Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thank you guys for all the support! It means to much to me! Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the states! Enjoy!

Chapter Three:

"Gil!" Sara glanced up at the call, locating a large man waving rather frantically over near the baggage claim. He was overweight, but in the way that made you think of Santa, despite the fact that the thin hair ringing his head from ear to ear and entirely absent on top was golden blond. He had a bright smile and crinkles near his eyes—bright blue, almost as blue as Grissom's—and he was bundled up far warmer than Sara had imagined would be necessary on an expedition to the South Pole.

She glanced at Grissom in time to see him mask his cringe for a close-lipped smile. She smirked. "You know, when visiting experts come to Vegas, you don't greet them at the airport…"

His lips twitched. "They're lucky if we send a rookie out for them."

Sara snorted, following Grissom over to the beaming man. When Grissom had called her in from San Francisco, she had not gotten a rookie… she'd taken a cab to the lab, only to be told that Grissom had not left any instructions for her, but she was welcome to try and find him at his scene. It had taken her roughly half an hour of toting her bags around that hotel before she realized there was an entire other section she'd been unaware of. She'd crossed a pool area full of barely-clad tourists and finally found his dummy-throwing experiment.

She found herself genuinely amused rather than frustrated that she'd trekked all over Las Vegas to find him when he could have been doing the same thing on a computer in the lab, and that was when she had known that he was more than just her friend. …That he had maybe never been just a friend, ever.

The large man extended both hands out as soon as they neared, capturing Grissom's hand in his right and clasping it with his left. "Gilbert Grissom, back up North, eh? You look the part, too! Like a lumberjack. Paul Bunyan chic."

Grissom ran a rueful hand over his beard and glanced awkwardly at Sara, who put on her brightest smile and stepped forward, hand out. "Hi. I guess that would make me the blue ox, right? Sara Sidle… You're Craig Olson?"

He grinned, taking the proffered hand. "You're Babe, huh?"

She blinked, a frown bending her eyebrows down in disapproval, despite her attempts to disguise it out of politeness. Her opinion of the man immediately shifted, her tone become a little cold. "Excuse me?"

Grissom chuckled at that, finally seeming to relax a little. "Babe, Sara. Paul Bunyan's Big Blue Ox. …The one you just referenced."

"Oh." She blushed, swallowing. "Right. I… didn't remember the name, I just remember the pictures. You've got a lot of statues of those two up here…"

Craig grinned. "Imagine processing one of those, eh? Come on, your luggage should be coming up by now…" And the jovial man took off towards their carousel, expecting the pair to follow them. Sara chanced a glance at her mentor who, to her great surprise, was grinning slyly at her.

"After you, Babe."

Sara rolled her eyes for his benefit and stalked off, hitching her duffle bag up higher on her shoulder. Yeah, it was just the kind of flippant, off-the-cuff thing Grissom was prone to say as if it were nothing—Because it was nothing, she told herself—but it still had her heart hammering a little quicker in her chest. Stupid Paul Bunyan.

Craig dropped them at their hotel to check in and Grissom—in a move that rather surprised Sara—managed to finagle them some adjoining rooms, despite the time of night. To Sara's surprise, the man followed them up in the elevator, not discussing the case yet—just talking about restaurants. …At which point it occurred to Sara that he expected them to go out for supper with him. Not that that was necessarily a problem—she was used to working nights, so she wouldn't be able to sleep anyway—but she looked like a sloppy college student right now, except with, you know, a few more wrinkles here or there. So when Craig followed Grissom into his room, Sara slipped into the one next to it and dug through her suitcase. A jacket thrown over the tank top she'd had on all day and a new pair of jeans—and a fresh swipe of deodorant—and she felt much more like the young professional she liked to believe she was. She had put away her travelling clothes before Grissom knocked on the door separating their rooms, and she opened it with a fresh, polite smile.

After all, she'd already kind of made a fool of herself. She needed to redeem herself—not so much to Grissom. She knew that he knew she was smart and a talented criminalist. Whatever else his faults, he had become much more generous with compliments in the last few months. No, she wanted to impress Craig, the same as she'd wanted to impress every teacher she'd ever had, Grissom included. That was part of the reason she had such a problem with authority—if they didn't warrant her admiration—her desire for validation—then they didn't really deserve to be telling her what to do anyway. …Ecklie, for example.

