TITLE: Brilliant Scientists such as Ourselves
AUTHOR: MSCSIFANGSR
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Sara is upset. Was it something Grissom did? GSR
DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI, but remember this: if WP were to show up on my doorstep, then he'd be mine. All mine. I wouldn't share. End of story.
A/N: After talking to ILoveJorja the other night on Facebook, I started reading some of my old fics and today, I thought I'd write something and this came out. And I sort of promised JellyBean that I might be ready to write again.
SPOILERS: If you've read any of my previous works, then maybe some of this will sound familiar.
WARNING: I'm rusty and in fluffy mood. Sue me if you can't handle it.
THANKS: To ILoveJorja for your kind words. To Durban who sent me a review recently on an old story which reminded me why I love to write...Great Readers! And to JellyBean for her passive-aggressive ways and for putting up with my b.s.

Sara Sidle is pissed.

Usually if she is upset about a case, all you have to do was look at her and know she is mad because of the fact there is no evidence to support the conviction of an obviously guilty suspect. She would keep plugging away, using all her resources to find something, anything that would indeed convict. When all of her valiant efforts failed, she would be pissed for days or weeks. Her brooding would then be replaced when another case would come along to challenge her.

She's not that kind of pissed. But she is angry about something.

In this instance, I can tell she is not upset over anything about work. However I do sense that she is most definitely mad at me, her husband. I've felt the brunt of her anger on more than one occasion. And I know I may be obtuse at times, but I have no clue as to why she's glaring at me over the dirty dishes from our recently completed dinner.

She is quietly sipping her iced tea, telepathically sending me death threats.

I try for the easy solution, "You want something else to eat or more tea, dear?"

Her answer is a defiant shake of her head.

I try again, knowing that it is not the problem, but hoping I was mistaken, "Are you upset over something from work?"

Same response.

God knows I'm a dead man.

I start clearing the table, almost afraid to question her further; I most certainly do not wish to spend the night on the couch. I know I need to clear the tension in the air before there is some kind of escalation that actually leads to my death. I head to the kitchen sink with our soiled plates in hand, I turn slightly and ask, with a shrug of my shoulder, "Sara, do you want to talk about it?"

Her voice is virulent, "Talk about what?"

I hear the glass slam against the wood of the table and without looking I hear the chair she was sitting on scrape harshly against the floor. When I finally hazard to look back at her, she is standing with arms crossed over her chest, with fists clinched. I quickly set the dishes in the sink and turn back to her. She looks like she's about to hyperventilate.

"You are troubled about something and I'd like to know if I've done something to you to exacerbate the situation."

"This isn't only about you, Gil."

Thank Goodness, I think to myself, but she continues before I can say that out loud.

"Everything isn't always about you. You selfish, arrogant son of a..."

"Whoa!" I hold up my hand to stop her barrage before she says something to ignite the situation any further. "Sara, have I done something to you?"

"Yes, you have," she answered pensively.

Progress. "And do you mind sharing with me what it is?"

She takes a deep breath, her facial features relax a bit, her arms drop to her sides. "Well, for starters, you knocked me up."

I smile at her. "Really?" I already knew that, dear, was what I was about to say, but she rudely interrupted me before I could finish.

"Is that all you have to say, "Really?" You stupid, mother..."

"Whoa!" I again hold my hand up to stop her nearly filthy mouth from saying something it shouldn't.

"Sara, you know that I am happy that we're pregnant."

I start walking toward her to give her a hug, but her defiant tone stops me inches from her.

"We're not pregnant. I'm pregnant. I'm the one who is going to look like I swallowed a few huge watermelons. What am I going to do? I'm going to be massive."

She looks like she is near tears as I reach my hand out to touch her lightly on the arm. "We're pregnant and we're going to do whatever it takes. Together."

I pull her into a gentle hug. She is crying now and I feel the wetness against my shoulder. She clings to me and when I feel the tips of her fingers start wrapping around the unruly curls at my neck, I know it's time to tell her how I feel.

"I love you, Sara. And I love our daughter. Soon, she will have a brother or sister. I imagine it's tough being the only child of brilliant scientists such as ourselves."

Sara laughed, "You are right. It's just these stupid hormones. Alaia will be a great big sister to the twins."

"Twins?" I nearly hyperventilate myself. I pull away from her and ask, "How do you know?"

"Ultrasound today with Dr. Hannagan."

"You've got pictures?" I ask, incredulously. Proof that my swimmers are so potent. I don't say that. It would probably make her mad.

"Yes, dear." Sara smiled then and I knew she wasn't pissed anymore and that everything was going to be okay.

THE END

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