damned leftover whipped cream/chocolate sauce river, and tore her mouth from his.
"Gris," she said, in between gasps for breath.
"Hmm," he said, moving his lips to her neck and sucking. She closed her eyes and almost stopped thinking.
"Uh, you weren't planning on taking me on the kitchen table, were you?"
"No, but it's a good idea," he said, trying to bend her back again. She reached out her hand, realized it was covered in goo and then put it back down again. "Unless, you have any objections."
"Not in theory but, practically speaking, the table has a bad leg."
It took him a moment but the idea seemed to penetrate his mind. He pulled away from her. "I guess, I'm moving too fast?"
"No, I…no. I mean, the table will break…"
"Sara," he said, looking down briefly, and grabbing her hand, licking the whipped cream mixture from her palm without much thought. How did he manage to do that so casually? "I…we don't have to…but…"
She looked at the now clean palm of her hand. "I want to."
"How are the legs on your bed?"
"They'll survive."
In the bedroom, there was more kissing. And caressing. Lots more. But she had a hard time being in the moment now that they were closer to what she had wanted for so long.
The moment seemed both right and off at the same time. She didn't know anything about him in a romantic capacity. Maybe that type of thing was important to learn in increments. Not just blindly diving in, under the influence of massive quantities of sugar.
He pulled his lips away from her neck and looked at her. Just looked, deep in her eyes.
"Sara," he breathed her name. He'd stop. Even if it killed him, if that's what she wanted, she knew he'd stop.
She knew him. Maybe not quite in this scenario but she knew him. She knew his passion, his drive, how his blue eyes glistened in excitement over some weird discovery on a case, how haggard he could look when he was frustrated. How he could zone everyone and everything out when he was committed to something. And how he could be corny as hell, sometimes, when he was indulging in the black humor that helped them all face death on a daily basis.
And she knew herself. She had given her heart, totally, only once in her life. And it belonged to him, whether he had been willing to accept the gift or not. She loved him. And whether this was some freakish, one-time occurrence based on fear, desperation or fatigue, or the beginning of something long and wonderful, she wanted it. She almost wanted to tell him to hurry up and make her his lover quickly so he could spend the rest of his life making her his one love.
Almost. But she didn't quite want him to run out of the bedroom screaming.
So she concentrated on what was happening, at whatever pace he wanted to set. It wasn't a scenario that matched any of her thousands of fantasies but not one of them could hold a candle to the feeling of his beard scratching lightly against her skin, or how warm and wet his lips were, or how absolutely near-tears she felt as he entered her finally.
At that moment, nothing else mattered.
Gil Grissom now had proof that he had been, essentially, a fool. He had spent years worrying about the woman he now held in his arms. And, when the time came, no great explanations were needed. She just accepted what he told her and let him be.
And now, they were lovers…so, the rest would be…a piece of cake, really.
On a purely basic level, his greatest concern had been her reaction to seeing him as he really was, as opposed to the man she might have dreamed of. There was no Mel Gibson body lurking underneath his clothes, no flair of a…Brad Pitt? He didn't even know what contemporary actors to compare himself to because recent movies were just not his thing. And, apparently, they weren't hers, either. She seemed more than happy with the man she was uncovering—physically and figuratively. Her enthusiasm never diminished as they undressed and touched and tasted…
He wanted to wax poetic on the many things he discovered this evening…the rose petal softness of her breasts, the tenderness of her kisses, the joy in her release… But, more than that, he wanted to do it all over again as soon as humanly possible.
It would have been nice if his eyes could stay open. Or if the rest of his body was in anything but a shocked, but happily sated, mood.
He managed to pull her closer to him, and said a short prayer of thanks. Before falling into a deep sleep, he looked at her double bed (so much smaller than the boat-sized bed in his home), and made sure to add an even shorter prayer that he wouldn't knock her off the mattress before it was time for them to wake up.
The Present
Sara felt something soft, warm and wet on her shoulder. Nice. She wasn't waking up from this dream any time soon.
"Sara," he whispered and then a hand replaced the warmth of his mouth, shaking her lightly. "I've got to go, Sara."
He has to go. Grissom. Has to go. After spending the night. Well, he certainly got brownie points for not bolting out of bed right when they were done. Actually, he got major brownie points for sticking around and sleeping…naked yet…all through the night. But she wasn't sure if she was ready for the inevitable kiss off.
"Sara…"
It was better to get up and face the music than have him just leave or write her a scrawled note. Work would be very uncomfortable that way, to say the least.
She rolled over and faced him. He smiled at her and ran his finger down her cheek and across her lips.
"You slept pretty well for someone who said she had no intention of sleeping," he said.
She gave a soft grunt in reply. She just didn't know what else to do or say because she had no idea where he was going with any of this.
