Disclaimer:All characters belong to CSI and are not mine - I'm just borrowing them. I promise they will be cared for and fed and watered and returned in pristine condition. BUT until I'm given Season 9 to entertain me, they are mine to play with… as I like…
The idea for this came from the final scene of season 6 opener 'Bodies in Motion' and mentions events from that episode.
I also do not own 'The Peppermill' or its 'Fireside Lounge'
Author Notes: Thank you so much to everyone who is reading this!! Especially those who are STILL taking the time to review and all the new people who take the time to put me on their story and favourite alert lists. I am so honoured. THANK YOU!!
Sorry this chapter has been a while, it drove me crazy!! This is something like the third version… count yourselves lucky I am not making you read the first two… they were sooooo BAD!!'palign'centre'>
Stars in Motion.By Rianne
Chapter Nine.
Around their booth the place had filled, the air was humming with fragments of disconnected conversations and thrills of laughter, all intertwined with faint snatches of melody and lyric drifting through from music tracks which fluttered away before you could grasp hold of them long enough to recognise them.
As they waited to hear all about his latest humorous misadventure Greg swayed his way to his feet, realizing that no amount of scowling was going to deter Sara from telling her tale.
He took a moment to wonder why she wasn't drinking, for a flicker it concerned him, there had been rumours about the lab recently, unkind rumours involving her and a newly discovered penchant for the numbing allure of liquor and even mention of a sweeping under the carpet of a DUI, but he had chosen to ignore them.
As he watched her gracefully capture the attentions of her audience, her eyes clear and sparkling, and he knew his concern was unfounded.
He knew Sara, she wasn't a drunk… and he also knew full well that she was using him to get away from the unwanted attention she was currently receiving.
He pursed his lips in resentment, but he guessed he owed her. Mainly for not laughing at his misfortune during the very same human goo incident of which she spoke.
If it came down to it, which he supposed it had, it was better for her to laugh now than it had been in the immediate aftermath of the incident.
In the craziest way it was more of a hazing. Another small way in which he found himself being drawn into the more than dysfunctional family of the graveyard shift team. He had, over his time working with them, usually whilst spending many hours waiting for a suspect, or court, or the results of a test, heard all about the others and their first few traumatic and humiliating adventures and accidents.
So… if it had to be his time, this time, he guessed that this story wasn't the worse in his ever-expanding arsenal.
It was damned near official that there weren't many who could have witnessed it, let alone been the unfortunate soul who experienced it first hand, and kept their stomach contents or their face straight.
Sara was also kind enough to make mention her own response to the decomp, one that their faces showed they knew all too well. One that even years of exposure to such decomposition couldn't culture imperviousness to. The deep pull in the belly as the stomach muscles clenched and rippled into an uncontrollable heave, whether you had eaten or not. The smell that clung and made the air thick, and ruined clothes and sometimes relationships.
He was touched to hear that she was actually making him sound brave, and a part of him wondered if it would be worth hanging around to hear her rendition, and let her praise give him a nice ego stroke. Yet the more he listened he quickly recognised that he really could not stay. And then he was suddenly very sure that he could not listen to her recap his misfortune, not with the alcohol in his stomach suddenly rolling about like that. He wouldn't want to ruin his new tough-guy image by having to rush half way across the room and empty his stomach into the nearest flowerbed.
So instead he saluted the table in recognition of their support, but only Sara's eyes danced to his and then with a raise of her eyebrows she carried on.
He made a show of shaking his head at Sara, at least pretending that the story was of no consequence to him, hell… he ought to get special recognition of some kind, the willpower it had taken for him not to immediately upchuck everything and contaminate the scene.
Reaching out he placed a gentle palm on Catherine's shoulder to capture her attention.
"On that note…"
He trailed off realising that no one was listening to him. That even Catherine wasn't responding to his touch, her eyes on Sara, hungry on the scent of his impending humiliation.
Depraved minds, the lot of them, he scowled watching as they all eagerly leaned closer to Sara as she continued to divulge. Scavengers, vultures, damn them for that instinctive curiosity that made them all so very good at their jobs.
Tilting his head at Catherine, again and realising she was still ignoring him, he simply nudged her into his place in the booth, noticing that her attention flickered to Warrick, beside her for just a split second, her expression segueing into something vaguely like nervousness, a flash in her eyes and then with another blink it was gone and she lifted her head and leisurely and downright sensuously slid herself down next to Warrick, letting her thigh brush against his. Warrick didn't flinch, or look at her either… curious. Although as he hovered a moment watching them he saw that they both seemed to be getting more aware of one another by the second and seemed to be tensing up tighter and tighter as the more they fought to act natural the more unnatural they became… Something awkward there…
Probably just Catherine feeling offence at not being invited to the wedding, or even being told about it.
