Title: Completion
Author: WashDCChick
Rating: R
Spoilers: Gentle, Gentle, PNN, Scuba Doobie Doo
Feedback: Feedback is an author's lifeblood. Please take a moment to review.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in the story. I do own the Norah Jones CD, but I'm not making any money off of either of these things, so it won't do you any good to sue me.
Notes: The biggest Thank You to Meggo, my beta 'ho. I couldn't have done it without you. Also, no, Grissom does not lose Sara to Ecklie in a bet. An equally big Thank You to k, my best friend, and beta. Twenty years and counting, baby girl!
Summary: Apparently romanticism and pragmatism can co-exist, a follow-up story to Just in Time.
*******************************************************
The butterflies in my stomach aren't helping. I tried to sleep, I really tried, but I couldn't. My brain just keeps going no matter how much I try to get it to stop, its probably going even more. Grissom asked me out on a date. That doesn't explain why I'm so nervous, we've been dating or in a relationship or whatever you call it for months now. What do you call it when you're sleeping with your boss/former mentor?
To be precise, Grissom *told* me we were going on a date. It's not that I minded being told, it's just that I wouldn't have minded being asked. So much of my life is about being in control; I need control to be happy. I've never felt less in control than when I'm with him, and I've never felt happier. It's such a strange series of contradictions. I actually try not to think about it too much, losing control on purpose is pretty scary.
I need to calm my nerves. Norah Jones is in the CD player, I turn the volume up and hum along a little, walking over to the kitchen. "Come away with me, in the night." There's a bottle of wine Warrick gave me as a gift. Pouring a glass, I remind myself to return the favor someday. Taking a hot bath is the only thing I can think to do right now and I could stand to get clean anyway. Death always seems to leave something of itself behind with you, even if it's only in your mind.
My hands are wrinkled, so I drain my glass of wine and then the tub. Grissom asked me once what Victoria's Secret was. He's about to find out. Maybe a special occasion is what you make of it. I open my top drawer and pull out a small package wrapped in tissue paper, holding a particularly lacy pair of underwear and a strapless push-up bra. Everyone can use a little help up top occasionally.
I'm a little more careful than usual applying my makeup, and I spend a little extra time straightening my hair. It's a bad habit, but I prefer to let Grissom be the curly-headed one. Assessing myself in the mirror, the face I see scowls back at me. The bath and wine have only gone so far to soothe my nerves.
In the back of my closet hangs a dress I've never worn. One of the advantages to being a computer junkie and not needing much sleep is that you can find things like clothes on the internet without everything hateful about shopping, which is pretty much everything: the fluorescent lights, the crowds of people, the insincere, pushy salespeople. I hate it all. Not that I don't like clothes, I'm just not out to impress anybody.
The dress is strapless coral. The silk feels surprisingly decadent against my skin, and I'm not used to being this bare on top. Everyone at work would be surprised to see me in this. They think I don't know how to dress 'like a girl', but its not true. It's just that when you deal with corpses and criminals all day it's sort of wasted.
My closet isn't the most organized you've ever seen, and I have to dig around to find my good shoes. I briefly consider a pair of heels, but decide that's overkill, even for today, and choose a pair of flat sandals instead. I check the clock, willing it to go faster, but it just stares back at me. On the coffee table in front of the couch is a book I've been reading. I pick it up, and actually manage to get so engrossed that I jump when there's a knock at my apartment door.
I know it's him, but I check the peephole anyway. Not even the fisheye lens can distort Grissom's beauty. Just the sight of him makes me so excited I can hardly contain myself. If I were Catholic, I'd cross myself. Instead, I take a deep breath, unlock the door and open it.
He takes my breath away.
"Hi," he says.
The sound of his voice thrills me, it always does.
"Can I come in?"
I'm blocking the doorway; I feel like an ass. His eyes hold mine for an instant, then an instant more. It's almost too much to take. He notices what I'm wearing and his expression changes. If I were being objective, I'd say he looks amazed. I look down, embarrassed, and inwardly delighted that he noticed.