"I need to ask you something," he said.
"What?" she asked, fear entering the equation again.
"How in the world did we switch sides of the bed during the night?"
She looked down at her lap for a moment. "You… move around a lot and well, I just thought you'd be more comfortable sleeping on that side."
"I pushed you off the bed, didn't I?"
"Not quite," she admitted gently and then looked at him and smiled again as he chuckled softly.
He stood up. "Look. I have to go in a little early. There's this meeting with the Sheriff and I haven't quite finished some paperwork. I'm…the timing is bad but I really need to leave."
"It's okay."
"And…" he looked down toward his shoes.
She knew the "morning" after would be weird, even if it was late afternoon.
"I won't say anything to anyone, Grissom."
He looked back up. "I wasn't worried about that."
She looked at him for a few moments. He was floundering again but she wasn't entirely sure why. He actually was doing well for himself. It didn't appear that he was kissing her off after all. And he was being kind of geekily romantic. She liked that. Perhaps she wasn't living up to her end of the bargain and he was unsure of how she felt this morning. That was a possibility. Maybe…just maybe…he needed reassurance. But she would feel like an absolute ass if she pulled out the old "you were great, I never felt the earth move quite as much" type of line. Even if it was the complete truth.
"Gris?"
"Hmmm?"
"Come here a minute." He walked closer to her and she pulled him down to a sitting position on the bed.
"Sara…"
"No, this is important. You have trace evidence of our encounter all over yourself."
His lips automatically curved into a smile. "I showered."
"Case in point. You smell like me. A very lovely rice flowered smelling Grissom."
"You only had one shower gel in there. No soap, either," he complained.
She ran her hands down the front of his shirt. "I bet, if I got out my lifting tape, I would find multiple partials here," she traced one of his buttons, "here," she traced another, "and definitely here," she said, reaching his belt buckle. He took her hand and grasped her fingers lightly, removing them from the vicinity of his suddenly playful penis.
"I really can't be late, Sara."
"I know," she said, with slight sadness. She just didn't know what to say to get him to fully understand how much their night together meant to her. Declarations of undying love would be too much, this flirtatious thing was only going to annoy him, since he had responsibilities elsewhere. She lifted off a strand of her hair from his shoulder and tossed it on the floor.
"I think you'll be all right. Maybe stop in a drugstore and slap on some Aqua Velva or something, in spite of your usual predilections."
"Then they'll know I slept with someone."
"Yeah, but they won't know who."
He looked at her again. If she weren't a basically modest person, she would swear he looked a little…lovesick.
"I'm beginning to think you're not as good a CSI as I've always thought you were," he said.
"What?" she asked, semi-offended.
"You missed the largest amount of trace evidence."
"Where?" she asked, moving his collar to see if she left a bruise.
He took her hand again and held it over his heart. "Here," he said, softly.
"Ah, " she said, feeling her face grow hot. Did she say geekily romantic? No. That was romantic-romantic.
"Whatever you think this was, Sara, you're wrong. I'm not good at …spelling this out verbally but, you could feel…what I feel…some of what I feel…last night, couldn't you?"
"God, yes."
He smiled and kissed her lightly. "You want breakfast at my place after shift tonight? I've got a really big bed. I'll buy a new can of whipped cream?"
She smiled, dimples showing. "How could I resist?"
"Gris?"
He turned back and she squinted her eyes a little as they traveled up and down the length of his body.
"I never pictured you sleeping naked."
"That's probably because I don't. I…uh, had performance anxiety. You wore me out. Didn't have the energy to get dressed after that and…I guess I took the fact that you didn't run screaming from bed when I took my clothes off as a sign that maybe you weren't entirely repulsed by what you saw."
She shook her head. "I love everything about you."
"Aw, hell," he said and walked over to her, undoing the buttons on his shirt and unzipping his pants. "I overslept. My car wouldn't start. The dog ate my homework. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. The sheriff, and the budget, can wait."
She reached out her arms and welcomed him into her embrace.
And this time, well, he did stiffen up but only in the right place, while the rest of him melted like a Hershey bar on a hot car seat.
Gil Grissom had one last thought before losing himself in the woman he loved: His twenty or so year career in the Las Vegas Crime lab had been really nice, while it lasted.
But, if it was over, what a way to go!
The End.
A/N: All right. Don't kill me for the last line. I was channeling a giddy Grissom.
This was supposed to be a fluffy, very short story. I was still adding things to it today after I swore I was finished with it. No less than five printed copies are lying around my house with all kinds of notes and cross-outs.
It's still just...odd...and, yet, I keep at it, hoping it will make sense if I keep writing. But, you know, before it turns into War and Peace, I figured I'd cut my losses and hope you find some bits of enjoyment in this freakishly weird story.
