Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

Rating: T

Spoilers: Committed

Summary: Yet another story of how Grissom and Sara might've gotten together.

A/N: This fic sort of ended up in a place where I didn't think it would end up. It certainly wasn't supposed to be this long!

Damsel

He hoisted her up into his arms. "You weigh nothing."

"Tell me that after the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the car," she groaned, the pain still radiating from her now-swollen ankle.

Her arms were secured around his neck, gripping a little too tight for comfort. "I'm not going to drop you," Warrick laughed. "If you choke me, then you lose your ride."

Sara smiled sheepishly. "Sorry." She loosened her hold on him. She wasn't used to being carried, well, anywhere. Sara was not one of the itsy-bitsy women that men loved to sweep off their feet. She was long and lanky, and not really meant for being cradled in anyone's arms. It was true she didn't weigh all that much, but at five-foot-nine, she was a handful. Luckily, Warrick was quite the specimen, strong enough and large enough so that she didn't feel awkward in his grasp. Sighing, Sara tilted her head so she could see behind Warrick's shoulder. "I'm sorry you're stuck with all the kits, Grissom," she apologized.

Grissom looked up at her, and then back down at the ground. "It's not a problem. Let's just get you back to the lab so you can ice down that ankle."

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling monumentally useless. Not one week ago an insane serial rapist had threatened to slice her throat open, yet it was a wayward rock and unsure footing that took her down. Grissom, who was closest to her when she fell, had rushed to her side, and Warrick soon followed. When it became clear that walking back the half-mile to the car was not an option, Warrick hoisted her up without a word and then called out to his boss. "Griss, will you take care of the kits?"

When they came upon the SUV, Warrick tilted his head, looking satisfied with himself. "I barely broke a sweat," he bragged as Grissom opened one of the back doors. Sara slid into the car and thanked Warrick once again. "It was nothing. Thanks to you, I can skip a gym visit." The two men silently got into the car and drove back to the lab as day broke in the sky.

Sara let her eyes drift closed; the pain was making her dizzy and tired. She listened to the hum of the engine and tried not to concentrate on the throb in her right ankle. When she felt the car come to a complete stop, her eyes popped open. They were in the lab's garage, idling by the exit.

"Warrick, can you take the kits inside and log the evidence? I'm going to take Sara home."

Slightly groggy, Sara sat up straight in her seat. "My stuff...my stuff is in my locker."

Grissom turned in his seat to look at her. "What's your combination? I'll get your stuff."

"12-16-5."

He nodded and left for the lab with Warrick. Sara frowned. Grissom's demeanor was an odd mix of attentive and distant. Ever since Adam Trent had held a shard of pottery to her throat, her boss watched her as intently as he would a suspect caught on a surveillance tape, as if her next move would prove deadly. When he returned to the car, she saw he was carrying her purse, her jacket, and a black plastic bag she didn't recognize.

"I raided the First Aid kit in my office," he explained to her as he set her things down on the empty passenger seat beside him. "I wasn't sure if you had the proper bandages."

She didn't. "Oh...thank you."

He reached into the plastic bag and took out an ice pack. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "For your ankle."

Sara nodded and placed the cool pack on her swollen joint, sighing as it numbed the area. Grissom drove to her apartment complex without another word. Instead of just pulling up at the front door and letting the car sit, running, as he helped her up the stairs to her front door, he parked in a guest parking spot and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Before Sara could open her mouth to say anything, Grissom had slid out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. He held out his hands for her, palms open, waiting. She tentatively gripped them and he pulled her up slowly until she was standing on her good foot. With a sweep of his arm, he moved to lift her up as Warrick had done earlier.

Sara immediately stiffened, causing Grissom to lose his grip and fall -- with her on top of him -- onto the pavement, the side of his head smacking against the car door with a loud thwack.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, crawling off of him quickly, despite the pain in her ankle.

Grissom put a hand to his head and winced. "Why did you do that?" he asked, annoyed.

"I...I didn't know you were picking me up. I'm sorry." She kneeled close to him, letting her hand gently outline the growing bump near his temple. Sara frowned and grabbed the ice pack that had been thawing on the backseat of the car. Carefully, she brought it to the bump on his head. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "Do you think you have a concussion?"

