Title: Occam's Razor
Author: wobbear
Rating: a light T (Teen)
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, but it's fun to play with them.
Spoilers? Post Way to Go, and set just before the start of season 7. Written in response to Laura Katharine's beard challenge over at YTDAW.
Author's note: I thank dreamsofhim for her nudging and thoughtful comments. Many thanks also to beta-extraordinaire PhDelicious for all her help, not least for her patience in dealing with my flailing about flashbacks.
Summary: Why Grissom shaved the beard. Written in response to a challenge. GSR
Occam's Razor
Grissom turned the key in the driver's door to lock his car – none of that newfangled remote locking on his classic Mercedes. Nor, he thought thankfully, was there a key pad instead of the lock – he'd often wondered why some people chose to have cars with part of a phone stuck to the door. In his less ornery moments he admitted that he preferred not to have to remember another string of numbers at the end of an exhausting shift. Even his amazing mind and prodigious memory needed a break occasionally, and he'd found that his numeric recall was first to go when he was exhausted. It had led to the occasional use of a credit card for candy bar purchases when he couldn't remember his PIN to get ATM cash.
Not that he'd been eating a whole lot of candy bars of late. A lot had changed recently, and pretty much all for the better. After so many years of avoiding the attraction, he had been seeing Sara Sidle for more than a year now. So far their discretion had been rewarded – he was fairly certain no-one else knew of their personal connection. But he was starting not to care about keeping it quiet; the shock of the new had faded months ago and his intense need for privacy was giving way to a desire to announce their relationship to the world – or, at least, to their friends.
He loved having Sara in his life, and he was even beginning to appreciate some of the weird teas she kept leaving at his place. And the fruit infusions certainly helped reduce his caffeine intake, another thing which he'd been working on.
There was, however, one change about which he was not yet convinced.
Heading toward the lab entrance, a mere zephyr of a breeze wafted across his face, and he – yet again – harbored hopes of rain. It had been, even for Las Vegas, a very long, hot summer. It was 10:15 pm on Wednesday, September 20th and the temperature was in the mid 80s, gradually coming down from the high of 101 recorded early in the afternoon. Although the breeze was very faint, he could feel it, he fancied, tickling his chin. Perhaps it was slightly cooler.
As Grissom entered the building the perky temp receptionist looked a little surprised, then greeted him by name. He thanked her profusely for the wad of messages she thrust into his outstretched hand. Early in his career Grissom had determined that learning the names of temporary staff was a waste of his valuable time and brain power. Courtesy and a genuine smile were a good substitute, he thought, for the personalized approach.
On the way through the glass-walled hallway to his office, Grissom glimpsed his reflection, and almost flinched. Worse than jumping at shadows, he was shying away from his own image. He laughed wryly at his reaction.
Safely seated at his desk, he propped his chin in a cupped hand and was, again, surprised to feel skin instead of beard. He would get used to it in time he knew, just apparently not any time soon. He'd had beards of one sort or another at intervals ever since he'd been able to grow them, but he had never gotten over the adjustment period when he shaved it all off. Even though he knew it was irrational, he always experienced an edgy squirminess for a while after he reverted to being clean-shaven. He somehow felt incredibly exposed. The only thing that would dull the feeling was the passage of time.
Grissom was early for shift, albeit only by 45 minutes. In his singleton past, he had often been at the lab three or four hours in advance, seeking the absorption of work to dull the ache of solitude, missed opportunities and, at times, his own sheer stupidity.
Yes, he happily admitted, that time had passed, and what a good thing that was. Really, it was great. Still, it took some getting used to. Sara had always pushed the envelope academically and professionally, and it was no different in their personal relationship. Particularly today.
They didn't spend every night together, but did so often enough that their machinations to arrive at work independently were well-practiced, with variations depending on whose car was where. At first they'd looked upon it as a game of timing. For Grissom, and he thought for Sara too, the novelty was long gone. Sometime soon, he mused, they should start driving to work in the same vehicle.
He had enough time before shift began to contemplate the forensic entomology seminar he was slated to lead at a CSI conference on Hilton Head Island in November. Having successfully found an old outline from his files, he jotted down a few ways to update it, covering new research and refinements to techniques. He turned to pondering the long-range hurricane forecast for South Carolina's Low Country and whether he could persuade Sara to go with him. When he realized he'd been thinking about going out with her in a Zodiac to see dolphins, he officially gave up the pretence of work and allowed his mind to wander.
Startled by a quiet knock on his door, he recovered sufficiently to call, "Come in!"
