A/N: A new story...tired of all the angst and drama of season 13? Then enjoy this one...going back to the time around that "Sunday" Sara mentions when she and Grissom got together. Of course, we own nothing.

This Kind of Love

Chapter 1

Sara Sidle's apartment was one of hundreds covering acres of the city between the original business district and the miles of new spec built neighborhoods of the new Las Vegas. The buildings were totally lacking in any appreciable architecture with plain façades and narrow windows, but two redeeming features were assigned parking spaces and the small washer-dryer in each unit. Her neighbors were sales clerks, office workers, waitresses, casino workers, government employees, and a few elderly widows. She knew a few by sight—her neighbor, one of the widows, was the only person in the complex she knew by name.

She was lucky to have an upper floor corner unit that overlooked a small park space that was quiet enough for her to open windows. On the shared landing, she could smell the early morning breakfast preparations of her neighbor—bacon frying—and knew Mrs. Walters would be checking for mail delivery every fifteen minutes until the mail carrier arrived promptly at ten thirty.

Pushing open her door, she was thankful to smell nothing—no food odors, no sweaty clothing, no chemicals—just the smell of her clean living space.

The first thing she did after turning on lights and sliding the dead bolt on the door was to kick off her shoes. Another step and she stubbed her toe on a chair leg—one she remembered moving slightly as she had reached for her trash before leaving for work. She hobbled to her sofa—an uncomfortable piece of furniture that fit the space—and flopped down, massaging her foot and swearing under her breath.

She rubbed her foot and then rubbed her eyes; with a sleepy sigh she let herself topple over on the sofa only to feel the sharp prod of her cell phone against her hip. Sighing again, she got up and headed into the bedroom where she removed her clothes and tossed each piece in the direction of a hamper before she stepped into the shower.

Once the water reached a suitable temperature, Sara stood under the spray and tried to make the water remove the mental mud of the shift she had just completed. She had been stuck in the lab garage with a car possibly involved in a hit and run—no—she corrected. The car had been involved in a hit and run. It was methodical work and it was boring as she worked alone. She realized she had spoken to only three people during her entire shift.

She shampooed her hair, scrubbed her body, and cleansed her face with an array of appropriate well-marketed products of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and foaming facial cleanser, all with a lavender scent, advertised to help one sleep. The fragrances were in such contrast to the chemical smells of her workplace that some odd trick was played in her brain to turn and twist her thoughts.

Memory after memory suddenly flooded into sharp focus; all involved the man she loved. Every touch, every word Gil Grissom had spoken in a moment that provided some degree of privacy over the past several years—a hand on her elbow, a head popped over her shoulder in such close proximity that she could feel a warm breath on her neck, his hand holding hers—flooded into her brain and poured into her consciousness.

Leaning her forehead against the tile, Sara suddenly wept. She cried until the sheer velocity of its flow obscured the specific circumstances of its origins. Slowly, fatigue and loneliness proved water soluble and she turned off the shower and the flow of tears at the same time. She wrapped herself in an old soft and shapeless bathrobe and wrapped a towel around her wet hair.

The life of Sara Sidle would go on, she thought, as she picked up her clothes and placed them in the hamper. She selected a shirt and pants for the upcoming shift, hoping she'd get something other than confinement to the lab.

As she straightened an already orderly bedroom, a tinge of hunger rumbled her stomach as she turned down her bed covers and ambled into her small kitchen to find whatever was there. She no longer kept leftovers, a decision she had made several months ago, and settled for a tomato, an avocado, and cottage cheese, which she ate in her bed. She read as she ate, finished her food, and gradually she relaxed as she continued thinking about the man she loved, who, unfortunately, was also her supervisor. Dreamless sleep came so quickly that her book fell to the floor with a thud that she never heard…

In a building much nearer the city's center, starring out of windows with a view of the famous 'strip', the man occupying Sara's thoughts watched as daylight came quickly that morning. The city seemed to turn into a stage as bands of sunlight competed with the glittering glow of the buildings along the Vegas strip until the sun gained its full flaming blaze and showed its blinding light was greater than all of the artificially created designs of the city.

Gil Grissom knew the day would be hot; he stepped away from the window and pushed his thermostat to a lower number. He had already showered, eaten the dinner his housekeeper had prepared the previous evening, and worked on the paperwork he had brought home. Music played as he wandered around his home, touching and adjusting several framed items, having no desire to read or watch television.

If he could admit the truth, he would have said he was restless but even in truthful discourse, he would never admit he was agitated or unhappy. For a long time—months—he had been critical of how the lab was being run. Conrad Ecklie, a political bureaucrat, was running the lab as if it was his personal profit-making business with barely a care for procedures and policies that made the Las Vegas crime lab among the top in the nation. At times, Grissom thought he was the only impediment between orderly, systematic and scientific operations and utter chaos. Grissom knew there was an undercurrent of distrust in the department; and at times, he felt something else—something he could not put together—yet. He would not reveal his unsettled thoughts to anyone—not without evidence.

But even his dissatisfaction with Ecklie was not the real reason for his mood of discontent. Gil Grissom knew it was a woman—Sara Sidle was under his skin. He had quietly observed her during the previous shift as she worked in the lab garage. She appeared wrapped in solitude as she worked; her face was beautiful. His thoughts caused him to chuckle. Sara's entire body was beautiful and he had watched as she gracefully moved in and out, over and under the automobile, gathering evidence, wearing a department issued-blue jumpsuit. He had caught her as she found evidence; her face broke into a satisfied smile. He had quickly walked away before she realized he was near.

His pacing continued; he wanted to walk, not around his condo, but outside with the sun heating the back of his neck.

It was still early morning. Quickly, he changed his shoes and grabbed a cap and sunglasses, slipped out the front door and began walking in no particular direction. He was moving along the sidewalk, passing restaurants and banks not yet open for business, noticing random litter but little else. While he was not unaware of his surroundings, he was not conscious of his path until he was completely across a park and suddenly realized he had walked a couple of miles. Just as quickly, he turned around, gathering his thoughts as he recognized his surroundings.

A few steps away, he sat down on a park bench and began to laugh. He couldn't help it, he thought. His hand raked across his face. He remembered—the clean scent of Sara in an alleyway, the soft touch of her fingertips on his arm, the feel of her skin against his hand, her fingers gently touching his cheek. His fingers actually moved to his face, to the place she had brushed away chalk.

And his walk had taken him—like a moth to a flame, he thought—to the small city park next to Sara's apartment. He turned and looked up, seeing an open window on an upper floor, and knowing, yards away, was the person who occupied his thoughts more than anyone had in a very long time.

Pushing his cap back with his thumb, he watched the window, knowing Sara was alone and probably sleeping. He did not know how long he sat on the bench when he caught a movement.

Standing at the edge of the park, a woman—Sara—stood, gazing at him across the grass. Her hair was pulled back; she wore a white shirt and jeans. Lifting her hand in a wave, she started across the space toward him. looking curious, her eyes large with questioning.

Deep in the pit of his belly, desire rose, surprising him in its intensity. Immediately, he removed his cap and held it over the growing bulge inside his pants, hoping she would not notice as she approached. He stood as she came to him and smiled. He wanted her badly, realizing this strange and sudden desire had been hidden for so long that it made him almost breathless.

Cautiously, he managed a weak wave of his hand. Carefully, holding his cap in front of his groin, he pointed to the bench and said: "Hello."

A/N: And we appreciate your comments and reviews. If not for those, we'd have stopped writing long ago!