"I'll be fine," he told her, getting up slowly. "Are you okay? You fell, too."

"I'm fine," she assured him, taking his offered hand so she could stand.

Grissom gripped her by the waist, surprising her, and handed her the ice pack. "Put your arm around my shoulder," he instructed. She did, careful not to put too much weight on him as they began walking towards her front door. "You can lean on me more," he sighed. "I may be old, but I'm not ancient. I'm not going to break."

"I never said you were," she answered quickly. "Old, I mean. Or that you'd break." Sara swallowed, wishing she could crawl into a hole.

When they got to her door, Grissom unwound her arm from his neck. "I'll go get your stuff." He ran back to the car -- a little to fast for her liking, seeing as his head was now sporting a bump to rival her swollen ankle -- and soon returned with her bag and supplies.

She took her purse from him and located her keys. "Please excuse the mess," she said. "I've got to do laundry." Sara opened the door to three baskets of laundry, sitting in her entryway, waiting to be taken to the basement facilities to be cleaned. She rolled her eyes as she hobbled past the dirty clothes. If they didn't get done when she had two working ankles, she didn't see how they'd ever get done now.

Grissom said nothing as they walked into her living room. She sat down on the couch, waiting for him to do the same. He just stood there, watching her.

"Um...how's the head?"

"What?"

"Your head. How is it?"

"I don't even feel it," he said blankly, finally taking a seat next to her. "Give me your ankle."

Slowly, Sara lifted her foot up off of the floor and put it into his waiting lap. With the skill of a doctor, he wrapped her ankle in bandages and then applied the ice pack. The palm of one hand cradled her heel while the other iced the ankle. "Better?"

She smiled at him. "Much."

Their eyes met for a long moment, and Grissom shifted, uncomfortable. "I, uh..." he looked around for the plastic bag of supplies. "I brought the bottle of ibuprofen I keep in my desk," he said, sifting through the contents of the bag to retrieve the pain reliever. He opened the bottle and held it out to her. She took it and then he carefully lifted her foot off of his lap, setting it on the couch. "I'll go get you a glass of water."

When Grissom returned with the water, Sara quietly thanked him before taking the pills. She handed the bottle back to him, but he just placed it on the end table to his left. "You keep it. You might need more."

"Seriously, Grissom," she said, shaking her head, "I've got in my medicine cabinet. You take it. You might need it. You hit your head pretty hard."

His hand instinctively reached up to touch the bump on his skull. "It's not too bad."

Sara smiled tightly and lowered her leg to the floor. She knew he was probably itching to leave. Social calls weren't his forte. At least social calls to her weren't his forte. He had been making an attempt to improve their communication, but Rome wasn't built in a day. He had held her hand in the very same room months earlier as she had cried about her parents, and Sara pretty much figured she had exhausted his emotional quota for that year during that turbulent afternoon.

She figured wrong, because the very moment she got up to excuse herself, thanking him for his help and remarking that he probably had much better things to do, he stood up too, supporting her wobbly body by the elbow. "Do you want something to eat? I could go pick up something. Or order something."

Sara shook her head. "No. I'm fine. I was just going to change," she told him, making her way around the coffee table slowly. He kept his grip on her. "I just need to get into more comfortable clothes," she explained as he walked her to her bedroom door.

"Okay," he said. "I'll be waiting here if you need anything."

Eyes wide, Sara nodded. "O...kay." She closed the door behind her and shook her head. After hobbling over to her dresser, she pulled out a drawer and eyed the meager contents in dismay. "I really need to do my laundry," she muttered. The top drawer, which housed her undergarments and assorted comfy sleepwear was woefully understocked. There was a scattering of thongs, ripped sweatpants, a pair of cotton shorts, and an oversized Yale Law sweatshirt that belonged to an ex-boyfriend back in San Francisco. Sighing, she grabbed a thong, the shorts, and the sweatshirt and limped into the bathroom. Though she would've liked to take a shower, Sara didn't feel like asking Grissom to redo his handiwork on her ankle. Instead, she stripped, grabbed a washcloth, and began cleaning herself off as best she could while perched on the toilet seat cover. Her ankle still hurt, but the sharp ache had dulled.