Nick poked his head round to report, "We're all here, Grissom."
"Uh, sure – on my way." He dragged his mind back to the present, grabbed the sheaf of assignment slips and trudged his familiar path to the break room, flipping through the night's offerings as he went.
"Grissom, hey … you've shaved!"
"I knew there was a reason we let you become a CSI, Greg – your astounding powers of observation," said Grissom dryly.
"What gives? Hand slipped when trimming?" Warrick nudged Greg and shook his head, trying to silence him, but the young CSI was hyper after what he called a 'mega date' and ignored him. "Doc Robbins' beard too much competition? A bug took up residence and this was the only way to move it?"
"What is this? Why is my personal grooming suddenly a cause for fascination? There wasn't a squeak a couple of years ago when I came back from vacation with a beard."
Nick pointed out with a helpful smirk, "Greg was still working DNA then. Everything was a lot quieter."
For several days after his ear surgery he hadn't felt sufficiently human to shave. On one of her several post-op visits to check on him Catherine had seen him with three days' growth and said, "You're growing a beard, huh?"
Up until then, he hadn't been. However, once the idea had been planted, it had soon grown for him into a symbol of change post surgery.
This evening Catherine was sipping coffee, already looking tired at the start of their working day. Sara was sitting back, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Both women knew the real reason for that "vacation," and he suspected the guys had figured it out too. It was one of those things everyone had tacitly agreed not to discuss. Quite why he'd brought the subject up now, he could not fathom. Was it post-shaving trauma?
"OK, Greg, how about this? My new 'look' exists simply to make you waste time thinking about it, rather than conjuring up spurious ideas of how I spend my rare spare time."
"When have I done that! I just suggested three possibilities for the facial nudity. Which could it be?" He imitated Rodin's thinker, and scratched his forehead.
"Occam's razor," Sara suggested. "When given two equally valid explanations for a phenomenon, one should embrace the less complicated answer."
"More like Grissom every day," mumbled Warrick.
Grissom silently queried Sara's contribution, thinking it best not to feed anything further to young Greg, whose mind he ranked among the three sharpest in the room. Then again, it would have looked odd if she'd remained completely silent. Flicking his eyes across the table, he caught Sara's warm brown eyes on him. She had a thing that she did: lips slightly pursed and a nearly imperceptible nod of the head. It meant "You're doing it again. Stop over-thinking. Calm down." The short form was "Relax." So he did.
Greg was still trying. "OK, of the three ideas, the hand slipping seems the simplest. But Grissom? The bug man who can carefully capture insects while the rest of us obliterate them trying? Naaah."
Warrick and Nick gave up on Greg and launched into a football conversation, Grissom started studying the assignment slips to decide allocation, and Sara was examining her cuticles. Meanwhile Catherine had perked up and decided to run interference. "Don't worry, Gil, it looks good both ways. What about Nick? His whole head has been the scene of several violent hair crimes in the recent past." Counting on her fingers, she listed, "The extreme buzz cut, the floppy horrors--"
"Yeah," interjected Warrick, "and that … thing …" He pointed to Nick's now bare upper lip and shuddered dramatically in memory of the Texan's short-lived mustache.
Under attack, Nick countered, "You can talk! What's with your never-grows-longer designer stubble?"
This relaxed group was well down the slippery slope toward laxity, so Grissom hit the brakes. "C'mon people, this is our place of work, remember? Assignments."
-------------
The night before, they had worked an extended shift on a gang-related shooting with three fatalities, spending hours searching the wide-flung crime scene for spent casings. Grissom had delegated Greg to take the scant evidence back to the lab and log it in so ballistics could start their work, and Grissom had designated himself to provide Sara's ride home. Her place was closest; they had barely had enough energy to strip off their clothes before collapsing into sleep.
Mostly they spent their time together at his townhouse. Part of the reason was practicality and comfort - he had considerably more room and liked being in his personal haven. Much more important was the symbolism of his opening up, sharing, his private space with Sara. She had filled the formerly vacant space in his heart: it was right that she should be welcome in his home. He hadn't yet broached the idea of her completely moving in with him; he wasn't sure that either of them was ready for it.
Occasionally, however, they would end up at her apartment. He still didn't feel entirely comfortable there, but he realized that this too was something he needed to do. Sara's apartment was – to put it kindly – extremely compact and garnished with an eclectic range of posters, fabric wall hangings – perhaps he should call them art? – and a myriad of plants, ornaments and assorted paraphernalia. From brief comments she occasionally let slip, it was clear they weren't just items she'd picked up on a whim – each held a specific meaning or memory. Sara didn't display personal photos; she remembered people who had touched her life in her own way.