She felt her smile become a little more vindictive at that, and forced herself to pay attention to the conversation at hand. Grissom—again, to her great surprise—apparently had no intentions of living out of a suitcase. He had already placed his toiletries around the sink in the bathroom to be organized later, and was carefully hanging shirts and piling other clothing into dresser drawers. Though Sara didn't like the idea of living out of a suitcase for two weeks, she also didn't like the idea of putting her clothes anywhere near hotel drawers. …Maybe after Grissom had gone to bed, she'd process them and see whether it was worth the risk.

"—best steak in town, I guarantee it!"

Sara's head snapped up, realizing that she'd just missed something important. Were they headed to a steak place? Or just talking about one. She could handle her dining partners consuming meat without issue, but steak houses were a little overwhelming. The scent of cooked flesh hung in the air like smog. Even the diner—with the overwhelming aroma of bacon—wasn't as bad as a steak house.

"How about your vegetarian fare?"

Craig went off about fantastic pasta places instead, but Sara watched Grissom, waiting for him to look at her, because of course it was coming. He waited no longer than a second or so to glance up at her, and when their eyes met she fit it, and it took her breath away. A moment later, of course, it was gone. It was always like that, and it happened more and more often lately… moments that would hit them, collectively, and they would be reminded of all the potential between them, if briefly and fleetingly so.

Craig was already extolling the virtues of a place downtown and within moments they were being shuffled back into their coats and out of their rooms. Craig, for his part, seemed to be a gentleman through and through—he offered Sara his arm as soon as they left the room, and when she blinked in surprise and looked moderately baffled at just what he expected her to do, he acquiesced and put his hand to the middle of her back instead to guide her. Which irked her, once her brain caught up with her—it had been a rather long, mind-numbing flight—and she realized that through some old-world sense of gentility and by virtue of her having a vagina between her thighs rather than a penis, he assumed that she would not find her way back to the elevators and down to the lobby without his guidance. She allowed it because she didn't know the man—if it had been one of the guys, she might have broken the offending hand.

As if he could read her mind, Grissom chuckled behind them, and Sara rolled her eyes.

He was not a CSI for nothing though—the first door he opened for her, he noticed her tensing shoulders, and backed off enough for Sara to relax and realize that he had probably only intended to be polite and welcoming. She was a little on edge—she could already feel the dull ache in her lower back that told her that not only was her period on the way, but that the cramps were going to be bad. …Had she remembered to pack the bottle of Tylenol? She frowned, trying to remember, and missed the fact that Craig had opened her car door for her.

The lack of a scowl on her face at his action made Grissom frown, but she didn't notice that either. She was almost certain she had forgotten the painkillers.

The food was actually just as good as Craig had promised, though Sara had suspected the man of being a little… overenthusiastic. He certainly didn't come off this…expressive… on the phone. Despite the serious nature of their business there, Sara actually found herself having fun. It had been a very long time since she'd gone out with adults and had an intellectually stimulating conversation—the guys were as smart as anything, but they didn't enjoy discussing the newest articles in Forensic journals or taking on deep philosophical considerations over dinner. They were more about cracking jokes over drinks, which was good—they were the best friends she'd ever had—but this… this was easier, for Sara. It was the kind of social situation she could feel completely at home in, and it was this, more than the glass of wine Craig had insisted she try with her pasta-had she mentioned that she didn't much care for wine?-that had her relaxing into the moment.

She shivered on the way out of the restaurant, and Grissom eyed her coat with noticeable contempt. "You know, that's really not warm enough for the weather up here."

Sara raised her eyebrows at him, frowing slightly. "It's the best I've got. You know, it's not exactly easy to find winter jackets in Vegas—especially when you're given about twelve hours' notice."

"Mmm," he said, and Sara rolled her eyes behind his back, feeling the flare of irritation again.

