"Only Gil Grissom would get seasick on his own boat."
"Food poisoning," he insisted stubbornly. "Not seasick."
Sara gave him a sympathetic — if a little patronizing — smile. "I want to believe you, but I ate the exact same thing you did, and I'm fine."
"You have an iron stomach," he replied almost accusingly.
"Maybe you're pregnant," she couldn't help but tease. "Morning sickness would make sense."
In spite of himself, Gil chuckled at the absurdity of that. "Yeah. Because of the two of us, I'm the one who can get pregnant."
She just grinned at him, helplessly shrugging a shoulder. The only other reasonable explanation would be the flu, but he hadn't been around anybody he could catch it from.
His stomach lurched again. "Oh...make the boat stop moving?"
"Sure — let me just set the parking brake," she quipped lightly.
He sniffled back the runny nose that vomiting had given him. Dizzy, he closed his eyes so the ceiling would stop spinning.
"Please don't feed me tofu ever again," he pleaded miserably, certain that he was on the verge of death. The food had at least tasted good, but not quite good enough to make up for its after-effects.
Sara abandoned her teasing tone, genuinely remorseful if she truly was to blame for his upset stomach. "Don't worry, I already threw the rest of it away."
A cool cloth was laid over his forehead, and her warm hand soothingly caressed his cheek.
"I'm gonna see if I can find something to help," her voice said gently.
Her hand left his face; he missed the contact immediately.
The only highlight of being sick was that it earned him a little extra TLC, in addition to the regular TLC he received on a daily basis.
Before leaving the cabin, she traded his used puke bucket for a clean one. Holding her breath and forcing herself not to look down, she carried the used bucket outside and dumped it over the edge.
In sickness and health, she mirthfully recalled part of her marriage vows. Still...gross.
"Sorry, fish," she apologized belatedly to whatever creatures may have been lurking directly below the surface.
She rinsed the bucket with saltwater until no visible remnants lingered. Leaving it outside to finish airing out, she stepped back inside to search for something that would calm Gil's poor stomach.
Pepto Bismol would have been ideal, but she couldn't find a bottle of the thick pink stuff anywhere...and out there surrounded by water, she couldn't exactly run out to the nearest drugstore.
A homemade tea of boiled ginger-root with honey would hopefully be a sufficient remedy. She collected together the few necessary ingredients they had on hand and set about concocting a cure.
He still had his eyes closed when she returned, and the bucket by the bed was still empty.
A good sign.
She perched again beside him on the bed, careful not to jar him with sudden motion.
"Here — see if you can get some of this down."
She helped him sit up and kept a steadying hand on the mug lest he be too weak to keep a good grip on it by himself.
He didn't ask what was in it — he trusted her, tainted meal or not.
The strong, steamy liquid warmed his throat, washed away some of the bitter acid. It wasn't as cleansing as his toothbrush would have been, but that would have required him to somehow stand and walk without tipping over.
He sipped the tea until the mug was empty. "Thanks."
He ached all over from the strain of his earlier heaving, and every muscle in his body protested as he laid back down.
She took away the damp cloth that had fallen from his forehead when he sat up, and she pulled a blanket up to his chest.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured softly, her gentle fingers returning to his temple where they continued to caress and soothe. "I feel as bad about this as you do."
Through his fog he managed a little smile of forgiveness. "Don't blame yourself. I'll live." Well, maybe he'd live — too soon to tell just yet.
Somewhere beside him he found her other hand, and he slipped his fingers between hers in a comfortable hold.
Just because she food-poisoned him, didn't mean that he didn't still want her nearby. Plus holding onto her kept him from being sucked into the spinning vortex that surrounded his throbbing head.
The ceiling tilted sideways, and he closed his eyes once more to block out the vertigo.
Death would have been a welcome escape, but he settled for an attempt at a nap instead.
Her hand was still in his when he woke up later. He opened his eyes, and nothing spun before them. He breathed in then out, and nothing threatened to come up. The invisible pounding hammer in his head had faded to light taps instead.
The tea must have done the trick, because he wasn't dead after all.
He looked up at the woman sitting beside him on the bed. A book was in her lap; she turned the page with her free hand, not having noticed yet that he was awake.
His thumb caressed over hers on the hand that he still held captive. "Hey."
"Hey," she returned with a sweet smile. "You've been out for hours. How do you feel?"
He inhaled a deep breath, blessedly finding all nausea to finally be gone. "Much better."
She was visibly relieved to hear that.
In fact, he felt just good enough to quip, "Should be smooth sailing from here on out."
The End