And – this was the part he found most foreign – everything was either richly colored, or highly patterned, or both. Not that he couldn't appreciate pattern or color; butterflies and indeed the wider entomological world were resplendent with both, admittedly on a very manageable scale. His ideal walls were matt white with tiny accents, his sheets were white or dark blue, his preferred pattern was a subtle check, his clothes … well, there was that one shirt, which did have a repeating design on it. He had come to think of it as his happy shirt – fortuitously it combined his two favorite colors, and he loved that it made Sara laugh, albeit at his expense. However, that shirt was the exception which proved the rule.
Sara's home was a challenge to his preference for visual calm and simplicity. No surprise there – the woman herself was such a challenge to his fledgling emotions, his inexperienced heart, not to mention that he'd lived by himself for decades. Yet any progress he made was so richly rewarded he couldn't help but keep testing his limits, continue delving into the delight that was having Sara in his heart, in his life.
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Before heading out with Nick to their scene, Grissom returned briefly to the haven of his office. He busied himself checking through his kit, although he recalled full well restocking it at the end of the previous shift: it had been a slow night.
"You know, if it bothers you that much, why don't you just grow it back?"
He looked up, almost furtively, from the silver case to see Sara leaning against the door jamb.
"You read me like a book, don't you? An elementary school primer, in fact. Am I that obvious?."
She looked very skeptical, and slipped quietly inside, closing the door behind her.
"I just … it's not entirely about the beard. Ah … Can we talk about this later? I'm not trying to avoid it, but … we've got work." His insecurity was evident, he was certain; he still couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability.
She just nodded. "Of course. Meantime try not to think too much about it."
"You're good for me, you know that, right?" His voice softened, dropping away as he drew her behind the shelving units. There, concealed by jars of specimens suspended in formaldehyde, Grissom kissed Sara senseless. They were huddled happily in the shadows when a pager beeped. They leapt apart as if they'd been discovered and Sara giggled as she bent to read the message on her belt.
"Ha! My ride is threatening to leave without me. Greg's problem is …" and she jangled the keys, grinning cheekily.
"You'd better go." Grissom's now customary words of parting accompanied the gentle pressure on her lower back, guiding her to the door, "Stay safe."
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Grissom had woken to an empty bed. Pulling on his boxers and the over-sized LVPD T-shirt Sara had clearly left out for him, he paid a visit to the bathroom and then wandered out to the living area. Sara had her back to him and was staring intently at her laptop screen – when did she ever do anything at less than full throttle, he idly wondered. She appeared to be checking out predictions for the coming weekend. He snuck up behind, enveloping her shoulders in his arms and nuzzling her neck hello. Her lack of surprise showed he'd been less stealthy than he'd hoped; in the throaty "hey, you" was her pleasure that he had woken up. She lifted her arms to clutch his elbows, bending her head back to an almost impossible angle for a kiss on the lips. They ended up repairing to the bedroom and becoming intimately reacquainted.
After a supplementary nap, they gravitated to the bathroom. As Sara dried off after a shower the already-dressed Grissom was brushing his teeth. He peered at his face in the mirror, frowning, then he rubbed his hand over a hairy cheek.
"You need a trim, huh?" Sara was peeking over his shoulder.
"Yeah, but the beard trimmer's at my place. It's OK, I'll do it later."
Brushing done, he inspected his teeth and gums in a grinning grimace while Sara busily rummaged in a drawer to the right of the sink.
"Voilà!" she cried happily, brandishing her finds – a pair of barber-style scissors and an electric razor with a trimmer attachment.
As she blew a bit of dust or fluff off the razor, he winced. "I don't want to know why you have that, or how old it is. You know, it's a lot easier with the proper equipment."
"Please? I used to help my grandfather trim his beard. I was good!"
"Sara, I … I'm happy to wait til I get home." I really want to wait until I get home was the truth, but that wouldn't have sounded too good. He was getting better at phrasing things less bluntly, although he had noticed the result was not always as he'd intended.
Grissom closed his eyes briefly and pictured the young Sara - aged what, maybe nine or ten? – all gangly limbs and big brown eyes, with that infectious gap-toothed grin, eager to help, and confident that she could. He had often speculated on where she'd gotten her natural confidence from. She said it was a front she'd developed for dealing with misogynistic scientists; he suspected she'd had the real thing much earlier. "I have the tools and a brain, I can figure it out" was what he'd read in her hopeful eyes. Plainly her grandfather had had no chance of resisting Sara on a mission and he wasn't going to fare any better.
