Title: Windfall
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Sara receives an unexpected windfall, Greg is there to help her enjoy it! Greg/ Sara fluff!
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own C.S.I., Sara or Greg – but I wish I did!
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"Do you think the fact that we've been so desensitised to death and blood and… bodily fluids by repeated exposure to such a degree that we can wade waist deep into a pond filled with chunks of flesh and stench and god only knows what without breaking sweat makes us, well, makes us kind of sick?"
Greg was indeed waist deep in a garden pond filled with decomposing body parts, camera in hand, but despite his claim that he was no longer affected by the harsh realities of his work he was rather pale. Sara stood by the side looking down as he took another step into the turgid water. Apart from the violent mess at the bottom of the garden, there was nothing to differentiate this particular home from the thousands of others in Vegas's homogenised suburbia. A bloody chainsaw lay abandoned by the edge of the pond, ten feet from a fallen branch.
"First of all, we are not doing anything. You are collecting evidence while I supervise. And secondly, being able to distance yourself from instinctive reactions to the body does not make you sick, merely competent at your job."
Up to his torso in, well, torso, Greg glared at Sara.
"I think my doing…" he gestured wildly "this qualifies me as more than competent!"
Sara sighed.
"I'll be sure to make note of your 'heroic measures' in the case file. Until then, keep snapping. The sooner we finish up here, the better. This water reeks."
"Yeah, I had noticed!" Greg cried indignantly as a piece of thigh bobbed by his left leg.
Pulling her sunglasses down onto her face, Sara smiled to herself. Poor Greg, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. She remembered the decomposed body stuffed inside a duffel bag she had once investigated and couldn't forget the disgusting odour that had followed her around for days afterwards. But she outranked Greg, and Sara had decided that now was not the time to show solidarity with the proletariat – no matter how cute they happened to be.
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Back in the lab, after they had both showered the stench of death off their skin (Sara more successfully than Greg) and collated their evidence with the witness statements both were happy to present their findings to Grissom.
"…And then Mr Harrison stepped backwards to admire his handiwork, tripped over the cable and spliced and diced his way into the garden pond."
Grissom stared at Greg Sanders over the rims of his glasses, disapproval radiating from every pore.
"Spliced and diced?" His tone was neutral, but Greg knew his boss well enough to realise he had crossed a line.
"Well I… I mean, he –"
"I think what Greg means to say is that we just pulled a double shift, we stink and we're tired. Please sign off on this so we can go home." Sara's interruption allowed Greg to breathe a sigh of relief. She had known Grissom longer than anyone else in the lab had – it seemed to give her licence to speak to the man in a manner Greg knew would be denied to him.
"Go." Grissom smiled at Sara. "Shower."
Walking out into the hallway Greg turned to Sara, gratitude in his eyes.
"Thank you so much Sara."
"You have nothing to thank me for."
"Uh, only if you don't count rescuing me from the stuttering mess that I became in there. I just always seem to mess up around him."
"It's natural Greg."
They had reached the locker room and Sara watched as Greg angrily pulled out his coat. He hung his head and stood motionless before his locker.
"What's wrong?" Her voice was softer than it had been, and she reached out her hand to touch him lightly on his arm. At her touch he seemed to deflate slightly, and raised his eyes to hers.
"It's just that… well, I was always so sure of myself when I was based in the lab. I wasn't just good, I was the best. But in the field, I'm the rookie - I'm unsure, I make mistakes…
"We all make mistakes."
"I know, I know. And don't get me wrong, the field is defiantly where I want to be, its just, when I do make a mistake, or if I misspeak, it throws me."
Sara sighed and tightened her hold on Greg's arm in sympathy and as she did, he felt a familiar tingle work its way up from the pit of his stomach. She might be a harsh taskmaster, but there were definite perks to being paired with Sara.
"You're still finding your feet Greg. But I meant what I said earlier. You are competent – and you're going to make a great C.S.I."
"Thanks," he smiled broadly at her. Not only was she touching him, but she had faith in his abilities too – he didn't know which was more exciting. He felt a surge of courage pulse through him and before he knew it he was speaking aloud words that he had rehearsed almost every shift he had ever worked with Sara.
"Fancy grabbing some breakfast?" He held his breath like a schoolboy asking a girl to his first prom.
"Sure," she smiled broadly. "But we do still reek slightly, so I don't think we'll be able to breakfast in any of the nicer diners this morning."
"I can slum it if you can." He replied, smiling back.
Turning from him, Sara pulled out a leather shoulder bag from her locker and as she did a white envelope fluttered to the floor.
"Damn it!" she cried as she knelt to the floor to retrieve the errant letter.
"What?"
"I completely forgot, I have an appointment this morning and –" she glanced at her watch "I'm already late. I'm afraid breakfast will have to wait, sorry."
"Hey, no worries" He tried to keep the tone light, but he couldn't conceal his disappointment.
"Unless…"
Not for the first time that day he found himself holding his breath as he awaited Sara's words.
"This meeting shouldn't last more than a few minutes. Its just some paperwork I need to sign at some lawyer's office. If you don't mind waiting we could swing by on our way to pancake stacks and filter coffee?"
Like he really needed to think about it.
"Sure, I think I can manage that."
His smile widened into a grin.