Summary: Sara's mind is not a tidy place, and Grissom decides to grow up.

Timeline: around two weeks after Bloodlines.

Feedback: Do be brutal, by all means. In fact, I'm humbly asking you to. Feel free to flay me alive. Be polite and constructive, I'll thank you. Flames will be mocked endlessly and very publicly, unless original and funny. Like that ever happens.

A.N.: Unbetaed, un-anything. Blame it on the excellent wine that deserved better, the pickles that didn't, and my empathy for people capable to think out the fun of everything.

We don't need no stinkin' word limits.

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Sitting in the emergency room lobby, Sara could sense a distinct shift in her relationship with her supervisor.

There was a time she thought they were friends first and foremost and above all. Shit happened, they became strangers. Or maybe she'd realized that Grissom out of his lab, Grissom on tour, was very different from the guy who supervised the night shift and loathed bureaucratic crap the way she loathed fungus of any kind.

She didn't know if the best relationships were based on friendship, but it certainly couldn't hurt. She'd had a lot to think about in the past two weeks, and one thing was clear: she wanted him in her life.

There were things she had control over, and then there were things she couldn't just make happen. The AA echoes were funny in a truly uncomfortable way.

"Are you okay?" Duh. He's scowling at about two dozen people in the ER lobby because everything's just peachy.

I am Sara Sidle, genuinely concerned for my friend/supervisor/whatever.

Lack of sleep bred inattention, lapses of concentration, random lust attacks and humiliatingly brainless internal monologues.

"I'm fine". Sure he was. What with the future bruises and the possibly cracked ribs. Oscar material, he was not.

Grissom sounded as exhausted as she felt. Did it even matter anymore, what their fucked up interpersonal dynamic was projecting that week?

They cared about each other, and it was very possible that nothing romantic would ever occur. This moment, coming off a double shift after a confrontation with a suspect prone to psychotic outbursts, had been the first time in years the "problem" didn't seem to matter.

Loving him, simply for who he was, was easy, and everything else required too much energy, emotional and otherwise, at the moment.

She drove him home, all the while resolutely ignoring parallels in her rambling mind, before going back to the lab. There were reports to write, a hierarchy to figure out in absentia.

Life goes on, da da dum...

She was humming Eminem. Cyrus would have laughed his ass off. That night, she scowled at Catherine like she hadn't in months.

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Catherine called daily, with professional updates and gratifyingly little prodding. Warrick had dropped by once, bearing a tape of televised "Celebrity Poker" and casino power play gossip.Sara had signed a get well card sent by the lab personnel. Get a grip, Gil. Self pity and bitterness are so becoming.

Worst case scenario? He'd pretend to be oblivious, she'd scowl, and they'd be back to status quo at some point in the past year. Risk vs. gains, Gil.

He grabbed his coat.

"I hope you didn't drive."

"I took a cab."

She opened the door wider as he was starting to move forward, and just like that, he was inside her apartment.

"How are the ribs?"

"I'm grateful for the many varieties of painkillers out there."

"Yeah."

Her place was messier than he would have thought. The kitchen seemed fastidiously clean, but journals, magazines, books, remotes and various gadgets were lying around everywhere.

The expression on her face reminded him of the way she approached teenagers, or the elderly. Careful, guarded.

Ouch.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"So..."

"Yeah... I wanted to talk to you about..."

Deep breath.

"Sara, are you happy at the lab?" Chicken.

Her matter of fact response distracted him from the mocking imp on his shoulder, the one that sent him images of breakfasts in bed and hours spent on discovering just what his mouth could do to her. For her.

"Sure. The team... we're good at what we do, the solve rate is through the roof, and we're one of the best equipped facilities nationwide."

"No. I mean..."

It's worth it.

"You've seemed sad, lately. And overworked, even for you. Is there, is there anything I can do?"

"I'm fine, Grissom."Reassuring smile nr. 25 firmly in place, she looked like she was placating her supervisor. Not exactly the reaction he was going for.

His right arm was lightly hugging his midsection, his left was burrowing into his jacket pocket, and his feet were shuffling towards her. Slowly, his right arm uncurled from his middle and reached for her hand. Fragile as a bird, twitchy and so warm.

"No. I meant, are you- Are you okay?"

Her left hand didn't grab his, but it didn't move away either. Her right arm was rising, skimming past his ribcage, her hand landing softly on his sternum, her eyes focused on what seemed to be his nose, of all things.

"Yeah. I really am."

Reading the skepticism off his face, "Just... one thing at a time. But honestly? I'm fine."

"I was thinking of San Francisco, 1996, and realized it was almost a decade ago," he blurted out.

"I'm thirty three, we're at war with Iraq again, and they've filmed a remake of Psycho. I know what you mean."

Slowly, her hand fell away.

"Sara... "He had to clear his throat. "Are we going to be okay?"

Her eyes darted to the side, her hand stiffened in his grip.

"There's... I feel... like there's this heap of history and... that'll weigh down anything we'd ever... do... together. At this point, I'm so clueless as to where we are, or whatever... I have no idea what I'm saying."

At least they seemed to be talking. Well, she was. More or less.

"But yeah. We'll be okay."

Suddenly, she looked terrified. Her eyes were darting all over the place, and she'd started to shuffle her feet.

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What was he doing here? What was she saying?

He had bags under his eyes, he sounded exhausted and looked every day of his forty nine years.

No groping, Sara. No arguing, either. The man is stoned and injured.

"I'm glad."

She just sighed. Cryptic as usual. She'd call him a cab, and if he remembered anything tomorrow, they'd talk about it or they wouldn't. The things you can control and those you...

Whatever.

"Go home, Grissom."

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TBC, possibly. The only muse who bothers with me unabashedly screams for porn. What say you?