He, himself, would never have expected to be invited, he may have been a member of the team for a while now, but they still saw him as the 'newbie' whatever they pretended to other wise.
But Catherine…
If anyone would have been included, invited, asked to plan it, it would have been her. She and Warrick, they were close, close enough to incite more rumours than… well… his eyes flicked to the other heavily speculated over couple at their table, and found one watching the other with devoted interest.
His own eyes strayed to his very own special point of interest, over the other side of the room.
"Drink?" He asked Catherine, waiting patiently for a moment and then increasingly impatiently before he finally received her distracted response. Then he turned to head to the bar, crossing the matching pink carpet, swerving other patrons in a complicated dance. Surprisingly no one in the place took notice of the mass of what could only be described as Christmas decoration, which fluttered around his ears. Hey, when in Vegas… Not that he was really looking out for reactions, oh no, his eyes were drawn powerlessly to Callie as she moved his graceful dancing partner, mixing her drinks with practised ease, unaware of her intent audience of one.
He felt a twinge of pride when she stood back, a look of barely disguised boredom on her pretty face, as one of the other male bar staff threw his mixer in the air in a poor Tom Cruise imitation and felt completely vindicated when 'Tom' turned for her admiration and she gave him a forced smile and instead turned and searched him out, meeting his gaze and he could have sworn that they both held a single thought in their heads.
Something gleeful along the lines of… 'Hope he drops it, fool.'
He gave her a wink, mouthed Catherine's drink order to her, shamelessly jumping the queue. What else was he dating a waitress for! No, that was hardly fair. This was just her part time job, Callie wasn't really a waitress, she was a student in grad school. As smart as they come, sharp as any of his CSI colleagues, well, maybe not as sharp as Grissom, but he had quite a few years on her.
Smart, sexy, downright gorgeous… he had spent the last few weeks wondering what on earth he had done to deserve her.
Whilst he waited he took a moment, wanting to make sure that his table had moved on to topics his stomach could handle before he returned.
The bar was getting pretty close to capacity now, it was getting warmer in there as all the bodies were getting closer and closer to one another. He had already been forced to stare over a few shoulders to see the bar, although at just over six foot he was not yet forced to stand up on tiptoe. Across the room a band seemed to be setting up for some kind of performance, and the music seemed to be getting louder now to compete with all the voices and the laughter and the musician's test chords.
So this was what it was like to have fun. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a normal life where you didn't work all night and sleep all day. Where the only things you had to worry about or scare you were simple and none threatening. Things like getting up on time for work after a few beers, or remembering to be on time to catch your flight home.
He used to have a life like this. A pretty insane social life by many standards, and for a while after becoming a CSI he had tried to keep it up, but really all that was left now was a pretty unique collection of rock band T-shirts and some rather dusty drunken photographs. It felt like he had worked the graveyard shift forever now. That the days of college and drinking and laughter were a million miles away.
He had only met Callie completely by chance, he'd accidentally stumbled over her in a mall coming out of a store, not looking where he was going as he raced his usual one hundred miles per hour. He had not only crashed into her spilling her bags, but also the hot coffee she had just bought. He had to admit that events like this only really happened in the movies, the darn sickly 'meet-cute', accidental spill, and invite her out to coffee to apologise… but it was working.
Maybe helping out all these poor lost souls who ended up requiring CSI services had built him up some pretty good karma.
Checking in with his friends he saw the story telling was still in full swing.
His eyes followed the fluid motion of Sara's uncharacteristically exuberant gestures as she told her tale, even down to a re-enactment of the way he had yanked and yanked at the stopper to release it from the floor of the trunk so that the human goo could escape into the waiting bucket.
He clamped his lips together and tried not to let the memories contaminate his current good mood.
He'd had decomposing human fat and tissue in his mouth… it had splattered with more precision than a Catherine Willow's quality standard splatter analysis right into his unsuspecting orifice.
He couldn't hold back the shiver; orifice was such a horrible word. His mind unconsciously using more formal and distasteful words to distance his memory from his current.
He'd needed more than toothpaste and mouthwash to remove that taste, human really didn't taste like chicken, no matter what all the cartoons used to say.
He really hoped that the team would be kind to him, just in this one instance and not mention it whilst Callie was in earshot. That was definitely something she did not need to hear about, possibly ever.
He closed his eyes briefly and willed away the irony taste that flooded his tongue, and almost bit right through it when he opened his eyes with perfect timing to see Sara's gleefully exaggerated final imitation yank, and her swinging elbow smack the stupid fake glasses right off Grissom's nose and clear across the table sending the others into fits of near hysterical laughter.
It was nice, if not a little curious, to see her this way, so relaxed and really openly smiling, if he hadn't known her better he would have said she was getting some too.