The knock on the bathroom door forced a gasp out of her tired body as she fruitlessly tried to cover herself with her hands and the tiny washcloth.

"Sara?"

The door didn't open, but another soft knock came. "Sara?"

"I'm getting dressed," she answered quickly, letting her hands fall to her sides. He obliviously knew better than to barge in.

"Okay. You were taking a while. I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he explained through the door.

"I...I'm fine. Thanks." He said nothing more and, soon, Sara felt her body relax again.

After reapplying some deodorant and brushing her teeth, she slipped on clean underwear, the shorts, and the sweatshirt and regarded herself in the mirror. She didn't look her best, but she didn't look like death warmed over, which is how she felt. She just wanted to rest. Sleep hadn't been coming easy since her near miss with Adam Trent and Sara had finally reached her tipping point. The past few hours had drained her. All she wanted to do was bid Grissom adieu and crawl between the sheets to get some much needed sleep.

Sighing, she opened the door to the bathroom and nearly jumped at the lump that was now situated on her bed: Grissom, who had most likely taken a seat on the edge of her mattress while he waited for her, had, at some point, closed his eyes and put his head on a pillow. And slept. His feet still dangled on the floor, but the bulk of his body was on her bed.

Her bed.

Grissom.

On her bed.

She had never seen him sleep. After five years of working in Vegas, she had stumbled upon almost every co-worker in slumber on the breakroom couch or catching forty winks on a bench in the locker room -- but not Grissom. Grissom, to Sara, had always seemed almost superhuman. She had never seen him cry, like she had seen Nick and Catherine do on more than one occasion. She had never seen him throw up -- as Greg had done after a rather gruesome case involving two mauled teenagers. No, the burps (Warrick) and the farts (Greg again) were relegated to the others. And up until that point, she probably would've believed someone if they told her that Grissom never slept. But there he was, passed out on her bed, his mouth slightly open, his glasses askew.

Poor baby. He was tired.

Sara walked up to him slowly and quietly, keeping the pressure on her good ankle, and gently removed his glasses. Bending down as best she could, she took off his shoes and guided his feet up to the bed so he could lay flat on the surface. Sighing loudly, Grissom rolled over and sunk his face down into a pillow.

"Grissom?" she whispered.

No answer. He was obviously still asleep. She didn't want to think of how embarrassed he'd be when he woke up. For someone who so flatly refused to go out with her, waking up in her bed couldn't have been something he had on his to-do list. Sara watched him for several minutes, standing by the side of the bed and taking in the picture before her. Her good ankle soon grew weary of holding all of her weight, so she sat down on the bed, careful not to shift the mattress much. She lifted her feet up and leaned back against the headboard, watching him. His face was completely buried in the pillow, and only his right ear was visible. His jacket was pulled tight across his shoulders, wrinkling around the arms at his awkward position. From her angle on the bed, Sara could make out the outline of his butt. She smirked. It was rather...perky.

She closed her eyes, but didn't sleep. The heat from his body seemed to radiate out, warming the parts of her that were closest to him. She wanted him so badly. For this. For resting, for having someone to smile at as she sat up in bed. But he wouldn't just be a warm body to her -- oh no. He'd be someone to talk to, to unload about work and her life, and she'd do the same for him. She'd listen. She'd love his quirks. She'd accept his bugs and the fact that he'd probably be a little too quiet a little too often.

But it wasn't what he wanted. She knew he just wanted her to be okay. He probably wanted her to be more than okay, but had no plans on being a catalyst in that endeavor. He'd save her job; he'd hold her hand.

And that was it.

Feeling the tears begin to sting her eyes, Sara climbed out of bed and quickly left the room.

She hated herself for still wanting him. Sara had always prided herself on being a fast learner: she figured out pretty young how to dodge her parents' fights, or that telling teachers too much about your home life is never a good thing. She learned early that having close friends meant people would want to know more about her, which only caused problems. People were meant to be kept at a distance.

So why did all of her knowledge fly out of the window when it came to Grissom? She was stupid in love with him. Nothing could stop it. She could cut off all contact with him but Sara was quite aware that the love would regenerate, like a lizard's tail or the arm of a starfish.

