The next few months passed quietly.  I expected I'd hear from Grissom again, but his e-mail didn't grace my inbox, and I tried to put aside my disappointment.  I worked as hard as always, losing myself in the evidence for at least twelve hours a day.  Then I went home to the same spare apartment I'd had in Vegas, the only tangible difference being the view of the boardwalk this studio afforded me.  I had to admit, the arcade was beautiful at night, lit by twinkling white lights.  Opening my window let the sounds in - children laughing, people talking, the clinking and ringing of the bells as someone won, and someone else lost.

I was curled up in my club chair, staring out the window at the boardwalk's bustling little community of shops.  A young couple caught my eye, and my gaze fixed on the two women as they strolled hand-in-hand down the pier, toward the water's edge.  Both were about my age, and I watched with voyeuristic fascination as they walked along, lost in each other.  Neither seemed to notice the lights, the games, or the dozens of people milling around them.  I couldn't help but smile at them.  I was reaching for my police scanner, ready to see what the night might offer in terms of overtime, when something dinged loudly.  I jumped, startled, and whirled to see what the sound was.  "Damn computer," I sighed aloud.  I'd forgotten I had turned it on when I got home.  Striding over, I sank into a dining chair, which had been roped into performing double duty as a computer chair.  I shifted the mouse and the computer awoke, the laptop's monitor flickering to life.  The IM in the middle of my screen was blinking and it took me a moment to decipher the screen name.

BUGGS0214: Sara, a question has come up on a case you had about six months before you left.  It was a DB at the Bellagio, victim was John Stifle.  You worked with Warrick.  Remember it?

I was about to type a reply when a second IM came through.

BUGGS0214: Sara?  Are you there?

CSIGYPSY: I'm here, and I remember the case.  What's the question?

I didn't ask why Grissom hadn't just called.  I realized the case question was probably just an excuse to talk to me, as the article on arson deaths had been a defensible reason to e-mail me, and he felt more comfortable using an IM.  I didn't mind; at least we were talking.  He asked me a few questions about the case - pretty reasonable ones, actually.  I thought back and was able to recall most of the information, and I directed him to Warrick for the answers I didn't have.  He thanked me and I typed, "No problem.  Anything else?"

I could almost picture Grissom, sitting at his laptop, clicking out a reply.  "Catherine told me that she and Lindsey are going to visit you for Thanksgiving again."

"Yup. You going to join us?  LOL," I wrote.

Grissom's reply was instantaneous.  "I wish I could, but some of us have to work."

 "Too bad," I replied.  "We had such a great time last year, and this time, I'm actually going to cook."

I knew Grissom's tone was filled with incredulity without hearing his voice.  "You're cooking?"

Grinning, I typed back, "You can read!  LOL.  Yes, I'm making turkey, mashed potatoes, the whole bit.  Well, except the cranberry sauce.  Lindsey has declared that lumps in cranberry sauce are 'totally ew-worthy'."  I felt an ease slipping into the electronic conversation and I sighed in relief.  Maybe things wouldn't be as bad between us with the distance and almost a year's worth of space acting as an emotional buffer.

My grin widened as another IM popped up.  "Wow.  I never thought I'd see you being domestic."

"This isn't domestic, this is me cooking one meal, after having ordered in roughly 18,500 times," I replied, typing quickly.

"You weren't kidding about being a math geek."  Grissom's sense of humor, always dry, came across as downright arid online.  I found it hard to tell if he was teasing, but decided in the end to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I felt the smirk creeping across my lips even as I wrote back.  "You're pretty brave over the IM, aren'tcha fella?  Bet your mouth wouldn't be so smart if I were there in front of you."

His reply stunned me.  "I hardly ever feel smart when you're in the room, Sara."  I had no witty response to this startling change-up.  From math geek to monumental flattery.  The best I could come up with was,  "Uhm...thanks.  I think."