She was used to doing delicate work with her hands; that was something. "Um, sure. Just … do a small amount at a time. Think of it as an incremental process."
"Selective logging rather than slash and burn?" Her lips pursed and eyes danced in amusement.
Logs sounded overly large to Grissom, but she was on the right track, sort of. "Continuing your dubious tree metaphor, topping rather than felling is more what I had in mind. And certainly not razing to the ground."
"You raze buildings, not trees, don'cha?"
Grissom decided to maintain what he hoped was a dignified silence.
Sara considered her implements, Grissom and their situation. "Now, when I did this before I was a lot shorter."
"You were ten years old, right?"
"Ah …" Sara paused, thinking back. "Yeah. How did you know?"
He shrugged, and put on his best inscrutable face, only to find that she had moved back in memory and was oblivious. With a jolt he realized he had been shaving for a good few years by the time she was trimming her grandfather's beard. He almost missed her reminiscing, "I used to sit on the bathroom counter – or the kitchen one if he was at our house – and Grandpa would stand in front of me. We could do that too, but maybe we should swap. I'd like to have a bit more freedom of movement."
I know that feeling, thought Grissom very quietly. Why am I here again? Then he looked at Sara's bright eyes, shining with enthusiasm, and he remembered why.
"Would you jump up instead?"
"Sara, I've just turned fifty and I've got creaky knees. I do not jump."
"Alright then, heave yourself painfully onto the vanity."
His forehead wrinkled – surely that was going too far? She grinned at his grouching and put her hands on his hips to "help". Though his knees were definitely suspect, Grissom had powerful arms, so he easily hitched himself up on top of the unit. Once there, he tried not to look resigned to his fate.
She started by removing the new growth below the neckline, then moved to tidy the cheeks up above the authorized beard zone. She worked deliberately, carefully, standing back occasionally to check her progress.
Grissom tried a couple of times to turn around and look in the mirror, but was admonished by a very focussed Sara, "No wriggling." So he stared resolutely ahead. Although he wouldn't admit it, he was very uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't because it was her; he knew that he would feel the same – probably worse – with someone else shaving him. It wasn't that he feared being nicked or cut; he'd done that plenty of times himself and, any way, it wasn't like she was using a cutthroat razor. He sat quietly, mulling over the twists and turns of his complicated psyche.
It was, he decided, a relic of his former life, of being accustomed to being by himself. Ablutions and personal grooming were generally private activities – all the more so when one lived alone. Grissom was used to his beard-trimming time being a sort of meditational zone, when he could empty his mind and concentrate on the purely physical task.
He had gotten used to sharing a lot with Sara recently and he relished his new reality as part of a couple. Even mundane activities were better as a two-some: washing the dishes, going to the store, folding the laundry. Other activities were much more agreeable together: eating meals, doing the crossword, the occasional shower, sleeping. With Sara, having sex had become making love.
But this was one regular ritual he had kept as a solo act. Until today.
He mentally shook his head, appreciating the presence of mind which stopped from him actually moving. Sara was working on his right cheek, so he ventured a cautious hand up to the left side of his neck and was pleased to find a nice smooth line right about where it should be. He relaxed a little.
She had moved onto trimming the beard itself and Grissom realized that soon she would need him to stretch his chin. Ever attentive to detail, Sara was frowning as she concentrated on her work and Grissom felt his tension ease further. He became mesmerized by the view down the front of Sara's robe. Why not enjoy having Sara in this part of his life too? In truth it was much less intimate than other things they'd already shared. This was another facet of sharing: of course he could do it, at least occasionally.
Suddenly he snapped out of his reverie, aware that Sara had stopped and was looking at his chin, biting her lip.
Or maybe not, thought Grissom.
"Ummm … How do I put this? I got distracted by your dimple."
He frowned and started to turn round to look in the mirror, until Sara's firm hands on his shoulders stopped him. "C'mon, honey, it's my face. Let me see!"
"You have to know … I didn't mean to …I--I'm sorry."
At last he got to look.
-------------
As Grissom drove up to his second crime scene of the night, he caught sight of the unmistakable feet-apart stance of a life-long cop and a rear view of short, bristly, dark hair. Sure enough, it was Jim Brass, back at last from his convalescence. After being released from hospital, he had recuperated in Las Vegas for several weeks, before wangling some sort of part-time secondment, to keep him, he said, from going mad until he was declared fit for duty. He had mumbled something about consulting for police forces in the New York City area. He'd gone back to his old stomping grounds and had been away for months.
