Spoilers: None really.
Summary: Grissom and Sara share memories of the first grade one night in bed. Takes place around late season 7. Oneshot. Rated T.
First Grade Memories
"Tell me something."
Sara glanced across the bedroom at him as she brushed her dark hair. Gil was lying on the bed, propped up by the large fluffy pillows he had insisted on, waiting for her to finish her before bed ritual. The only light source was the lone glowing lamp in the corner of the room, which left his face in shadows. The curtains had been closed to keep out the glaring Nevada sun. She sighed. "We have to be at work in six hours and should have gone to bed two hours ago?"
"No," he clarified, "tell me something about you. Something I don't yet know."
Her brows drew together. She was confused. "Something about me? What kind of something?" Sara put her hairbrush down on the dresser, flicked off the light and walked slowly over to the large bed.
His voice called out in the dimness, leading her to him. "I dunno. A memory. Tell me about first grade. What was little Sara like in first grade?" He shifted on the bed, making room for her by his side.
She smiled and climbed in beside him, resting her head against the smooth wall of his chest. "A tall, skinny bookworm. Even then." The blankets were pulled up, covering both of them. Using her feet she pulled the sheets out from underneath the mattress where Gil had tucked them in last evening while making their bed. She hated to be confined, even while in bed. They enjoyed the silence for a moment. The only sound was their steady breathing as his warm body gradually heated her cold one.
"Come on. Really. What do you remember most about first grade?" He pushed.
In the gloomy darkness of the room he could see she had pulled a sour face, like she had just taken a bite out of a particularly bitter lemon. "Mrs. Johnson."
"Your teacher?" He sensed this was not a happy story.
"Yup. I hated her. The whole year was a battle of wills."
"Why?"
"She was mean." Sara stated with childlike clarity.
"Mean?"
"Yes. I remember one Saturday morning in September I was bugging my older brother while he was trying to hang out with his friends. To get rid of me, he sat me down and showed me how to write in cursive. He wrote out the alphabet for me and sent me off to my room with some blank sheets of paper, telling me to practice. So I did. I spent the whole weekend carefully tracing over my letters until I had them all down. I was the master of the loops and bumps of this new alphabet."
"You taught yourself cursive in first grade?" Grissom couldn't help being a little impressed at her initiative.
Sara sighed. "Then in school on Monday, I got yelled at."
"She yelled at you? What for?"
"We were suppose to be practicing our writing. I got out my green workbook and carefully started writing out my sentences. You know, 'The sky is blue,' kind of thing. I thought, hey, I'm going to write them out in cursive. I was excited about putting my new knowledge to work."
"Of course. I know the rush you get when you learn something new."
"Yeah, well, Mrs. Johnson didn't get it. She took one look at my work and bent down low over my desk, to talk to me. 'You can't write your sentences like this Sara,'" Sara imitated the high-pitched voice from her past. "She said it so condescending too. I asked her why not. I couldn't understand what the problem was because I could read what I wrote and she could read what I wrote. The sentences were perfectly good. That was what counted right? Then she told me that we weren't suppose to know cursive yet, therefore I wasn't allowed to use it. She didn't want me 'showing off' as she called it."
"Showing off?" Grissom couldn't imagine a first grade teacher being so unpleasant to a small child, especially one so eager to learn, as he was sure Sara had been. "So you couldn't use cursive at all?"
"Nope. She told me I had to wait until third grade before I could write that way because that's when we learn it. I was pissed. I liked cursive better then printing. I liked how it flowed and it was faster. But I was forced to wait three more years before I 'learned' that way of writing."
"Poor kid."
"It was awful. Every time I tried writing anything out cursive style, even if it was just reminders to myself-which, I admit I sometimes did just to push her buttons- she yelled at me and sent notes home to my parents saying that 'Sara was being uncooperative again.' Apparently I had an attitude problem. I really hated first grade."
Grissom made comforting sounds and hugged her close. "My poor, too smart for your own good Sara." He was amazed to hear that this long ago slight still stung.
"Yeah, yeah," she shrugged off the unpleasant memory. "What about you? What was little Gil like in first grade? Spend all recess outside hunting for bugs?"
"Pretty much."