Uh, did I mention that I think I started this thing sometime in February????
Return to Summer Reign Index
Author: Summer Reign
Rating: M (soft)
Spoilers: Grave Danger
Disclaimer: CBS own CSI. They don't own this fic. They probably wouldn't want to.
Summary: Throwing yourself into the world of geek love leads to awkward moments. GSR. Fluff.
Sara stood in the doorway of her bathroom looking at the man in her bed. When he woke up, she was going to ask him who he was and what he did with the real Gil Grissom.
In the countless times she had fantasized about this moment, she never envisioned anything like the reality before her.
She had never seen him so… disheveled. He was lying flat on his stomach, on top of fitted sheets that had half come undone, his hair completely messed up and a bit wild. And, well, there was the whole business of him doing all of this naked. Completely and totally naked. She never pictured that before: sleeping with him for the first time and waking up to him, in all his nude-y splendor. Nope, she hadn't pictured that at all. Maybe it was beyond her imagination because, most of the time, he seemed uncomfortable with the idea of opening the top two buttons of his shirt, never mind exposing his tushie to the open air as he slept. Speaking of which, that ass could not possibly have been hiding under the baggy pants he always wore. That was just impossible—or a crime—or both.
She just hadn't expected to wake from her post-coital slumber in such a bizarre way. Some time after she had nearly passed out from the surprise and wonder of it all, she found herself with her left arm grabbing air and her left foot seeking firm ground. She had grabbed hold of her nightstand and prevented herself from falling entirely off the bed as he flung his body haphazardly over her side of the mattress.
When they had gone to sleep, she had been curled up in his arms in the middle of the bed. She did remember turning away a bit later and moving over to "her" side. She vaguely remembered (dreamed, perhaps?) that he had spooned behind her. But, this? When had this happened? And why had her instincts told her to move further and further away until she was almost on the floor? She had learned, at quite a young age, the key to sleeping with others was to keep very still and to your own side of the bed. It was in this way that she avoided the more disturbing side effects of sleeping with other kids who were sweaty, or needy, or…not housetrained yet. She supposed she had expected Grissom to be the same kind of sleeper.
But, here she was. Recently kicked out of bed by a total naked bed hog, sore in all the right places and wondering if she should get back in bed or spend the rest of the night on the living room couch.
Oh, who was she kidding? She didn't want to leave. She went to the bathroom, washed up a bit, threw on a nightshirt (someone needed to demonstrate some modesty) and climbed in on the other side of the bed. Sara slowly made her way to where Grissom was now lying, with his head on her former pillow. She gently laid her own against his arm and moved her hand to his shoulder. Just a creamy expanse of clean, wonderful skin. So unlike her own freckled complexion. Another surprise.
On second thought, she probably wouldn't ask him where he put the real Gil Grissom. She kind of liked this one a lot. Actually…
She pressed her lips lightly against his skin and mouthed the words she was too afraid to say.
There was a "love" and a "you" and even, if one really was awake and good at lip reading, a "so much."
"So much," she whispered into the silence of the room before falling asleep.
Gil Grissom woke for a moment. Did someone say something? He felt something warm and wonderful on his shoulder. Lips? Oh, yes. Definitely lips. Sara's…Sara…
He tried to open his eyes but there was just no way. He should at least make an attempt at Round Number Two. She'd expect that, wouldn't she? Damn being fifty, anyway. Well, maybe he could have made Round Two if he didn't make that attempt at the Overachiever of the Year award in Round One. Was it really that important that she orgasm before he did? After all, it was their first time and she probably didn't hope for much more than him making it through the event alive.
But, yes, it was that important. She was that important.
He'd make it up to her when they woke up. For now, he would just sleep…with warm lips pressing softly against his shoulder and a strange, cool breeze caressing his behind.
12 hours earlier
"Go home, Sara," Grissom's voice breaking the silence of the room made her jump. She was processing…dirt. It was a long, tedious, and thoroughly welcome task.
"I will. Just let me finish this."
"No, you won't."
"I won't finish?"
"You won't go home. You'll assume I'll forget all about you and find something else to do. I don't want you here for another shift. Go home. You need your rest."
She continued to sift the dirt through the fine mesh she was holding. There was nothing in the dirt but dirt.
They were both fully well aware of that fact and, while the task was necessary to fully process the murder scene they had all but wrapped up, most of the time it would have been given to a technician or rookie. She had taken it upon herself to do it, off the clock.
It had been a difficult day. Nicky had returned from an enforced leave after his abduction. While they were all happy to see him, he was more than a little worse for wear, and seeing him jumpy and nervous hurt. What hurt more was the fact that he visibly stiffened when she embraced him as he came into the break room for the first time. Her hugs seemed to have that effect on people lately.