"Jim." Grissom's warm smile and outstretched hand belied his laconic salutation as he approached his friend. "Why didn't you let me know you were back? How are you?"
"Hey – you look a lot like someone I know. Almost a dead ringer, in fact. But something's different. Hey, maybe I've been off so long my keen detective skills are rusty?" He cocked his head to the side, scanning his subject. "Wait, I've got it! That guy had a few more pounds and a beard when I last saw him.
Grissom raised his right eyebrow a trifle wearily. "Yes, Jim, I've lost a little weight and a razor has reintroduced my jawline to the world."
"Great to see you, Gil." Brass chuckled. "Just didn't expect to see so much of you!"
"I've so missed your brilliant wit." He grinned before continuing, "Yes, I'm 'neat, clean, shaved and sober' – more importantly, I'm a CSI. I believe you requested one?"
"Hey, not so fast, Raymond Chandler. How've you been?"
"Fine, I'm fine. And you – obviously you've been cleared for duty, but how do you feel?"
"Fit as the proverbial fiddle. Especially now I'm back in the land of 30 per cent humidity. I tell ya, don't know how I survived the steam bath that's Jersey in the summer for so many years. Dry heat's the thing for me."
"A true convert to the desert climate," observed Grissom. As much as he was pleased to see Brass back, and apparently recovered from his injuries, Grissom had another scene to get to after this home invasion, so he had to bring the conversation back to business. "We've put on a busy night to welcome you back."
"And then some! It's 3:45 am and I've already seen the rest of your crew at scenes tonight, except Sara. How's she?"
"Sara?"
"Yeah. Tall skinny brunette, gap between the teeth. You must remember her."
"Ah, Sara, fine … she's fine."
"That's just fine," said Brass. His beatific expression concerned Grissom. Brass seemed distinctly playful. Jim's been away all summer … what could he know? Grissom had no time to contemplate it now, so he shrugged it off and got back into work mode.
Snapping on a pair of gloves, Grissom narrowed his eyes at Brass, and waited.
"Never mind." With an exaggerated sigh, Brass started into his crime scene recap. "So, the responding officer found the front door ajar, wood splintered around the lock …"
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"Wha--! My chin is bald. It's … like a bald donut."
Sure enough, centered on that captivating feature was a remarkably neat circle of next to no hair. In the depth of the dimple, some brave bristles had survived the onslaught, adding to the ring effect.
Sara seemed torn between mortification and amusement, and the humorous side was winning through. "I prefer … a halo. Your dimple has a halo." She managed to suppress her giggle, almost.
"Sara, sweetheart … I'm not by nature a vain man but, frankly … I don't like having a hole in my beard. What happened! You were doing so well."
"As I said, I got distracted by your dimple. It's very cute, but awkward for trimming. I was trying to get the hair in the dip even … the angle was tricky and the other side of the trimmer was still cutting while I concentrated--"
"--on the dimple. I get it. Your grandfather didn't have one, right? I said I'd stretch my chin when you needed me to …"
Sara looked confused, so he demonstrated the grimacing that helps when shaving the face. "Uh, no, you didn't."
"Huh? I remember quite clearly …" Rats – he'd thought about it, just before he had loosened up and gone off into a delicious dreamland inspired by his view down Sara's gaping robe. Surely she knew about the skin stretching? Didn't her grandfather do it? Or … a previous lover? Did it really help to be thinking of other men in her life now? In any case, although facial contortions helped, it was still a hell of a job.
"Griss, I'm sorry, I know it's not funny, but … weeeelll, it looks kinda funny."
He was staring mutely at the mirror, fingering the affected area.
"Um … I'm really sorry, I got … distracted." She seemed unable to find another word to describe what had happened. She was obviously concerned about her uncharacteristic lack of attention to the task, and somehow his own discomfort eased slightly. "I was … thinking about kissing it when I was done trimming …" She trailed off and shrugged feebly. Her mirth had died away, replaced by distress.
Grissom groaned internally. He knew he needed to say something.
"What is it with dimples? To me it's just an inconvenient dent in my chin which, as you have learned to my cost, causes difficulties when shaving and beard trimming."
"Maybe you'll never understand – trust me, it's very attractive. Many women go for dimples in a big way. Just chalk it up to another of the great mysteries of the female mind."
He stifled a sigh as he said, "Have you got a regular razor?"
