A/N: So, yeah, this is my first real fic after my very very very long hiatus. I have been a fan of Grissom/Sara every since I became a fan of CSI and since this moment makes me squee whenever I watch it I decided to take a run with it.
Disclaimer: Nope, do not own anything CSI except for a bunch of copies of DVDs and novels. No copyrights or authorial rights or whatever – if I did, there is so much I would have handled differently.
Setting:
Time: Ep. 2:16 Primum Non Nocere
Place: Ice Rink
Zamboni
"Since when are you interested in beauty?"
"Since I met you."
Sara felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. Did he just say what she thought he said? It could hardly be. No. Grissom was not the kind of person that would just blurt out statements like that. She must have misheard. Unless...
She looked at him. He continued talking, as if nothing happened. As if he had not just slipped up and told her what she had not expected but unconsciously perhaps hoped for. She didn't know.
"So, we start at the opposite goal and work our way accross the blue line, to center X."
What? She had been mistaken. She really had misheard. Her mind had taken his words and re-interpreted them, making her hear things he never said.
"Sure" she answered his statement. It had not been an order. It had been a suggestion, a disguised question really, an opening to perhaps start a discussion on the correct course of action, but at the same time he had known it was the correct course of action. She found herself confused, overanalyzing his statements and movements of the recent past, missing the present. She stared at the ice without seeing. He had not said what she had thought he had said.
"You coming?"
He was halfway down the steps to the rink, gazing up at her.
"Yeah" she regained herself and decided to focus on the work at hand. Her mind could wander later. Now, the case needed all her attention.
They carefully scoped the grainy surface. Photographing, tagging, collecting. A repetitious task that nevertheless never grew boring. Every molecule would add to the larger idea, every fiber would contextualize the crime, every blooddrop would point in the right direction. Crossing the icy field on all fours proved uncomfortable but worth the effort. They did not give their attention just to the ice, though. The plexiglass walls, the fiberglass boards, the concrete seats – every one of these could prove to be a treasure trove.
Sara sighed. "There's not much to go on. Maybe we should be looking off the ice."
Grissom screwed tight the jar in which he had collected frozen blood and looked at her suggestion – then turned further as in the distance a sound interrupted the silence.
Sara saw it too. A zamboni. She smiled at herself. A very long time ago – a lifetime ago, if you will – her mother took her to an ice rink. At a certain point, everyone would be shooed off the surface for the zamboni to iron the ice. She and every other kid and parent had stared at the zamboni going round and round and round until the rink was like a mirror. Zambonis hypnotized everyone.
Grissom looked at her. "Shall we have a look?"
Sara nodded smilingly. The zamboni finished its polishing task and returned to its shelter.
"There are three things in life people like to stare at; a rippling stream, a fire in a fireplace and a zamboni going round and round."
Sara recognized the quote and smiled at him. "Charlie Brown. I love a zamboni."
Grissom stared at the square whiteness. "We all do."