But, unlike Grissom, Nick was one of the most naturally affectionate people she had ever known. She didn't want that quality to disappear because of some psycho out for revenge. She had backed away, giving him his space, as she wandered around the lab, trying to find something to do that required physical activity. Paperwork wouldn't distract her enough and Grissom had assigned the two cases they had to the others.
Sara knew Grissom had been watching her on and off for weeks. He never would say anything when she'd look up to find him staring. She was tempted to ask him why, but if he didn't want to answer her, and she was pretty sure he wouldn't—he'd just walk away, and she had no patience for that kind of behavior.
"What if I don't want to go?" she asked quietly, feeling the strength of his stare again.
"I will send you home anyway."
"That doesn't seem right."
"Well, it's a tough job, sometimes."
She put the mesh down and removed her gloves. "I won't sleep, you know."
"Don't aim for sleep, then. Just rest. Close your eyes, listen to some music," he sighed. "Look. I know it's been hard, Sara. For all of us. We all see Nicky back in that grave—and probably with a different outcome. It's kind of a mass-post-traumatic stress syndrome. We just have to do the best we can."
Yeah, we all do, she thought. But the fact of the matter was, Nicky wasn't the only one she was seeing in a grave. Grissom had been right in there with him, on top of that 'casket' and seconds away from being blown to Kingdom Come. It was that thought that compelled her to wrap her arms around him when everyone had left the scene. It was what finally let the tears flow. And, for one split second, she felt him melt into her embrace, until he came to his senses and stiffened up again. She pulled back, apologized quickly, and took herself and her tears home with her.
"I'm sick of doing the best I can," she said with a soft smile. She felt like going the petulant child route this time.
"Well, you're going home anyway."
"Yeah, yeah," she said, sealing the dirt already processed into a container and marking it. The rest could be done by someone else. She heard him clear his throat.
"You, uh, want company?"
She looked up so quickly, she thought she might have dislocated her neck. "What?"
Sara watched in semi-horror as Grissom looked at her with an "oh, shit" expression on his face. Then, he did something surprising. He took a deep breath and continued, "I asked if you wanted company. Because, if you did, you could ask me to come over to your place."
"What?" she asked, this time with a small squeak in her voice. She just couldn't help herself. The moment it left her mouth again, she regretted it but, this time, there was a definite amused expression on Grissom's face. He shrugged his shoulders in a totally endearing way, as if he was surprised at himself.
It was her turn to swallow hard. He was reaching out. It was a baby step, but a step.
"Uh, Gris, would you like to come to my place for breakfast?"
"Yes. I'd like that very much."
And just like that, she had a date with Grissom.
Gil Grissom had officially lost his mind. No doubt about it. God, he was insane. For years and years, he was able to overcome any temptation she presented him with: the flirting, the dinner invitation, even the hurt in her eyes and the tears.
And then, today, he had seen Nick tense up when Sara hugged him. And had seen Sara, obviously hurt, hugging herself. That was followed by the really stupid thought that it should have been his arms around her, which was followed by the even stupider reality that his arms had been around her a few weeks before and he not only acted like Nick (with far less valid reasons behind his actions) but had also done nothing to stop her from believing that she somehow breached every kind of protocol in and out of the book.
But, there was always a nine hundredth and ninety ninth chance. And he was taking his.
Maybe now was not the time to wonder if he lost his mind. Maybe now was the time to rejoice over finally finding it.
11 hours earlier
She was going to make him breakfast. Waffles, to be exact, since she did have pancake mix and the back of the box said she could make waffles out of it. Who was she to go against the sacred word of Aunt Jemima? All she needed to do was stir it up, slap some of that into the waffle maker and…instant breakfast.
She removed her jacket and went to hang it up in the hallway closet. She looked over her shoulder and saw Grissom moving into her living room and gingerly sitting on the couch. Good, that was the first real moment of hesitation he had shown in the last hour. He was actually rather full of himself during those sixty minutes or so since he rather boldly (for him) asked her out. Or, rather, invited himself in. Confident, self-assured. Not like him in a situation that was purely social.
Unless, of course, it wasn't purely social.
It could be him acting in his tough role of supervisor. Making sure she didn't fall off the wagon in her spare time.
No, it was a non-issue. She knew he believed her. This was…whatever it was.
She mixed up the pancake batter with the extra oil, per the instructions on the box, while warming up the waffle iron. She had used it once since she received it as a gag gift, years before. After putting the batter in, she went to the refrigerator to get the syrup, only to find she didn't have any. Sara looked around. She didn't have much of anything. The time she spent in her apartment lately had been minimal, at best.