"Sara. You look - more beautiful than usual. I didn't think that was possible."
I can tell he means it. He's wearing a light colored suit. I can't stop looking at him and grinning. "So do you," I say. My brain fails me and it's the only thing coherent to tell him that I can come up with.
He's made dinner reservations for us at a local Moroccan restaurant. We walk out to his Tahoe and he opens the car door for me. Its like we're going to the prom, the way my nerves are on edge, the way every look, touch and gesture makes my heart beat faster. The car ride over is quiet. We're not normally ones for small talk; we're usually comfortable in each other's company, but the silence tonight seems almost tangible. We keep glancing over at each other, returning awkward, hopefully reassuring, smiles.
If you weren't actually looking for the restaurant, you'd probably pass right by it. The building is low compared to those around it, and windowless, marked only by a small door and the name of the restaurant painted above it in Arabic. The restaurant is wholly unique, like Grissom.
We walk from the car to the restaurant door, side by side, the nervousness easing into comfortable quiet. As if making up for their owners' reluctance, our hands find each other and mesh.
"Grissom, there's no handle on this door. How do we get in?" I realize it's a stupid question as soon as I say it. Thankfully, Grissom chooses to treat the question as a reasonable one.
"We knock," he says, and does so.
When the door opens, it's like stepping into "Alice in Wonderland". The door doesn't meet the ground, and we step up and duck to enter. Inside is a warmly lit room with several curved booths covered in silken cushions. The walls are painted floor to ceiling in brilliant jewel toned geometric patterns, adding to the serenity and warmth created by the lack of windows. I'm taking all of it in and I feel Grissom watching my reaction. I turn to him and place my mouth next to his ear so he can hear me whisper.
"Thank you for taking me here. This place is amazing."
"You deserve nothing less," he replies simply.
I'm as surprised as when he pulled that beauty line on me in the hockey rink. He's not usually one for words.
"Jeez, Grissom. I thought you were a pragmatist not a romantic."
He actually looks hurt for an instant. I feel lousy for saying it.
"Who said the two could not co-exist?" he asks.
I'm saved from having to answer by the waiter, dressed in traditional costume, complete with fez, serving the first course.
"Did we order?" I ask Grissom.
"It's a pre-set authentic meal like a Moroccan family would serve," he explains. "Seven courses, all but one vegetarian."
Apparently pragmatism and romanticism can co-exist.
"You use the pita to scoop up the salads," he continues.
Grissom uses his hands like an artist might, gracefully maneuvering the salads off the communal dish and into his mouth. It surprises me, though it shouldn't. I've watched him thousands of times picking a single thread off of a victim or switching delicate glass slides under a microscope.
There's actually something very sensual about the act of using your hands to eat. Our hands bump in the middle reaching for the last bit of eggplant and we lock eyes and smile. He motions with an eyebrow that I should take it. Carefully, I combine food with bread, lift it off the plate and pause. Still gazing into the ocean of his eyes, I move the sandwich over to Grissom's mouth. His eyes open wide and he accepts the offering, capturing my fingers just a bit with his lips. When he swallows, I lean over and taste his mouth with my own. I can't believe I'm being this brazen. It excites me. I know the look on Grissom's face; it excites him, too.
Halfway through the meal there's sudden activity: like a military operation, the waiters construct a small rectangular stage in the middle of the restaurant. The lights dim, music begins and a curvaceous belly dancer is escorted onto the stage. Stealing a glance at Grissom, I'm suddenly jealous of this woman with her full breasts, curving waist and rounded hips and belly. I've always been built a bit like a boy. This woman sways and rolls her body like a wave on the ocean. The layered silks and sheer panels skirt her legs and hug her thighs. The audience is delighted and the men in the room, including Grissom, are clearly captivated.
When the lights go up, I'm still watching Grissom, but when he turns to me the desire in his eyes is plainly for me, not the dancer. We spend the rest of the meal having one conversation while our eyes are having another.
"We have one more reservation," he tells me.