"I have to go, I just got beeped."  He signed off before I could type "Goodbye" and I leaned back in my chair, feeling wholly unsatisfied with the conversation.  Some of the old spark was back between us - of that, I had no doubt.  But where was this going?  Did I really want to spend my time exchanging flirtations with a man who would probably never be able to say the things I wanted to hear?  I moved three hundred miles away to avoid this kind of back-and-forth with him, but all he had to do was type a few words and I was right back where I started.

* * *

Another two weeks passed before I heard from Grissom again.  It was a simple e-mail, wishing me good luck with my first Thanksgiving dinner preparations, but I was surprised he thought enough of the event to mention it.  He attached a report from the DOJ on crime scene contaminants.  I replied, thanking him for the well-wishes and the article, although I already had the latter.  I tooled through the Journal of Forensic Sciences website while I waited to see if he'd reply.  When there was no response after fifteen minutes, I unplugged my laptop and carried it with me to my chair, grateful for my wireless network.  I settled in front of the window, computer on my lap and a tumbler of vodka on the table beside me.  I'd never been much of a vodka drinker - never much of a drinker at all, really - until Catherine convinced me to try Grey Goose.  One sip had me hooked, and now it was an almost-nightly ritual.  I listened with half an ear to the scanner, but it was nearly silent - only one call had come in, and that was a robbery.  No dead bodies in Long Beach tonight.  I clicked the scanner off and pulled up an Internet radio webpage for a Las Vegas station I'd loved.  The streaming audio began, but I didn't recognize the first song I heard, so I clicked over to another station, and another, until I found something I knew.

I began to sing along as I typed, composing a note to Catherine about her travel plans for the following week.

[I woke up, it was 7,

waited till 11,

just to figure out that no one would call.]

[What's another night all alone,

when you're spending every day on your own?]

How apropos. 

[And maybe when the night is dead,

I'll crawl into my bed, staring at these four walls again.
I'll try to think about the last time, I had a good time]

The last time I had a good time?  Last night, collecting evidence of a B&E in a plush waterfront condo.  I heard Catherine's voice in the back of my mind.  *"If you think that's a good time, you're in serious need of one."*  I laughed at myself.


[Everyone's got somewhere to go,

and they're gonna leave me here on my own.]

Depressing lyrics, despite the upbeat tune.  I shook my head slowly, sending the e-mail to Catherine and opening a new one that had just popped up - spam.  I hit the delete key.

[What the fuck is wrong with me?

Don't fit in with anybody.

How did this happen to me?]

I sighed as the lyrics hit home.  I let myself fall, just for a moment, into the well of self-pity.  I wondered if I'd ever find someone I loved the way I loved Grissom, who would love me with the same intensity I felt.  Then I wondered if there was anyone else for me - someone who would not only understand but appreciate my workaholic nature, my obsession with my job, my firm conviction that a packet of M&Ms was a meal.

Sighing again, I enjoyed the way the weight seemed to slide off my shoulders with each deep breath.  I resolved not to think about the subject any more that night, and of course, as soon as I did, his IM popped up.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries - "Hi, how are you?", "How's work?"  I took a long sip of my vodka as I thought about where to take the conversation, and ended up asking about his Thanksgiving plans.

"Mom and I are having dinner before my shift," Grissom wrote.

I smiled as Betty's face came to mind.  The first time I'd met her, the older woman had treated me like family, greeting me with a hug and a rapid series of hand gestures that Grissom translated as, "You're even more beautiful than my son said."  He was nothing if not honest, even at his own expense.

"That sounds nice.  Tell her I say hi."

"I will."

I took another, longer drink as I prepared to test the friendship we'd started to rebuild.  "How's your hearing?" I typed carefully.

I wasn't surprised by the length of the pause before Grissom replied.  "It's in and out, more out than in the past few months.  But I haven't had to stop working."

"I'm glad."

"You still thinking about coming back next month?" Grissom's IM said, changing the topic abruptly.

"Thinking about it, if I can get a few days off.  I miss Las Vegas."

"I'm sure Las Vegas feels the same way about you.  What's your boss' number?  I'll put in a request to borrow you."

"You pulled that trick four years ago," I chuckled.