Okay. She wouldn't panic. There was chocolate topping for ice cream. She could microwave some of that and make it chocolate sauce, and there was some whipped cream and maraschino cherries. Who said it couldn't be a festive, dessert type of breakfast? She opened the waffle iron and saw a lovely golden brown waffle. She removed it, drizzled chocolate sauce on it in a Sara Sidle original pattern, sprayed the last of the whipped cream on top in a swirl that ended in some weird spatter-like pattern as the cream ran out, and covered the mistakes with cherries.
She quickly threw some more batter in the machine and called Grissom to the table. She set the waffle and coffee in front of him. He looked down, eyebrow slightly quirked, but didn't say anything beyond a "thank you."
She smelled the waffle. She hadn't smelled the first one. This one obviously cooked up faster. She went over and it was definitely on the dark bronze side of golden. She quickly removed it, unplugged the machine and then looked around for some powdered sugar to hide her overzealous cooking. The batter was gone. She wasn't able to make more and hoped that Grissom's overpacked waffle would be enough for him, or she'd have to resort to offering him a slice of Velveeta on some brownish lettuce leaves.
She joined him at the table and he looked at her virtual snowflake of a meal. She knew he noticed the dark brown edges peeking out.
"Sara? Why is your waffle so…flat, compared to mine?"
"I have to watch my figure."
He smirked and pressed his lips together. It would have been nice if he didn't censor himself. Might be interesting to hear what the man had to say.
He quietly went back to eating. After he was halfway through, he sat back and looked at her again. She glanced up from her burnt offerings, took note of the staring and then looked down. She hadn't taken more than a bite or two of her breakfast, and played with the rest.
"What?" she asked, slightly annoyed that he was still looking at her intently while she was trying to get away with not eating.
"Nothing. I just needed a breather. I usually don't indulge quite this much for breakfast."
"I'm sorry," she said, putting her fork down. "I should have made you something else but I didn't have too much in the refrigerator."
"It's fine. But I feel guilty having dessert while you're eating…whatever that thing is under the pound of sugar."
"Sweetened ash," she smiled a bit and picked up her fork again.
He slid his dish over. "Here, finish mine."
"No. I was just joking. It's fine. Really."
Grissom stared again and then picked up his fork. He reached over and cut a piece of her waffle and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly.
"That's…burnt food, Sara," he cut a bit of his own waffle and held it to her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"It's okay, Gris. Charcoal is good for the digestion."
"Sara…it's disgusting. Here, try this. A little rich for breakfast, perhaps, but it's definitely good."
She opened her mouth and took the waffle from the tines of the fork. He reached over and wiped a bit of whipped cream from her upper lip and licked his finger. Then he put more of his waffle on the fork and held it out to her. His actions didn't seem to be intentionally sexy, but…there was a certain casual intimacy that was at odds with…everything that defined their relationship over the past decade.
Okay. It was time to talk.
Or babble.
"I've been spending so much time in the lab and have just been grabbing bagels on the way home. I never realized my refrigerator was so empty. You should have at least had an omelet or something. "
"I'm perfectly happy with what I've had."
"Yeah, but now you're feeding it to me," she said, telling her inner teenager to stop cheering about it, "and what if you're still hungry? There's next to nothing left."
"If we get hungry later, we'll go out to dinner," he said, simply, moving the fork closer to her mouth.
She opened it a bit in shock and he smiled and pushed the bit of waffle in. She took it and chewed, still staring at him.
Dinner? They just had breakfast. Was he ever planning on going home? Or did he make the leap from casual breakfast to cohabitation in one fell swoop?
He was loading up bite number three when she reached her hand out and put it over his own.
"No. I don't want anymore. Just…talk to me."
"About what?" he asked, feigning innocence even as his eyes told her he knew exactly what she meant.
She just pressed her lips together and sat back in her chair. Two could play this game.
"I'm tired, Sara," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Okay."
"I know, you want more of an explanation," he said. "And you deserve more. I'm just…not good at these things. You know what I spent half the night doing after we all went home the night Nick was rescued?"
She shook her head.
"I spent half the night kicking myself for missing the perfect opportunity. And many days and nights since then doing more of the same. When you put your arms around me, God, Sara…I wanted you to stay there. And if you had, if I hadn't ruined things by being…myself…we wouldn't even have to have a long conversation. We'd just…be." He shook his head. "I'm not making any sense."
"Yes, you are. If we started something that night, it would be an automatic fast forward into a different kind of relationship and you wouldn't have to talk about it. And, now, you feel you do."
"That sounds…pretty bad, doesn't it?"
"But accurate."
"Yes," he said, looking down at his own plate.
She sighed. He liked her arms around him, but stiffened at her touch. He regretted doing so because it would have saved him a conversation. He seemed to now want something more than they've had but not enough to talk about it. Great.