Author: WashDCChick
Rating: R
Spoilers: Gentle, Gentle, PNN, Scuba Doobie Doo
Feedback: Feedback is an author's lifeblood. Please take a moment to review.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in the story. I do own the Norah Jones CD, but I'm not making any money off of either of these things, so it won't do you any good to sue me.
Notes: The biggest Thank You to Meggo, my beta 'ho. I couldn't have done it without you. Also, no, Grissom does not lose Sara to Ecklie in a bet. An equally big Thank You to k, my best friend, and beta. Twenty years and counting, baby girl!
Summary: Apparently romanticism and pragmatism can co-exist, a follow-up story to Just in Time.
*******************************************************
The butterflies in my stomach aren't helping. I tried to sleep, I really tried, but I couldn't. My brain just keeps going no matter how much I try to get it to stop, its probably going even more. Grissom asked me out on a date. That doesn't explain why I'm so nervous, we've been dating or in a relationship or whatever you call it for months now. What do you call it when you're sleeping with your boss/former mentor?
To be precise, Grissom *told* me we were going on a date. It's not that I minded being told, it's just that I wouldn't have minded being asked. So much of my life is about being in control; I need control to be happy. I've never felt less in control than when I'm with him, and I've never felt happier. It's such a strange series of contradictions. I actually try not to think about it too much, losing control on purpose is pretty scary.
I need to calm my nerves. Norah Jones is in the CD player, I turn the volume up and hum along a little, walking over to the kitchen. "Come away with me, in the night." There's a bottle of wine Warrick gave me as a gift. Pouring a glass, I remind myself to return the favor someday. Taking a hot bath is the only thing I can think to do right now and I could stand to get clean anyway. Death always seems to leave something of itself behind with you, even if it's only in your mind.
My hands are wrinkled, so I drain my glass of wine and then the tub. Grissom asked me once what Victoria's Secret was. He's about to find out. Maybe a special occasion is what you make of it. I open my top drawer and pull out a small package wrapped in tissue paper, holding a particularly lacy pair of underwear and a strapless push-up bra. Everyone can use a little help up top occasionally.
I'm a little more careful than usual applying my makeup, and I spend a little extra time straightening my hair. It's a bad habit, but I prefer to let Grissom be the curly-headed one. Assessing myself in the mirror, the face I see scowls back at me. The bath and wine have only gone so far to soothe my nerves.
In the back of my closet hangs a dress I've never worn. One of the advantages to being a computer junkie and not needing much sleep is that you can find things like clothes on the internet without everything hateful about shopping, which is pretty much everything: the fluorescent lights, the crowds of people, the insincere, pushy salespeople. I hate it all. Not that I don't like clothes, I'm just not out to impress anybody.
The dress is strapless coral. The silk feels surprisingly decadent against my skin, and I'm not used to being this bare on top. Everyone at work would be surprised to see me in this. They think I don't know how to dress 'like a girl', but its not true. It's just that when you deal with corpses and criminals all day it's sort of wasted.
My closet isn't the most organized you've ever seen, and I have to dig around to find my good shoes. I briefly consider a pair of heels, but decide that's overkill, even for today, and choose a pair of flat sandals instead. I check the clock, willing it to go faster, but it just stares back at me. On the coffee table in front of the couch is a book I've been reading. I pick it up, and actually manage to get so engrossed that I jump when there's a knock at my apartment door.
I know it's him, but I check the peephole anyway. Not even the fisheye lens can distort Grissom's beauty. Just the sight of him makes me so excited I can hardly contain myself. If I were Catholic, I'd cross myself. Instead, I take a deep breath, unlock the door and open it.
He takes my breath away.
"Hi," he says.
The sound of his voice thrills me, it always does.
"Can I come in?"
I'm blocking the doorway; I feel like an ass. His eyes hold mine for an instant, then an instant more. It's almost too much to take. He notices what I'm wearing and his expression changes. If I were being objective, I'd say he looks amazed. I look down, embarrassed, and inwardly delighted that he noticed.
