Disclaimer: I don't own them.


Chapter Nine:

Sara had not called in sick when she wasn't since she'd worked at Chucky Cheese… but, after dragging herself up, off the couch, where she had been crying for hours, she determined that she was in no state to work, much less see Mr. Gilbert Grissom, vampire with a temper. She ran her fingers over the numbers on her phone several times, working up her courage, and then dialed in a number she knew by heart and hit send. She worked to keep herself from hyperventilating as it rang, finally hearing a voice answer on the sixth ring.

Catherine must be busy with Lindsey—she never took that long to answer.

"Willows."

"Catherine… it's, uh… it's Sara. I tried to call Gi—Grissom, but he didn't answer his phone… he must still be sleeping," She lied easily, pushing ahead before Catherine could comment on how rare it was for Grissom not to answer.

"I'm, uh… not feeling very well tonight. I think I have the stomach flu… I wouldn't… call in sick for the flu, except it's pretty bad and… I don't want to contaminate evidence or… compromise the scene… you know, if I can't control it."

"Sara, you have to talk to Grissom. You can't call in sick to me."

"Right, I know, but… hang on!" She dropped her phone intentionally, letting it bounce off the coffee table several times before coming to rest on the floor, and then she counted slowly in her head to three hundred.

When she snatched up the phone gruffly, she spoke again in a softer voice. "Sorry Cath… look, don't worry about it. I'll keep calling Griss and if he doesn't answer I'll just see you tonight, okay? Sorry to bother you."

The older woman sighed, frustrated. "Go get some sleep, Sara. We can't have you vomiting at a crime scene… I'll try to get a hold of Grissom for you."

Sara groaned in obvious relief, still managing to make it sound frail. "Thank you so much, Cath… I'll see you tomorrow night."

When she was off the phone, she sighed heavily, moving over to her door and double checking that her locks were drawn. She knew that they didn't really make a difference, but it still managed to give her a sense of security she didn't understand. She wondered, idly, whether he could come in or not. If she invited him in once, did the invitation stand until rescinded?

She considered again… he had been to her house prior to this last time… she'd invited him in… yet he had had to ask the last time. So it must be on a case-by-case basis. That considerably dulled her worries and soon she was curled up in bed, exhausted but uncertain if she could sleep. His words swirled in her mind as she struggled for understanding.

He had been upset that she had propositioned him… that was obvious. And somehow, fetishes had entered his anger… S&M, biting… and something about how she'd never been so direct with him… She tried to understand—the hurt part of her insisted that he didn't want her, and was upset that she had ruined their friendship by pushing them towards sex… he obviously had known she wanted him, he had referenced how she'd hidden desire in her eyes in the past, but he must have preferred that.

It was easier to ignore, so they could just be friends, when she didn't sit on his lap.

Your breasts? No, they're lovely.

His words echoed in her mind, and she tossed some more, confused. Her heart wanted to despair, wanted to believe that she was undesirable by a man as great as Grissom…she'd known that since she met him… but her brain refused to let her ignore those statements to the contrary.

Do…Do you want me, Gilbert?

Yes. I do.

She punched her pillow angrily, squeezing her eyes shut tight at the words. It would only hurt more, in the long run, if she kept replaying those moments in false hope. She needed to shut them out—she leaped out of bed in frustration, staring at the clock. It was the time she normally would have left for work. No wonder she couldn't sleep… her body clock was all off.

It didn't matter, really, that she hadn't slept all afternoon and had effectively stayed up over 24 hours; when she crashed it would be hard, but right now she was agitated and wired. She stomped out to her living room, clad once again in a tank top and underwear, and curled into her chair—the couch was wet on her side, from her crying, but she wouldn't sit where he had only hours before…she couldn't.

She snatched up the remote with too much aggression and turned the TV on—it was going to be a very long night.