"I've never wanted you to agonize over the decision to be with me, Grissom. I still don't." Translation: Aw, just go home and play with your bugs.
But, of course, he had difficulty understanding her when she spelled things out. Forget about subtext.
"You thought about me," he said, somewhat wistfully. "When we rescued Nick. I know you thought about him—as we all did—but you also thought about me. I'm sure no one else did and I wouldn't expect them to. I didn't really even stop to think about my own mortality but the fact that you did really showed me how much you …value my life."
"As opposed to all the other times when I've told you, point blank, that you meant something to me?"
He gave a small smirk and ran his fork over the whipped cream. "Yeah, as opposed to all those times."
"I still see you there, Gris. That's why I hate going to sleep lately. I just dream of us being a split second too late."
"Everyone would have died, Sara. Not just me."
"You and Nick would have been first," she cleared her throat a bit and forced herself to eat another bite of her now cold, burnt waffle.
"I …have my own nightmares. It could have been you, instead of Nick," he said, softly.
"So, that explains the turnaround?"
"Partially."
"This is all a kind of a weird, desperation type of thing?" Sara asked.
"No. It's a kind of 'how many chances are you going to be given' type of thing."
Sara put her fork down but continued to stare at the remnants of their rather pathetic breakfasts. He was trying. She never wanted him to reason it all out so precisely. She wanted him to feel. But she had never questioned the man and who he was and she wasn't about to start now. If the journey she had wanted to take for so long was to begin today (and she doubted there would be a second chance), she had to accept whatever was being offered and let go of the fantasy.
She reached out with her fork and speared one last bite of his breakfast. She held it to his lips.
"Open," she said, and he did, taking the food from her fork. He ate, swallowed and pushed his plate back. She looked in his eyes and smiled.
"If my waffle wasn't so disgusting, I would give you some so I could wipe off the powdered sugar from your lips," she said, and he smiled right back. There was a warmth there, along with a bit of fear. He really didn't do this often. She knew that. Partially because she didn't either. Ah, well. If they could just get through Clumsy Flirting 101 this morning, perhaps in a month or so, they'd progress to Mild Innuendo 102.
But Grissom was a true scholar and was trying to skip a few classes. He slid his hand over to the side of her neck and pulled her closer to him. She was straining in her chair, leaning across the table. So was he. A few seconds passed and she felt the pressure of his hand increase. She moved even closer and closed her eyes. There was a definite strain in her back but she was willing to go with it. Still, nothing happened.
"Sara?" he said and she finally opened her eyes. This time, there was a look of sheer embarrassment on his face.
"You've changed your mind," she stated, simply. Her heart was breaking (again) but she wasn't entirely surprised.
"No," he said. "It's just that…if we do this with this table in between us, it's only going to take a few moments before we both need chiropractors. "
She almost laughed with relief. "What do you suggest?"
"Stand up," he said, and she did. He was a few inches taller but she was still almost at eye level with him and now they were standing pretty close together. She suddenly felt awkward herself. He seemed to know something was wrong right away.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Have you changed your mind?"
"No, it's just…odd."
He put his hands on her upper arms and started rubbing them slowly, "I know. I…it's…ah…"
She looked at him and smiled, "For me, too."
He rubbed her arms a little harder and moved his hands up to her shoulders and kneaded her flesh a bit. "Feel a little more comfortable?"
"Yes, but I don't necessarily think a requirement of a first kiss is comfort."
"It's not. But we've waited a really long time, haven't we?"
"We have," she said with a small smile.
He moved his hands behind her neck and pulled her closer. This time, she kept her eyes slightly opened—enough to see him move in very close and line up his mouth to hers, before closing his eyes and descending. One soft, moist, perfect kiss. Followed by another, and then a quick swipe of his tongue against her lower lip. Sweet. She knew if she touched her own tongue to her bottom lip, she would taste sweetness. She could already feel it. Not only from their desserts disguised as breakfast but from this gentle, hesitant man before her who was kissing her like she was fragile, tender, important. Sara wasn't used to anyone treating her that way.
It didn't last long, but Sara didn't mourn the loss. He moved his arms to her upper back and pressed her closer to him. This time, there was a wet swipe against her upper lip and she gave in completely. A moan from her, a groan from him and then…all bets were off. Skip introductory classes and move straight on through graduation (with honors). He deepened the kiss and stole her breath away. They both needed and wanted more. They both wanted everything. Her hands came up around his neck as he encircled her waist and tried bending her over the kitchen table. She put one hand out on the top of the table…right into his damned leftover whipped cream/chocolate sauce river, and tore her mouth from his.
"Gris," she said, in between gasps for breath.