"It worked, didn't it?"

I laughed loudly this time, answering, "Only too well.  Listen, I'll make you a deal."

"What's that?"

"A deal is a transaction between two people, where they each make a concession and each get something they want."  I grinned as I hit 'enter'.

I could almost hear Grissom's exasperated but amused sigh.  "What's the deal?"

"I'll arrange the time off, if you'll have dinner with me while I'm in Vegas."

"Sara..."

My fingers flew fast and furiously over the keyboard.  "Grissom, you haven't been my supervisor for almost a year.  There's no reason we can't go out - even just as friends."  When he didn't reply, I added, "Besides, you invited me first."

"I did?  Yes, I guess I did."  There was another short pause, and then the IM blinked.  "It's a deal."

* * *

I stood in his doorway, watching him examine the computer screen.  Nothing about him or his office had changed.  Insects still fluttered in their habitats, the tarantula was still in his place of honor beside Grissom's desk, and Grissom was still oblivious to the world around him.  I cleared my throat, grinning nervously in anticipation of his surprise.

Without lifting his eyes, he asked, "Can I help you, Sara?"

I shook my head as he finally looked up from his reading.  "Damn.  How'd you know it was me?"

"Your scent.  I've been trying to enhance my other four senses before my hearing's gone."

"That's great, Grissom," I said, trying to keep any hint of sympathy out of my voice.  "But for your information, I don't wear perfume, so I think you cheated.  Cath told you I was in town."

Grissom shook his head with the beginning of a smile.  "No.  Pantene shampoo.  Same scent, every day, for three years.  Sense memory," he finished, tapping the side of his nose.

"I still say you cheated."  I felt some of our old familiarity resurfacing.

"I did not," Grissom protested.  "I have an article on scent recognition and memory function, if you want to read it.  It's here somewhere."  He began digging through an enormous stack of papers and I waved him off.

"No, it's okay, I'll concede - you're a bloodhound.  I'm here to take you to dinner."

His eyes changed as he watched me carefully.  "I - I just have to finish this."

"I'll go say hi to Nick and Greg, and meet you in the break room in half an hour.  Don't worry," I added, with a smirk.  "It won't hurt."

* * *

The Chinese food cartons were spread across the table, mimicking many a Saturday night spent poring over files; but this time, we were examining a case much closer to home.

"I felt something."  Grissom poked at the lo mein, stabbing the noodles as if it were their fault he was being forced to deal with his emotions, rather than mine.

"You felt something?" I prodded.

"For you," he said grudgingly.  "I felt something for you, and I didn't know what it was, and it scared me.  I don't scare easily."

I tried to tread lightly with my probing questions.  "You had no problem with Terri, or the Bondage Queen," I reminded him.

"I don't feel that way about them."  He was still staring into the carton of noodles.

"What way?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as Grissom said quietly, "If I lost you...I can't do it."

"Yes, you can.  It's just me, Griss."  The unfamiliar nickname slipped out, feeling somehow appropriate in that moment.  "Talk to me."

"No, I mean it," Grissom said firmly, finally meeting my eyes.  "If you weren't in my life, I don't know how I'd…"  He exhaled silently, starting over.  "Even though you've moved on," he said, his voice revealing little about what was going on in his head, "you're still right there, accessible by e-mail or telephone.  If we started something," Grissom lowered his voice, "and it didn't work, which it wouldn't..."  He faltered again.  "You're so much a part of everything I am now that I'm afraid I… it terrifies me.  You terrify me," he admitted.  "I never wanted to need anyone like that."

Staring at my shrimp rather than meeting his eyes, I hesitated for a full minute.  I knew too well what Grissom could do with a simple twist of my words.  "The way I need you?" 

"You don't need me, Sara.  One day you'll realize that and you'll go off and find another Hank and make a life for yourself.  You've already started.  And once I go...deaf," I heard the hesitation, and looked up at him.  "I'll be dependent on everyone I let in my life.  I won't impose on you like that.  I refuse to let anyone take care of me, but especially you.  You've got a bright career ahead of you; having an invalid around will only weigh you down."