"Sara. You look - more beautiful than usual. I didn't think that was possible."
I can tell he means it. He's wearing a light colored suit. I can't stop looking at him and grinning. "So do you," I say. My brain fails me and it's the only thing coherent to tell him that I can come up with.
He's made dinner reservations for us at a local Moroccan restaurant. We walk out to his Tahoe and he opens the car door for me. Its like we're going to the prom, the way my nerves are on edge, the way every look, touch and gesture makes my heart beat faster. The car ride over is quiet. We're not normally ones for small talk; we're usually comfortable in each other's company, but the silence tonight seems almost tangible. We keep glancing over at each other, returning awkward, hopefully reassuring, smiles.
If you weren't actually looking for the restaurant, you'd probably pass right by it. The building is low compared to those around it, and windowless, marked only by a small door and the name of the restaurant painted above it in Arabic. The restaurant is wholly unique, like Grissom.
We walk from the car to the restaurant door, side by side, the nervousness easing into comfortable quiet. As if making up for their owners' reluctance, our hands find each other and mesh.
"Grissom, there's no handle on this door. How do we get in?" I realize it's a stupid question as soon as I say it. Thankfully, Grissom chooses to treat the question as a reasonable one.
"We knock," he says, and does so.
When the door opens, it's like stepping into "Alice in Wonderland". The door doesn't meet the ground, and we step up and duck to enter. Inside is a warmly lit room with several curved booths covered in silken cushions. The walls are painted floor to ceiling in brilliant jewel toned geometric patterns, adding to the serenity and warmth created by the lack of windows. I'm taking all of it in and I feel Grissom watching my reaction. I turn to him and place my mouth next to his ear so he can hear me whisper.
"Thank you for taking me here. This place is amazing."
"You deserve nothing less," he replies simply.
I'm as surprised as when he pulled that beauty line on me in the hockey rink. He's not usually one for words.
"Jeez, Grissom. I thought you were a pragmatist not a romantic."
He actually looks hurt for an instant. I feel lousy for saying it.
"Who said the two could not co-exist?" he asks.
I'm saved from having to answer by the waiter, dressed in traditional costume, complete with fez, serving the first course.
"Did we order?" I ask Grissom.
"It's a pre-set authentic meal like a Moroccan family would serve," he explains. "Seven courses, all but one vegetarian."
Apparently pragmatism and romanticism can co-exist.
"You use the pita to scoop up the salads," he continues.
Grissom uses his hands like an artist might, gracefully maneuvering the salads off the communal dish and into his mouth. It surprises me, though it shouldn't. I've watched him thousands of times picking a single thread off of a victim or switching delicate glass slides under a microscope.
There's actually something very sensual about the act of using your hands to eat. Our hands bump in the middle reaching for the last bit of eggplant and we lock eyes and smile. He motions with an eyebrow that I should take it. Carefully, I combine food with bread, lift it off the plate and pause. Still gazing into the ocean of his eyes, I move the sandwich over to Grissom's mouth. His eyes open wide and he accepts the offering, capturing my fingers just a bit with his lips. When he swallows, I lean over and taste his mouth with my own. I can't believe I'm being this brazen. It excites me. I know the look on Grissom's face; it excites him, too.
Halfway through the meal there's sudden activity: like a military operation, the waiters construct a small rectangular stage in the middle of the restaurant. The lights dim, music begins and a curvaceous belly dancer is escorted onto the stage. Stealing a glance at Grissom, I'm suddenly jealous of this woman with her full breasts, curving waist and rounded hips and belly. I've always been built a bit like a boy. This woman sways and rolls her body like a wave on the ocean. The layered silks and sheer panels skirt her legs and hug her thighs. The audience is delighted and the men in the room, including Grissom, are clearly captivated.
When the lights go up, I'm still watching Grissom, but when he turns to me the desire in his eyes is plainly for me, not the dancer. We spend the rest of the meal having one conversation while our eyes are having another.
"We have one more reservation," he tells me.