And he was in her bed now.

It hurt to know that. A few years ago, she would've been excited. She would've scrounged around for some lingerie instead of a baggy sweatshirt and old shorts. She would've played music. She would've poured wine.

Now?

He'd probably hate all of her music and frown at the wine, thinking she had it on hand because she was a raging alcoholic. He might raise a brow to sexy lingerie, but she seriously doubted it would work. There were naked bodies abound in Las Vegas. He probably had a more clinical approach to nakedness, he had seen so many dead bodies. She pictured him taking one look at her in a skimpy teddy and then suggesting she get the mole on her upper left thigh looked at.

Laughing bitterly to herself, Sara shook her head. He was in her bed. His body, her bed.

It was just too much to take.

She quickly hobbled back into the bedroom, not taking as much care with her ankle as she should have, and called his name in a loud whisper. When he didn't stir, she put a hand on his shoulder and shook gently. "Grissom. Grissom," she hissed.

He shuddered and pushed himself up to look at her. Sara had to fight the momentary urge to smile at the large, red mark on his face courtesy of her pillow. His hair was mussed. His beard was more mussed. And there was exhaustion in his eyes. "Wuh?"

"You fell asleep."

"Where am I?"

"You're in...my apartment. You took me home after I twisted my ankle."

"Oh," he said, his head sinking down on the pillow once more.

"Grissom?" She frowned.

"I must've fallen asleep."

"Yeah," she said, holding in a chuckle. "Look...you're tired. Why don't you just...go back to sleep. I'll be in the living room."

Sara turned to go when his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. Jerked from her balance, the pressure of her weight was placed squarely on her bad ankle and she winced. "Ow."

Grissom sat up, helping her down to the bed. "I'm so sorry. Is it bad? Let me see," he said, the words rushing out of his mouth quickly. He examined her bandaged ankle, pressing in certain places and asking if she felt any pain.

"I'm okay, Grissom," she said quietly. Her foot was on his lap and he was holding her calf, stroking it with one hand absentmindedly. "Listen," she began slowly, pulling her leg from his grasp, "why don't you go back to sleep? You look like you need it. I'll...be outside."

"Sara, I can't. This is your bed."

"All right, so go then." She wasn't going to push. She was past all of that. If he didn't want to stick around, she wasn't going to tie him to the bed and make him stay. Sara got up to go.

"I wanted to hold you."

She felt her eyes grow wide. "What?"

"I wanted to hold you. Before. After you fell. I wanted to hold you. But Warrick picked you up first."

"Oh."

He looked up at her, meeting her gaze. The moment Grissom opened his mouth to say something, she could see his eyes shift down to her sweatshirt. "Yale Law?" he said, confused.

"Oh..." She looked down at the shirt as well. "It's nothing."

"You didn't...go there, did you?"

"No. No...it's um...it belonged to this guy I used to see before I moved to Vegas. He loved this sweatshirt...and he was a jerk, so I didn't give it back to him after we broke up." It sounded so stupid now. Why hadn't she just turned the damn thing inside out? Why hadn't she done her freaking laundry? Why hadn't she been a decent human being and just given the man back his sweatshirt instead of keeping it like some sort of break up trophy?

"Oh. Do you have a lot of...mementos?"

"You mean from my ex-boyfr--" she stopped herself from finishing the sentence. "No. This is it. It's stupid that I kept it -- petty."

"Did he hurt you?"

"Who?"

"Yale Law."

"Um...it was a long time ago," she said, shaking her head. "It's silly."

Grissom reached out and gently touched her hand. "What happened?"

Sara rolled her eyes, not quite believing she was in her bedroom, with Grissom on her bed, about to talk about an old boyfriend. "It's nothing. He just...okay, I'm not big on meeting parents. It makes things feel...too official. I don't like it. And of course there's always that inevitable question, 'And where are your parents, Sara?' I hate that," she said quickly. "So, Ryan and I -- Yale Law's name was Ryan -- were in his car and he said he couldn't go out that coming Friday because his parents were flying in from Seattle and he had to pick them up from the airport. I froze, of course, because I thought, 'Oh my God, he's going to want me to meet them.'" Grissom nodded, and so Sara continued after taking a deep breath. "I...I told Ryan I didn't really want to meet his parents -- I phrased it better than that -- and he started laughing."