"Hmm," he said, moving his lips to her neck and sucking. She closed her eyes and almost stopped thinking.
"Uh, you weren't planning on taking me on the kitchen table, were you?"
"No, but it's a good idea," he said, trying to bend her back again. She reached out her hand, realized it was covered in goo and then put it back down again. "Unless, you have any objections."
"Not in theory but, practically speaking, the table has a bad leg."
It took him a moment but the idea seemed to penetrate his mind. He pulled away from her. "I guess, I'm moving too fast?"
"No, I…no. I mean, the table will break…"
"Sara," he said, looking down briefly, and grabbing her hand, licking the whipped cream mixture from her palm without much thought. How did he manage to do that so casually? "I…we don't have to…but…"
She looked at the now clean palm of her hand. "I want to."
"How are the legs on your bed?"
"They'll survive."
In the bedroom, there was more kissing. And caressing. Lots more. But she had a hard time being in the moment now that they were closer to what she had wanted for so long.
The moment seemed both right and off at the same time. She didn't know anything about him in a romantic capacity. Maybe that type of thing was important to learn in increments. Not just blindly diving in, under the influence of massive quantities of sugar.
He pulled his lips away from her neck and looked at her. Just looked, deep in her eyes.
"Sara," he breathed her name. He'd stop. Even if it killed him, if that's what she wanted, she knew he'd stop.
She knew him. Maybe not quite in this scenario but she knew him. She knew his passion, his drive, how his blue eyes glistened in excitement over some weird discovery on a case, how haggard he could look when he was frustrated. How he could zone everyone and everything out when he was committed to something. And how he could be corny as hell, sometimes, when he was indulging in the black humor that helped them all face death on a daily basis.
And she knew herself. She had given her heart, totally, only once in her life. And it belonged to him, whether he had been willing to accept the gift or not. She loved him. And whether this was some freakish, one-time occurrence based on fear, desperation or fatigue, or the beginning of something long and wonderful, she wanted it. She almost wanted to tell him to hurry up and make her his lover quickly so he could spend the rest of his life making her his one love.
Almost. But she didn't quite want him to run out of the bedroom screaming.
So she concentrated on what was happening, at whatever pace he wanted to set. It wasn't a scenario that matched any of her thousands of fantasies but not one of them could hold a candle to the feeling of his beard scratching lightly against her skin, or how warm and wet his lips were, or how absolutely near-tears she felt as he entered her finally.
At that moment, nothing else mattered.
Gil Grissom now had proof that he had been, essentially, a fool. He had spent years worrying about the woman he now held in his arms. And, when the time came, no great explanations were needed. She just accepted what he told her and let him be.
And now, they were lovers…so, the rest would be…a piece of cake, really.
On a purely basic level, his greatest concern had been her reaction to seeing him as he really was, as opposed to the man she might have dreamed of. There was no Mel Gibson body lurking underneath his clothes, no flair of a…Brad Pitt? He didn't even know what contemporary actors to compare himself to because recent movies were just not his thing. And, apparently, they weren't hers, either. She seemed more than happy with the man she was uncovering—physically and figuratively. Her enthusiasm never diminished as they undressed and touched and tasted…
He wanted to wax poetic on the many things he discovered this evening…the rose petal softness of her breasts, the tenderness of her kisses, the joy in her release… But, more than that, he wanted to do it all over again as soon as humanly possible.
It would have been nice if his eyes could stay open. Or if the rest of his body was in anything but a shocked, but happily sated, mood.
He managed to pull her closer to him, and said a short prayer of thanks. Before falling into a deep sleep, he looked at her double bed (so much smaller than the boat-sized bed in his home), and made sure to add an even shorter prayer that he wouldn't knock her off the mattress before it was time for them to wake up.
The Present
Sara felt something soft, warm and wet on her shoulder. Nice. She wasn't waking up from this dream any time soon.
"Sara," he whispered and then a hand replaced the warmth of his mouth, shaking her lightly. "I've got to go, Sara."
He has to go. Grissom. Has to go. After spending the night. Well, he certainly got brownie points for not bolting out of bed right when they were done. Actually, he got major brownie points for sticking around and sleeping…naked yet…all through the night. But she wasn't sure if she was ready for the inevitable kiss off.
"Sara…"
It was better to get up and face the music than have him just leave or write her a scrawled note. Work would be very uncomfortable that way, to say the least.
She rolled over and faced him. He smiled at her and ran his finger down her cheek and across her lips.
"You slept pretty well for someone who said she had no intention of sleeping," he said.
She gave a soft grunt in reply. She just didn't know what else to do or say because she had no idea where he was going with any of this.
"I need to ask you something," he said.
"What?" she asked, fear entering the equation again.
