A/N: These characters belong to CSI/CBS, not us. We're having fun. Here's our response to season 11 ending the way it did! And it's all about Grissom and Sara! Enjoy!
Love and Logic in Paris
Paris…in the center of the desk, directly under a light fixture that reminded Gil Grissom of colorful lollipops from his childhood, was a gray cat—kitten, specifically. Its head never moved when Grissom picked up a thick book but the fur along its back twitched from neck to tail.
The desk was in a small apartment, in a building like so many others in Paris, more white than tan, unremarkable, without embellishment, but distinguished by its surrounding neighborhood. Grissom moved to the window—across the street was a church, the steps worn down from centuries of comings and goings. To the right of the church was a block of shops and cafés; a bicycle shop, a bakery or boulangerie, a clothing store, a shoe store, a tiny grocery. To the left of the church was a hotel, where a few decades past, poor artists and writers and persons in need of a cheap bed had slept, but today the place was romanticized by calling rooms "studio suites". Leaning against the window frame, he drank his coffee as he remembered Sara's comment on her last visit:
"We are closer to heaven than the priests," she said with a mischievous grin as she stood at the floor to ceiling length window and watched a brown-clad man sweep the steps.
His eyes moved upward; that day had been a beautiful, clear blue sky day—spring time in Paris. Today, thin altostratus clouds appeared to reflect his mood. Ash from an Icelandic volcano had snarled air traffic all over Europe and his plans of seeing his wife had disappeared under these gray skies. Sara—Sara—the only woman he would ever love—was stuck in Atlanta and had decided to return to Vegas instead of flying to Paris. Not for the first time, he thought about how they had arrived at this state of affairs.
His mind transported him back to the lush green of a tropical rainforest—more swampy Everglades kind of wetlands than what one usually considered as rainforest—and the weeks spent living and learning a new way of life. Standing in the Paris apartment, he grinned at his thoughts. Those weeks had been a dream come true. And when a French researcher offered the temporary teaching position, Sara agreed that Grissom had to accept.
Sara and he had arrived in Paris just as thousands of other visitors—wide eyed, open mouthed, seeing the city as lovers, exhausting themselves with museums and historical places and churches and gardens, and eating their way across Paris. Something about being in Paris, with its planned boulevards and hidden medieval streets, sidewalk cafés, pastry shops and bakeries, clung to one's skin and nestled into one's nose. That meant eating: soupe fraiche a l'avocate et a la tomato, fonds d/artichaut, asperges, soufflé au Roquefort, (avocado and tomato soup, stuffed artichokes, asparagus, blue cheese soufflé) and croissants, baguettes, brioches, fruits, and chocolate; and that was just the vegetarian foods.
The cuisine was glorious and the fact that Parisians dined out so often and it was so convenient pushed Grissom to seldom use the tiny kitchen in the very small apartment. He turned from the window. The apartment was not much larger than the average Hilton hotel room, but it was provided fully furnished by the university at a very low rental cost, and its location was almost perfect. A three block walk in one direction got him to the classroom building, his cubicle office, and the lab where he was spending hours working with Costa Rican ants, bacteria, and fungi. Less than two blocks in the other direction and he was at a major train station.
He and his wife had spent hours walking the streets of Paris taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. They had traveled by train to the coast, to Versailles, to Giverny—he thought Sara was going to sprout roots and remain in the garden, and to the Chateau of Chambord. He sat in his chair, propped his feet on a stool and sipped his coffee.
Chambord—not the chateau, but the bed and breakfast they had found by accident in the small village. Their room, at the top of three flights of stairs, was tucked between rafters, the floor sloped to the outer wall, the whitewash on the walls appeared to be two inches deep, and both knew the mattress was a hundred years old when Sara nearly disappeared as it folded around her body. They had laughed themselves into breathlessness and then in one of those moments remembered for months, they were making love.
Sara's silky sleep shirt was lost in the fluffy duvet; her tanned and freckled arms a stark contrast to her smooth pink breasts. His hands passed over her like the proprietors cleaning the ancient streets and windows outside their shops and homes. His fingers had curled and dipped and found what his body wanted.