It was really cold, and her back was aching, and by the time she seated herself in the car, she knew she'd need to open her box of tampons when they got back to the hotel. With a scowl at the drifts of icy, white snow they passed on their way back, Sara thought that maybe Grissom had been right to volunteer himself, alone, for this trip. Winter in Vegas wasn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, but the lab-issued Forensics jacket was a lot thicker than her own personal coat, and right now she would probably be about done processing a scene—maybe even one she'd been given lead on. Sure, she'd still be irritable and achy—but she'd have access to Tylenol from her locker, and that always made a world of difference. Plus she wouldn't have spent hours on a cramped plane that absolutely didn't have enough room for her long legs.

Craig dropped them at the door to their hotel, not accompanying them in this time, though Sara had a suspicion that he might have walked her to her door if she'd responded better to his masculine ogre-ing earlier in the night. In relative silence, she walked with Grissom through the mostly deserted lobby—it was just after ten at night—and into the elevator. He pushed their floor number and the doors slid closed. Sara sighed. "He's… exhausting."

Grissom surprised her by grinning. "He's actually mellowed, a bit, with age. He was like Greg after a couple shots of espresso back when we started." He chuckled at some memory that she wished she could share, but she smiled anyway.

"Sometimes I picture you a little like Greg, when you were a level one." She chanced a glance at him, noting his raised eyebrow and choosing to interpret it as a response to the Greg comparison rather than to the fact that she'd admitted to imagining him and his past. "What? Quirky, brilliant, misunderstood…"

Grissom tried very hard to frown and failed, the corners of his mouth turning up as the elevator doors slid open. "I have suffered from being misunderstood, but I would have suffered a hell of a lot more if I had been understood." Sara recognized his quote-voice with a smile and raised her eyebrow in the question. "Clarence Darrow."

She smiled and shook her head as they reached their doors and muttered somewhat awkward goodnights. They moved in and each closed their doors behind them… before realizing that the doors adjoining their rooms were still wide open. Sara chuckled, kicking off her shoes and moving over to close it, coming face to face with a Grissom who had his fist raised to knock on the doorjamb. She quirked a smile after blinking in surprise, but Grissom blushed and looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry, I, uh… I think Craig was planning on sending a cadet over with a lab vehicle, around eight a.m. I… They have a continental breakfast, downstairs." He left the suggestion—or the hint of one—hovering in the air uncertainly. And he was extremely thankful when Sara picked it up easily.

"Great. Do you want to meet downstairs around seven thirty then?"

"Yeah. Absolutely." He said, and then quirked his lips awkwardly—not in a smile, but almost like he wished he hadn't spoken. Sara smiled, appreciating the rare exuberance, even as she recognized his regret for displaying it. And despite herself, she sought to prolong their contact, just a little.

"I, ah… was surprised. They do things differently here. I figured we'd be carted off, straight to the lab, to get to work."

He smiled. "They have a much lower crime rate than Vegas—they can afford to take time over cases. And, I suppose, Craig figures that if it is a serial, we've got some time." At her raised eyebrow, he smiled. "He's escalating, yes, but slowly. There was a month between Vince and Calvin, three weeks between Calvin and their vic up here… even if he keeps with his pattern, we've got a couple weeks. And Craig doesn't work the night shift—I spose he figures it makes more sense to wait."

"Ah." She said, not really knowing what else to say. His explanation made sense, of course, but it didn't dampen her desire to hop in a cab and storm into the lab now. This relaxed atmosphere didn't sit right with her, in part because she was so used to the pace in Vegas, and in part because her fervor for justice had been building since she'd heard about the possible serial connection—she was nearly at a breaking point now.

"Well, uh…" Grissom hesitated. "I guess… Goodnight." It wasn't exactly a question, but it wasn't fully a statement either, and Sara clung to it.

"I, um… probably won't sleep much. At least not soon. I slept this afternoon, so…" She bit her bottom lip and chanced a glance at him. He was expressionless. "So, you know, if you can't sleep…" She lost her nerve then, and shrugged awkwardly instead of finishing the invitation. He nodded, uncertainly, and their respective doors closed between them.

With a sigh, Sara pressed herself against the wood as quietly as she could, imagining him on the other side, kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt—her eyes closed tightly at that; she was aware of the little bit of weight he'd put on in recent years, and yet the thought of his bare chest and stomach never failed to make her want—turning on the television and settling onto the bed.

For what could easily be the ten thousandth time, Sara wished things were different.