A/N: A collaborative effort by Keegan Elizabeth and sara-cupcaked.
Disclaimer: We claim no ownership of CSI and its characters.
Resolutions are made at the end of the year to usher in the beginning of a New Year. Like rules, resolutions are made to ensure everything runs smoothly and is kept in order. But not unlike rules, resolutions are often broken.
For better or for worse, only time will tell.
--
Gil Grissom, New Year's Resolution 1999.
Don't get attached.
--
He holds the door open for an exiting customer before he enters the coffee shop, stepping out of the chilly air and into the warm shop. The Jitter Bug. Very appropriately named since he's already getting a slight caffeine buzz from the aroma itself. It's a local favorite (according to Karl, the undergrad student assigned to assist him for the day) and taking in the number of people already standing in line, it's a very good thing it's located only half a block from the building he will be lecturing in exactly, he glances at his watch, forty-five minutes.
Making his way to the end of the line, he studies the menu briefly before he begins to take in his surroundings. The place is clean and well lit. Medium to large canvases hang on the light mocha brown walls, ranging from dark abstracts to Impressionistic landscapes, painted by local artists hoping to sell their work and make it big. The music's low and has a nice indie vibe.
The clientele of the place is also surprisingly eclectic.
College kids sit huddled together, pouring over mountains of open books, while a couple of them sit alone with their empty cups of java before them, pecking away on their laptops and wearing a look of harried frenzy. To his right, there are two women in their late-thirties who look as if they belong more on Wall Street or Madison Avenue than they do here. Finally, in the back corner, a group of teens dressed in black and with multiple piercings take up a table to themselves, slouching and discussing their angst-filled lives.
His eyes slowly drift back before finally resting on the woman in front of him.
As a CSI and scientist, he documents her dark hair, which is pulled into a ponytail, her height, her posture, and the color of her nails—a pale, pale pink. Carnation pink, he thinks to himself.
"A medium café mocha, extra whip."
The sound of her voice draws him from his thoughts. Her voice is deep; he catalogs that as well.
"Please," she adds, as she hands the young man with messy blond hair her money. He takes it then smiles and she walks to the far side of the shop, never turning around.
"Sir?"
"One medium coffee, black," he answers. "Thanks."
By the time he finishes paying, she is still at the 'to go' counter, waiting.
He walks over to stand beside her. Her foot is tapping a soft beat on the tiled floor, and he wonders briefly where she needs to be. Tilting his wrist slightly, he checks his watch to make sure he won't be late for his lecture.
When he looks up, his eyes meet brown and she smiles in understanding. He returns it automatically.
"Did you know chocolate can have a significant influence on mood, generally leading to an increase in pleasant feelings and a reduction in tension?" he asks in place of 'hello', referring to her choice of flavoring in her coffee.
For a moment she looks at a loss, and before she can reply, her order is up—a takeaway cup with a foamy top, sprinkled with a dash of cocoa powder and tiny chocolate shavings.
Flashing him a quick smile, she grabs her coffee and makes her way through the crowd, leaving the faint scent of chocolate in her wake.
He watches her leave with a sigh of… what? He's not even sure and before he can analyze—or choose to avoid analyzing—he hears his order being called.
Nodding his thanks, he grabs the warm paper cup, and with his head bent slightly, he pushes his way forward. In his mind, he completes his analysis of the woman who left moments before: a young female, unusually tall with deep brown eyes and who has a tiny gap between her front teeth.
An adorable, tiny gap.
"HEY! Watch it! You're going to burn someone," a voice of annoyed anger says, "or get burned."
He apologizes quickly and pays careful attention as he exits the building, the brilliant winter sunlight nearly blinding him as the wind whips around him.
Or get burned.
He knows all too well what that feels like. His mind flashes briefly to Carol, the arguments, the cheating (her, not him), and the very messy, drawn-out breakup.
He sighs and shakes his head as to clear it completely of all thoughts pertaining to the female gender, past and present, as he makes his way to the lecture hall.
--
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege today to introduce to you an esteemed colleague in the field and a good friend of mine, Dr. Gil Grissom. He works at the Las Vegas Crime Lab as a criminologist and forensic entomologist…"
The mandatory applause fills the large auditorium as he makes his way to the podium and shakes his friend's hand. He places his notes and coffee cup on the stand, before adjusting and turning on the microphone clipped to his tie. In his mind, he quickly goes through the rules for lecturing that he learned so many years ago in his Fundamentals of Speech college class: don't slouch or place your elbows on the podium, don't put your hands in your pockets or fidget, don't read directly from your notes.
"Hello and good afternoon," he says, picking up the clicker to the projector and pointing to the first slide of his presentation. "The lecture today is entitled 'The Insect Structure and Function of the Blowfly and its Larvae'."
"Blowflies, also called carrion-flies or bottle flies, are members of the Calliphoridae family of flies. The adults are known for being shiny with metallic coloring, often with blue, green, or black bodies, and are between 10 to 12 millimeter in length."
Once he completes his brief introduction and overview of the blowfly and its characteristics, he moves on to the development of the insect.
"Most species, or at least those studied thus far, are anautogenous. This means the gravid female requires a substantial amount of protein to develop mature eggs within her ovaries…"
He remembers another rule of lecturing. The most important one: make eye contact.
His eyes scan the crowd of people before him slowly, taking in all the eager faces of San Francisco's finest, stopping in various sections for several seconds before glancing back at the projection screen and his notes. Several minutes pass before his gaze lands on a single bowed head in the middle row near the front. He is about to move on when the woman looks up.
