Disclaimer: I own nothing, not a thing, nada.

A/N: I was watching the movie Notorious the other night and the idea for this story came to me. If you like classic films and haven't seen this movie, but want to, I suggest you watch it first so that I don't ruin it for you. Other than that, I hope you enjoy.

Notorious

It had been a long night. After pulling a double, Gil Grissom wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and fall into a deep slumber. Arriving home, he opened the door to his dark townhouse. When he looked around the room and was met by silence, he couldn't bring himself to go into the bedroom. Instead, he pulled a pillow and blanket from the hall closet and lay down on the couch.

Grissom tossed and turned on the sofa for several minutes before surrendering to the knowledge that sleep would not come easily that night. He reached for the remote and began to flip through the channels. Channel after channel offered nothing but paid programming, television evangelists, and the worst, dating services. About to give up on the early morning channel surfing, Grissom flipped by Turner Classic Movies, and something caught his attention. Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious had just started. Grissom put down the remote and sat up. Within seconds, the film had him hooked.

Grissom leaned back and rested against the arm of his couch as he watched the beautiful, yet self destructive, Ingrid Bergman numb herself by drinking. The beautiful girl, attracted to the leading man, the smart and handsome Cary Grant. She tried, bottle after bottle, to escape her life, escape her past, escape her father's legacy, his ghosts. A near DUI, she is only able to get out of when he stepped in. Then, he took her home.

The developing plot caused Grissom to tense. He sat straighter. His hand gripped the arm of the couch. She followed him; she changed countries…states…for him, because he asked her too. She took her job to move beyond her past, but she followed him. She fell in love with him. He kept her at a distance, afraid of her, torn between his love for her and his work.

Grissom's hand came up to his mouth. He covered it. His eyes grew wide. He watched, mesmerized, as the story continued to unfold. The American Agents wanted her to use herself as bait for a Nazi…for a psychotic killer…a serial killer. They said she was perfect for the job. He said no, she couldn't, she wasn't trained for it, but they asked her and she agreed. He couldn't bear the thought of her sacrificing herself. She put herself in danger to catch the bad guy, to dispel some ghosts, and he couldn't do a thing about it. It was her choice. A large part of her was doing it for him. Hurt by her choice, he conceded. Then, he thrust her into the arms of another man and she went, despite the fact she was in love with him.

His hands became fists. He sat, straight, his body rigid. He edged forward on the couch. He swallowed, trying to return moisture to his dry throat. She continued to work, putting herself in more and more danger. She was strong, she was intelligent, she was meticulous, she paid attention to the smallest details, she retained information. She wanted him. He withdrew. He pushed her away.

Grissom's hands unclenched and he ran his fingers through his hair. His breath grew ragged as the story continued to draw him in, deeper and deeper. They were in the wine cellar. They were investigating and were almost caught. The need to touch her was so strong. They could have run off and not been seen…he could have waited until they were finished investigating the scene. He kissed her outside the house…he ran his hand down her arm. They were caught and the action put her in danger. They didn't know it, but she became the Nazi's target…Natalie's target…and he couldn't protect her. He didn't see it coming. Slowly, she was being killed, left to die.

He was having trouble breathing. His normally stoic face grew tighter, tenser by the moment. His hands clenched and unclenched before they grasped his thighs and dug in. His knuckles were white from applying pressure. He realized, almost too late, what was happening. He ran off to save her, not sure if he could.

Suddenly, Grissom was aware of another presence in the room. It sat down beside him. He hadn't heard anything. He hadn't seen the light flicker on. He only noticed the presence when he felt a warm hand give his shoulder a soft, supportive squeeze. He didn't look at the person next to him. Instead, he remained on the edge of his seat, elbows resting on his knees, chin resting on his fists, staring forward. He watched as Cary Grant found Ingrid Bergman, nearly dead. Carefully, he escorted her weak form down the stairs, past the Nazis. Claude Raines trailing behind, he walked her out of the house and into his car. He never let go of her…never released her hand.

Watching his face display sheer anguish, the person next to him spoke, "Notorious? Grissom, how many times have you seen this?" Grissom remained silent, only acknowledging the person next to him by shaking his head. His eyes never left the screen in front of him.

Not discouraged, the voice continued, "You know, the ending was supposed to be unsettling, it's Hitchcock, but she doesn't die."

Grissom sat back and closed his eyes. "You don't know that. Even if she lived, do you really think she could go back to him after all she's been through? How could she? She won't be the same. She'll leave him. What could she ever want with him after what he put her through?"

The voice was soft. "She loves him."

"It's not enough."

"You're right, sometimes it isn't. But, I think when you really love someone, when they are the only one for you, then love is enough. You know, Hitchcock wrote a few endings before he settled on this one. He dies saving her in a couple, he can't save her and she dies in one, but he also wrote a happily ever after. I prefer to think that this ending leads to happily ever after."

Eyes still tightly closed, he shook his head vigorously. "There's no such thing," he answered, whispering quietly.

"There can be." A warm hand moved to rest on his thigh. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down at the hand. It gripped lightly, then let go. The thumb began to gently caress his knee. "What are you doing down here watching T.V. at this time anyways? You should be asleep in bed."

Carefully, he turned his head and stared, wide-eyed, at the person beside him. He smiled softly and cupped her cheek, tenderly stroking it with his hand. Slowly, his hand moved from her cheek to around her shoulder. He pulled her toward him and softly kissed the top of her head. Sara smiled and leaned into his side. "I didn't want to wake you."

End