Grissom managed to lift her, centered her on his erection, then lowered her slowly. When he was fully inside, or she covered him completely—it was a question they frequently snickered over—she emitted a quiet sound, a gasp or weak cry, and came almost immediately. As she had learned, they fell into a rhythm until the ceiling of the room wobbled before his eyes, the earth seemed to sway before it exploded and they held on to each other until the final spasm had subsided, and Sara looked at him with a wide smile on her face.
Her hands cradled his face as she whispered, "Did you bring me to this place to induce a mind-blowing orgasm?"
"No, this was a bonus," he chuckled
From the apartment window, he looked at the sky again—still ash gray—and chuckled at his thoughts. He could love her twenty hours a day, he thought; except he couldn't do that and prepare lectures and make presentations in front of the most brilliant young scientific minds at the Sorbonne.
After ninety days, Sara had to officially leave France, so they crossed the border to the mountains of Italy, spent a day in Milan, and continued to Lake Como where they found a small town away from the mansions of Bellagio. In their hotel, tucked on a hillside, accessible from the street by elevator, they felt as if they were floating in clouds above the lake. The owner provided an afternoon platter of olives, soft cheese, local fruits, and breads and, after eating, the two travelers stretched across the bed and slept. For three days, they explored the lakeside town with its steep, narrow streets and more motorcycles than cars, the cafés serving local foods, pizza, and crepes. They took a ferry across the lake to the fairy-tale city of Bellagio, wandering its streets filled with serious shoppers, and Sara sent four postcards to certain friends in Vegas—laughing at her attempt to buy stamps in an Italian post office.
They loved each other as they walked hand-in-hand or ate at small tables, and they made love in the white covered bed on the top floor of their hotel, opening balcony doors to a small private terrace and the sky. On the middle day, they remained at the hotel after waking entwined in arms and legs and making love in a burst of passion that lasted ten minutes. They laughed together, surprised at the pleasure found with each other and the opportunity to do nothing all day. In the shower they soaped each other, cleansed and perfumed and returned to bed where they cuddled, kissed, and loved until hunger drove them downstairs to the dining room. After lunch, they returned to their bed which now had clean sheets and pillowcases. While caressing each other, they fell asleep, and woke in the late afternoon, finding laughter again as they repeated their earlier lovemaking. They showered again, together, and Sara wrapped a large towel around her body, walked to the terrace and proceeded to unwrap herself in the afternoon sun. She lay naked for an hour, giggled when he joined her wearing his boxers and socks, and finally dressed for dinner when a rumbling sound emanated from her belly.
Grissom knew the days they were together were the best ones they had ever lived; without doubt, both knew they had made the right decisions—primarily, getting married wiped away any uncertainties of their future whatever came their way. Grissom had successfully closed his career in law enforcement but, at times, he recognized a certain restlessness in Sara. Alone most of the day, he knew there were only so many times she could meander through the city parks or stroll along shopping streets, and keeping their apartment spotlessly clean took her fifteen minutes every morning. Her request for a French work visa was at the bottom of a very large stack.
Late one rainy afternoon, as he returned from the university, he saw Sara with Hank walking toward him. She wore knee high rain boots in a bright orange and a black hat with a wide brim, rain dripping from its edges. Under her arm was a package—a box without a top, he quickly learned, and inside was a ball of fur.
"The lady at the grocery had one left—I agreed to take her on a trial basis!" She lifted the kitten to her face. "Hank loves her already!"
Grissom knew one never took a kitten on a trial basis and, like Hank, he sighed and fell in love with the funny little fur ball by the time they had eaten dinner.
"What do we name her?" He asked from his prone position on the bed—a bed that was getting smaller by the day with the addition of a second pet.
Sara had tied a string to a foot long twig and had fastened a small soft ball to the string for the kitten to bat around. As the little cat jumped and pawed, Sara giggled.
"I have a name picked out," she snorted as she waved the stick in front of the kitten.
Grissom looked puzzled at her sudden amusement with naming a cat.
"We have Hank—so this is," she cast a side glance at him, picked up the kitten, and burst into laughter. "This is Heather!" She bent double laughing, straightened up and held the stick out. "And this is her whip!"
A/N: Let us know if you enjoyed the first chapter! Next chapter in 3-4 days (got some work to do along the coast)...