He pauses for a fraction of a second, his mind reeling at seeing her again. He grabs the coffee that has been sitting untouched since he began, to stall for a moment, and he takes a sip of the now lukewarm liquid. His eyes still hold hers and he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He sets the coffee down, glances at his notes to refocus his mind, and resumes speaking as though nothing had happened.
"The eggs are yellowish or white in color and are laid in clumps that resemble miniature rice balls. Typically, the female has 150-200 eggs per batch, and during the course of her lifetime, she will lay around 2,000 eggs."
For the next two hours, he talks, clicking through the slides with methodical deftness and with his passion and love for the subject shining through easily. And though his mind wanders to the brunette from time to time, he spends the rest of the lecture effectively avoiding the section in which she sits.
--
"Dr. Grissom."
He straightens up from his papers, expecting to see the blonde from the third row for the fifth time.
It's not her but the brunette who takes chocolate in her coffee, the one who paints her nails carnation pink and possesses a cute gap to match.
"Hi," she says, after a moment, and gives him a half smile. She adds, gesturing to the cup he's about to toss in the trash can, "We met earlier at the coffee shop."
"Yes, I remember." He smiles professionally, his cool façade replacing the man he was at the coffee house.
"I'm Sara Sidle, CSI from the San Francisco Crime Lab."
Her hair is still tied away from her pale complexion in a simple ponytail; she speaks confidently with a lilt, her voice as deep as he remembered.
"It's a pleasure to officially meet," he says, extending a hand automatically and she takes it.
"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions?" she asks then realizes he might be wondering why she hadn't asked earlier so she explains, "I didn't want to monopolize the entire question and answer session."
Again, another cute half smile.
"Sure," he says and nods.
After her first few questions, ranging from the first case to have presented an entomological timeline at court to the blowfly's natural habitat, they move to the seats nearest the stage to sit down. The auditorium is empty save the two of them.
With each passing question, he cannot help but take in her sharp mind and curious eyes, marveling at her intellect.
"… first known association of the term 'blow' with flies appears in Shakespeare's plays, his Love's Labour's Lost, The Tempest, and Antony and Cleopatra," he finishes saying when he hears a door being opened and sees a janitor walk in.
They look at each other before glancing down at their watches, calculating that they'd been talking for over thirty minutes, and then back into each other's eyes.
She rises from her chair, and he does too. They stand facing each other, silence reigns except for the slight swooshing noise of sweeping coming from the back of the auditorium.
"The Institute of Food Research," she says suddenly, playing with her ponytail.
"Excuse me?"
"The institute that funded the research on chocolate. Dr. Peter Rodgers was the man you quoted."
He stares at her and she smiles, almost shyly.
"You are well read, Miss Sidle," he remarks, thoroughly impressed.
"Sara," she says and beams.
A few seconds pass before he breaks the silence. "Do you have any more questions?" he asks, feeling that he doesn't want her to go just yet.
She stares to the right, off in empty space, for a moment, considering. Her eyes shift back to his, brown meeting blue, and she tucks an errant strand that had fallen from her ponytail back behind her ear. "I, uh, believe you answered everything. At least all the questions that I can think of at the moment."
He doesn't know if it's just him but he wants to believe that he detects a hint of regret in her voice.
Looking down at the folder brimming with his notes that he holds, he opens it to look for a blank sheet of paper. He finds one and pulls it out. "Would you like to exchange emails?" he asks. "So in case you had future questions…"
"About blowflies and their larvae?" She gives him a half smile, half smirk.
"Or any other insect," he says, his lips curving upward as well.
"I would like that."
He writes his information down quickly and gives the paper to her.
She tears it in half, writes down her email address, and hands it back. "Thanks for answering all my questions," she says and then holds up the slip of paper bearing his contact info, "and for this."
He nods slightly. "You're welcome."
She stares at him a second longer, looking like she wants to say something else, but instead she murmurs a soft goodbye and walks away.
He stares after her, watching her retreating form, and his heart jolts painfully for the first time that day.
His first slip.
--
He pulls at the last pieces of paper of his San Francisco lecture from four months ago and places them into the paper bin, before turning his attention to his cluttered desk.
With a sigh, he begins the laborious task of sorting through junk mail and bills and old papers when his computer emits a short, electronic ping. He moves his mouse slightly, and the black screen fades back to his opened email account.
In his inbox lies one new email.
From Sara Sidle.
His curiosity piqued, he abandons the mess and opens the message, feeling a little too excited.
She starts off by apologizing for not emailing earlier, and writes about the new CSI on her team, inquires about the weather at his end (as it is freezing down at the Bay), and nestled between two long and elaborate questions is a line that makes him reread thrice.
My supervisor had a case yesterday – DB down by the beach, covered with second instar maggots. He joked about establishing an entomological timeline, but it wasn't necessary as the coroner could establish an accurate TOD, but I couldn't help but think of you.
It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, but as he finishes reading her email, he finds he can't keep a smile from forming.
And from the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the note card he had thumbtacked to his corkboard at the beginning of the year. He stares at his computer screen again, Sara's email still displayed, then at the card once more, realizing he has just broken it.
Don't get attached.
A/N2: We had a lot of fun writing this first chapter, so please consider leaving a review to let us know how we did and what you thought. Thanks, and we wish everyone a happy (and safe) New Year's Eve. For those making a New Year's Resolution, good luck in keeping it!