I shook my head in rebuke.  "Grissom, I don't think you've depended on anyone since you were old enough to hold a spoon.  Why do you think you're gonna start now, just because you're losing your hearing?" I demanded.

"I saw my mom--"

"I met your mom," I challenged, cutting him off.  "She's in a nursing home because she's eighty-five, Grissom, not because she's deaf.  She managed to survive being deaf in a hearing world for forty years, and we've got more technology and options now than she ever did.  We'll be fine."

"We'll be fine?"

*Sure, _now_ you're observant.*  "You know I'm here for you."

"Yes, I do."

"And that scares you, doesn't it?"  Suddenly, I was a psychologist.

"No.  Relying on that scares me, because it won't always be true."

I threw Grissom's scientific logic back at him. "How can you be certain of that unless you test your hypothesis?"

"What do you mean?"  Grissom laid his chopsticks down and templed his fingers on the table in front of him.

My stomach flip-flopped as I met his light blue eyes.  I latched on to what I knew best: science and slipped on a professorial tone, the one I used with my junior team members when pointing out a basic procedural error - knowledgeable but non-judgmental.  "Stop me if I'm wrong at any time," I began.  "It seems to me that you're putting forth as a theory your reluctance to enter into a relationship with me. As any good theory does, yours has two basic assumptions, and a hypothesis.  Assumption one is that you're unable to maintain any significant level of emotional intimacy, which would inevitably cause any proposed relationship between us to fail."  I was encouraged by the pale creeping into his face when I hit a nerve.  He hadn't spoken yet, so I continued.  "Assumption two - that if you were able to overcome the first assumption, once you lost your hearing, you'd be dependent upon me, which would cause you to feel guilty and me to feel resentful, again forcing a bad end to the hypothetical relationship."  I watched his eyes for a sign that I'd crossed a line, but Grissom was listening to me intently, albeit with a slight tremble in his steepled fingers.  "Let me point out the flaws in your logic.  First, a theory is a well-tested, proven hypothesis.  Your hypothesis is that if we get into a relationship, the one of your two theoretical assumptions will cause a horrible ending, which will leave us unable to be friends - an unacceptable outcome.  Right?"

Grissom nodded.  "But--"

"Wait, there's more."  I smiled slightly.  "Since neither of your assumptions has ever been tested, your hypothesis hasn't been verified, so your theory is really just a shot in the dark.  To prove or disprove your hypothesis, you need to do a simple experiment, using the scientific method."  Teasingly, I added, "Remember that?  We learned it in sixth grade earth science."  I ticked the steps off on my fingers.  "Ask, Theorize, Hypothesize, Test, Review.  You asked, 'Will a relationship between Sara and me succeed?'  You developed a theory based on your assumptions and derived a testable hypothesis - that any relationship would inevitably fail - but that's where you stopped.  You never tested the theory."

"Sara, this isn't an experiment," Grissom replied, frustrated.  "If I 'tested my hypothesis' and proved my theory, I'd lose what we have now.  I'm not willing to risk it."

"Not even on the very significant possibility - I'd even call it a probability - that your assumptions are wrong and your theory is invalid?" I pressed.  "You've proposed a very tentative theory.  You can't cite any examples to back up your assumptions, and you haven't accounted for other independent variables, such as the compatibility of our personalities or our proven ability to maintain a friendship despite our conflicts."  I watched this register on his face and cheered inside.  I chalked up the score: Sara and her scientific logic - one. Grissom and his intimacy issues - zero.

"You...You might be right," Grissom conceded softly, his mouth forming a silent sigh.

"So maybe next time, we'll try a restaurant?"

"It's...a date?" Grissom replied, his voice as unsure as I'd ever heard it.

"Yes, it is."  I grinned broadly.  "See?  I told you it wouldn't hurt.  And it only took four years."  I wondered what it would take to get a kiss.

THE END

Feedback is always appreciated.

tamakesareborn@yahoo.com