"How in the world did we switch sides of the bed during the night?"
She looked down at her lap for a moment. "You… move around a lot and well, I just thought you'd be more comfortable sleeping on that side."
"I pushed you off the bed, didn't I?"
"Not quite," she admitted gently and then looked at him and smiled again as he chuckled softly.
He stood up. "Look. I have to go in a little early. There's this meeting with the Sheriff and I haven't quite finished some paperwork. I'm…the timing is bad but I really need to leave."
"It's okay."
"And…" he looked down toward his shoes.
She knew the "morning" after would be weird, even if it was late afternoon.
"I won't say anything to anyone, Grissom."
He looked back up. "I wasn't worried about that."
She looked at him for a few moments. He was floundering again but she wasn't entirely sure why. He actually was doing well for himself. It didn't appear that he was kissing her off after all. And he was being kind of geekily romantic. She liked that. Perhaps she wasn't living up to her end of the bargain and he was unsure of how she felt this morning. That was a possibility. Maybe…just maybe…he needed reassurance. But she would feel like an absolute ass if she pulled out the old "you were great, I never felt the earth move quite as much" type of line. Even if it was the complete truth.
"Gris?"
"Hmmm?"
"Come here a minute." He walked closer to her and she pulled him down to a sitting position on the bed.
"Sara…"
"No, this is important. You have trace evidence of our encounter all over yourself."
His lips automatically curved into a smile. "I showered."
"Case in point. You smell like me. A very lovely rice flowered smelling Grissom."
"You only had one shower gel in there. No soap, either," he complained.
She ran her hands down the front of his shirt. "I bet, if I got out my lifting tape, I would find multiple partials here," she traced one of his buttons, "here," she traced another, "and definitely here," she said, reaching his belt buckle. He took her hand and grasped her fingers lightly, removing them from the vicinity of his suddenly playful penis.
"I really can't be late, Sara."
"I know," she said, with slight sadness. She just didn't know what to say to get him to fully understand how much their night together meant to her. Declarations of undying love would be too much, this flirtatious thing was only going to annoy him, since he had responsibilities elsewhere. She lifted off a strand of her hair from his shoulder and tossed it on the floor.
"I think you'll be all right. Maybe stop in a drugstore and slap on some Aqua Velva or something, in spite of your usual predilections."
"Then they'll know I slept with someone."
"Yeah, but they won't know who."
He looked at her again. If she weren't a basically modest person, she would swear he looked a little…lovesick.
"I'm beginning to think you're not as good a CSI as I've always thought you were," he said.
"What?" she asked, semi-offended.
"You missed the largest amount of trace evidence."
"Where?" she asked, moving his collar to see if she left a bruise.
He took her hand again and held it over his heart. "Here," he said, softly.
"Ah, " she said, feeling her face grow hot. Did she say geekily romantic? No. That was romantic-romantic.
"Whatever you think this was, Sara, you're wrong. I'm not good at …spelling this out verbally but, you could feel…what I feel…some of what I feel…last night, couldn't you?"
"God, yes."
He smiled and kissed her lightly. "You want breakfast at my place after shift tonight? I've got a really big bed. I'll buy a new can of whipped cream?"
She smiled, dimples showing. "How could I resist?"
"Gris?"
He turned back and she squinted her eyes a little as they traveled up and down the length of his body.
"I never pictured you sleeping naked."
"That's probably because I don't. I…uh, had performance anxiety. You wore me out. Didn't have the energy to get dressed after that and…I guess I took the fact that you didn't run screaming from bed when I took my clothes off as a sign that maybe you weren't entirely repulsed by what you saw."
She shook her head. "I love everything about you."
"Aw, hell," he said and walked over to her, undoing the buttons on his shirt and unzipping his pants. "I overslept. My car wouldn't start. The dog ate my homework. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. The sheriff, and the budget, can wait."
She reached out her arms and welcomed him into her embrace.
And this time, well, he did stiffen up but only in the right place, while the rest of him melted like a Hershey bar on a hot car seat.
Gil Grissom had one last thought before losing himself in the woman he loved: His twenty or so year career in the Las Vegas Crime lab had been really nice, while it lasted.
But, if it was over, what a way to go!
The End.
A/N: All right. Don't kill me for the last line. I was channeling a giddy Grissom.
This was supposed to be a fluffy, very short story. I was still adding things to it today after I swore I was finished with it. No less than five printed copies are lying around my house with all kinds of notes and cross-outs.
It's still just...odd...and, yet, I keep at it, hoping it will make sense if I keep writing. But, you know, before it turns into War and Peace, I figured I'd cut my losses and hope you find some bits of enjoyment in this freakishly weird story.
Uh, did I mention that I think I started this thing sometime in February????
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