"Laughing?"

"Yeah." Sara swallowed hard. She couldn't believe it still gave her heart a little clench. "He laughed and said he didn't plan on introducing me to his parents -- that I wasn't the type of girl that you introduce to your family. I got out of the car and walked home." She sighed. "I know that, basically, what he said was true. It just...sucked to hear."

Grissom got to his feet in a flash. "I'll be right back," he told her, locating his shoes and toeing them on before disappearing out of the bedroom door. Sara sighed and took a seat on the bed and waited. Stupid sweatshirt. Stupid Ryan.

Stupid Sara.

She couldn't believe she had gone and told Grissom about an old break up. He already had his list of reasons for not dating her. She didn't have to go and give him another man's reasons.

Stupid sweatshirt. She got up from the bed and began searching through other drawers, looking desperately for something to replace the Yale Law abomination. She'd burn it later. Or, better yet, she'd give to a homeless shelter. Oh, Ryan would love that. Sara smiled bitterly to herself as she continued her search. All she wanted to do was get out of that God forsaken sweatshirt and go to bed.

Just as she'd managed to locate a slightly ripped tank top in the bottom drawer of her dresser, Sara heard Grissom's familiar cough. She turned to see him standing at her bedroom doorway holding a large paper bag. "Did you get food?"

"No." He thrust the bag towards her. "I have something for you."

Slowly, she got up from her uncomfortable squatting position and walked to him. She took the bag and reached into it, pulling out..."A sweatshirt?" It was gray and had seen much use.

Grissom took the sweatshirt by its shoulders and turned it around to face her. "UCLA. It was mine."

"Oh."

"I want you to have it. You can retire Yale Law now."

She raised her brows, nonplussed. "Thank you."

"My parents are dead."

"Excuse me?"

"My parents. They're dead. My dad died when I was nine. My mom died about a year and a half ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I would've been proud to introduce you to them." Grissom took the paper bag from her hands, balled it, and tossed it in the wastebasket to his left. "You are something to be proud of, Sara. Don't ever think you're not."

She pursed her lips. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to hear it." he said softly.

Clutching the sweatshirt to her chest, she sniffed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered, letting his hand drift towards her face so he could rub the back of his hand against her cheek. He let his hand creep down to her shoulder, allowing it to linger there before he pulled her into a hug. Sara leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder as he stroked her back. She heard him chuckle lightly.

"What is it?"

"I'm holding you."

Sara lifted her head from his shoulder and let one hand go from the sweatshirt. She cupped his jaw, rubbing the sensitive skin of her palm against his whiskers, and then placed her lips against his, pressing firmly but gently until he granted her access to his mouth. Both sweatshirts were soon on the floor as they found their way to the bed once again. Their lovemaking was less of an initiation than a confirmation. They loved each other, though the words were not yet spoken aloud. Grissom's gaze was locked on hers as he brought her to climax, as if he had willed her to come with just his eyes. "Grissom," she wheezed as she began to pulse around him.

"Call me 'Gil,'" he grunted.

"Gil," she said breathlessly. "Gil."

Her soft pleading of his name seemed to trigger his own orgasm, and he shuddered on top of her, calling out her name loudly. Spent, Grissom rolled off of Sara and onto the mattress. He pulled her to him and kissed her temple. "How's the ankle?"

"Much, much better," she smiled into his shoulder. "I should've sprained it years ago." Sara placed a little kiss on his hot skin. "How's the head?"

"I have a head?"

She laughed loudly and lifted her face up for a kiss. "Thank you for the gift."

"You're welcome," he yawned. "I'm tired."

"I noticed," Sara smiled, feeling quite exhausted herself. She nuzzled his neck and sighed. "Feel like taking a nap with me?"

"Gladly," Grissom grinned, and reached down for the covers. "You know, you really should get that mole checked out."

Sara said nothing as she giggled into her pillow. Life, for the moment, was perfection.

THE END