"Um, yes, just a sec." She located a couple of new disposables in the cupboard under the sink and set them in front of him. "Your beard's quite heavy. Won't it grow back pretty fast?"
"What time is it?"
Sara looked confused, but checked and reported: "7:15".
"So," calculated Grissom, "Less than four hours before the start of shift. Not going to look anywhere near normal in that time. It's coming off."
Sara opened her mouth again, then decided not to speak. He set to, first trying to thin the beard with the scissors and trimmer, then lathering up as best he could with shower gel and scraping the remainder off. Sara sat on the closed toilet lid, every so often silently handing him an old toothbrush to help clean bristles off the razor and once or twice draining the sink, rinsing it out and changing the water. When he was done and had splashed the last lather off, she gave him a towel to dry his face.
He inspected his work in the mirror, and rubbed a hand over jaw and neck to check for missed patches. As he stared - impassively, he hoped - at the end result, Sara ventured, "I am really am sorry, you know. I wasn't angling for this."
"Yeah, I know. It's OK, not a problem. Time for a change anyway." He smiled faintly at her and leaned over to give her a gentle kiss. Capturing a hand, he drew it up to his face. "How does it feel?"
"I've never actually felt a baby's bottom, but this is seriously smooth. However, it is a tad …"
"Paler than the rest of my face, yeah. Any suggestions which don't involve makeup, or staying out of well-lit rooms for several days?"
Sara knelt down once again to search in the cupboard beneath the sink and soon stood up, looking pleased. "I thought I had some." She showed him the bottle. "This is moisturiser and sunscreen combined." Reading from the label, she risked a small smirk. "'Lightly tinted for that sun-kissed glow'." Grissom dutifully rolled his eyes.
"This is good stuff, I swear – it doesn't make you go orange."
"Hmmm. Alright, I'm game. D'you want to apply it to the affected area?"
Sara's slender fingers stroked on the lotion carefully. After checking the result, Grissom let out a lengthy relaxing sigh. "C'mon, let's make something to eat before I have to go."
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Eventually the busy shift was over and they ended up at Grissom's townhouse, preparing dinner. Sara sliced cantaloupe and squeezed lemon juice over it, while Grissom finalized a spinach-stuffed salmon. Done, Sara moved to gather flatware and crockery to lay the table. "Water to drink?"
"Yes, please," he murmured as he tended to the garnish, sprinkling finely chopped flat leaf parsley over the salmon. Sara consistently avoided red meat, and most definitely pork, but was happy to eat fish – a fact for which Grissom was very grateful, particularly in light of his inability to accept that tofu truly was edible.
He glanced over and saw that Sara had just put a jug of iced water on the table and was checking to see if she'd forgotten anything.
He was approaching her quietly from behind, arms poised for a sneaky back hug, when she whipped around, a finger in the air, saying, "Napkins!"
He wrapped his arms around her. "Don't worry, I got 'em," he said, waggling his napkin-bearing right hand against her back.
Sara had been bemused to find that Grissom insisted on using fabric napkins when eating at the table and, luckily for him, had decided that it was charming. However, when he'd said rather earnestly, "I do allow paper towels with pizza," she had cracked up long and loud, and he had wisely changed the subject.
"Good." Her teasing smile was adorable. "Gotta have napkins, Griss."
She leaned back in his arms and looked appraisingly at him. "So, how's it going with the naked face?"
"It's going."
She frowned at him, wanting more of an answer.
"It's fine, Sara. I'm … getting used to it again." He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to hers. Chewing his bottom lip, he began, "You know how I often need time to process a question or comment before I can respond?"
"Yeah, I'm familiar with that scenario. You can be … slow." She gently tweaked his nose.
"Uh, it's sort of like that. It's silly, but when I shave off a beard, it always takes me a while to process, to get used to the result …" He continued, diffidently. "And that's when I do it … ah, of my own free will. This time …"
"You felt that you were forced into it."
"Well, um … yeah." He straightened up and looked directly at her. "I have … control issues. Work is always semi-organized chaos …" He hesitated and drew in a slow breath. "So I like feeling in control of things in my personal life."
"You want to control me?" Sara was trying to understand, although patently she wasn't keen on what she was hearing. "Or I'm … out of control?" She was very tentative.
"Nooooo, I don't mean that. I love you just as you are. I don't adapt quickly to change is all."
He looked at her, considering. "You, Sara Sidle, you're … a handful." His small smile morphed into a wide grin.
He squeezed her tightly to him and whispered in her ear, "But I've got a hold of you now, and I'm not letting go."
FINITO