She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Hey, I told you about Mrs. Johnson. It's your turn now. Spill. First Grade."
"First grade was…fun. I enjoyed it."
"You were that kid that came early and left late weren't you?"
"What's wrong with that?" Oops. That had come out more defensive than he meant it to.
"Nothing. I was like that too, although that was mostly because I didn't want to go home. Still, my grade school teachers never really liked me. I asked to many questions."
"I love your questions." He pressed a kiss on her forehead. Her quick mind was one of the first things that had attracted him to her.
"I know you do. In college I came into my own. Questions became a good thing. But we were talking about you."
"Right. Did you know I broke my arm in first grade? It was painful. In fact, this scar," he turned his right arm towards her so she could see the faint line running along the inside of the forearm, "is where I had to have surgery to get it set properly."
"How did you manage to do this?"
"I was trying to impress a girl." He admitted.
Sara snorted. "The stupid things men do to get the girl. What happened? Did it work?"
"No," he sighed. "See, all of the boys were out in the schoolyard, playing under the shade of this oak tree. It was a really tall tree. The girls were at the other end, watching us. There was one girl in particular. Susie Franklin. All of the boys loved Susie. I was no exception."
"Should I be jealous?" Her tone was light, teasing. Even without looking at her face, he could feel her smile.
He gently swatted her blanket-covered thigh. "Hush. As I was saying, we all were in love with Susie. One day, to prove our love, we decided to climb the tree. Whoever climbed the highest got the girl. It was that simple."
"Did you ever think about, I don't know, asking the girl who she liked?"
"That thought didn't occur to a bunch of six and seven year olds, no. Now do you want to hear the story or not?"
"My lips are sealed." She made the childish motion of locking her lips and throwing away the key.
Chuckling, he had to add "for now anyway." Seeing her mock outrage and fearing her retaliation he quickly continued with the story. "I wanted to prove my love, so I climbed the tree. And no, before you ask, I didn't win, remember. I got about thirty feet up when the branch I was standing on broke. I dropped like a stone, straight to the ground and landed on my right arm. Dislocated my shoulder, cracked my clavicle, got an open fracture of my radius and two other breaks of my ulna. It was awful. My parents were so angry with me." He winced with the memory of the disappointed faces of his mother and father. "By the time I was out of the hospital and back in school, albeit with a heavy plaster cast still on, Susie Franklin was Pete Shaw's girlfriend."
"All that and you still didn't get the girl. Lucky Pete."
"I think they got married after graduation."
"Just think, if that branch hadn't broken, that could be you married to Susie Franklin right now."
He turned, propping himself up on one arm so he could see her face. "No. It would have never worked out. She was afraid of spiders."
A frown creased her brow. "I'm afraid of spiders."
"But you have so many other redeeming qualities. I can overlook the spider thing." He paused. "You know, I could help you lose your fear. Tarantulas are very gentle."
Shuddering hard, Sara shook her head. "I'd rather be afraid thanks."
He ran his fingers up her arm and along her collarbone, dipping his thumb into the hollow of her throat. "Sometimes I still can't believe I'm allowed to touch you." His fingers started gliding along her upper body.
"We've been together almost two years and it hasn't sunk in yet?" She teased. "A little slow are we?" It was funny because 'slow' (in the 'stupid' context of course) was probably the one adjective she would never use to describe Gil Grissom.
"I know, but sometimes it just hits me; how lucky I am. I get to touch you whenever I want." He continued to trace circles on her chest, enjoying the feel of her skin. As if to prove his point, he bent down and replaced his fingers with his tongue, causing her to shiver. He leaned back against the pillows once more, too worn-out for anything else but sleep.
Sara was quiet for a moment. "Gil?" She whispered in the darkness.
"Hmm?" She could tell he was on the verge of falling asleep.
"Sometimes I'm amazed I get to touch you too." Stretching up, she kissed his now beardless chin and snuggled deeper under the covers, drifting off to sleep. Grissom was already snoring softly by her side.
End
A/N: Yeah, that story about the teacher yelling at Sara for teaching herself and using cursive in grade one is based on a true story. I just thought that it was very Sara-like when I was writing this, so I just had to add it in.
Thanks for reading and feel free to review!