She hadn't even gotten to tell them that she'd thought Grissom would be proud of him, yet… or his surprisingly witty, considering the circumstances, response that Grissom would have tasted it on purpose… and still they were already close to literally rolling in the aisles clutching their stomachs.
Oh, he'd thought it too soon, he rolled his eyes, there it was, followed by the resounding humour it deserved and punctuated by the sharp way that Nick slapped his own leg in amusement. The sound resonating in the air. He couldn't be sure as he wasn't close enough to hear their actual conversation, but he just assumed that Nick was playing up to his new cowboy image, but with Nick you never could be sure.
Feeling soft, cool fingers curl around the bare skin of his bicep, he turned with a jolt to find Callie beside him, her tray balanced with unnerving skill in her other hand, she reached up, ruffling the glittering strands of his wig with her fingertips before she offered him Catherine's drink, and a slight teasing smile layered with so many intentions, and then slipped away to deliver her other orders, her hips swaying and her fingers' lingering caress fading slowly from his arm.
Oh he had it bad and he didn't care who knew.
0000000000
"If it isn't the man of the hour!" Sara cried as Greg returned to the table, her grin still on high wattage.
With a dismissive shake of his head she watched as he placed the drink in front of Catherine before nudging the blonde's shoulder with his side to get her to slide over so he could sit down.
Around the table each person hitched over to their left, bringing a certain Gil Grissom much, much, closer to her. So close that his leg was now touching hers. They were pressed together from knee to hip, and he was warm like a furnace.
She had to breathe slowly for a moment or two, in an attempt to restrain the nervous tremble that ran through her leg, the muscles already under stress from her high-heeled shoes. His heat enticed goose bumps all along her flesh, spreading like wildfire from where they touched, the comfortable, soft jean material and the slightly soft of his black trousers, were no barrier between them.
His rolled up shirt sleeve brushed the bare skin of her upper arm in a teasing stroke, tickling her freckles, as he reached to retrieve the big glasses she had sent flying, and she bit her lip again at her bodies traitorous response. Was it possible for her breasts to actually swell… just from that?! She fought the urge to cross her arms over herself.
Having seized the glasses, for what could quite possibly the first time she had ever seen it, and if not it certainly hadn't happened in a long time, Gil Grissom tried to make a funny, attempting to slide the glasses into the small breast pocket of his shirt as he would his usual pair. Jeez… he must be drunk.
Tilting her face up to his she favoured him with a sweet semi-indulgent smile, closing her eyes and shaking her head with a sigh.
But he was grinning at her when she opened her eyes again and their gaze held as her smile widened to match his.
Oh dear… there was that heart dropping several stories response again. And for a distracted moment she wondered if that wonderful roller coaster feeling was why Grissom chose to ride those damn things so much.
'…amazing'
She still couldn't believe he had said that. That one was going to fuel her bedtime daydreams for good long while.
"And by the way, Sidle," Nick's voice snapped her out of her connection with Grissom, "I believe you owe me a little cash…" he smiled a sneaky grin, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together.
She frowned in confusion, money…? Her eyebrows rose.
With a barely controlled spurt of laughter Nick flung both his hands out, indicating Grissom, like the glitzy hostess on a cheap game show displays the prize.
He watched as his meaning dawned on her, drawing her frown deeper, and Grissom's curiosity swayed his head in-between the pair.
With a sigh Sara lifted her hips, feeling cold air rush over the newly exposed leg at the loss of Grissom's heat, her fingers rooting in her pocket for a 10 bill.
"Ha ha!" Nick cried, as Grissom frowned, his gaze watching the cash change hands, "next rounds on Sara! Well… partially on Sara… maybe just my drink in a nice place like this!"
She glared at him one last time, before lowering herself back down to the seat and back into contact with Grissom, sucking her pursed lips back in before she opened her mouth a few times, searching for just the right way to explain to Grissom why he was the obvious focus of their bet, but before she could grasp the right words Nick spoke for her.
"Someone," he jerked his chin somewhat less than subtly at Sara, "called me a liar when I suggested that you might be joining us this evening."
"I did not!" Her indignant reply was followed by laughter from both of the men, before she realised that she was being teased and her nose wrinkled before she gave into her smile.
"Fine." She practically growled at Nick. "I didn't think you would come." She raised her palms in a shrug.
Her gaze flitted nervously to Grissom, but he returned it calmly, with just a flicker of something which might have been sadness clouding his eyes.
"Nicky, I suggest you spend all that money wisely." She countered and shook her head as he laughed.
As Nick made a deliberate theatric of rolling up the bill and tucking it into the brim of his cowboy hat, and the others laughed around them at Nick's actions, Sara leant into Grissom. Nudged in close to his ear, feeling the extreme heat of him, and the vague leftover scent of cologne or soap, her stomach felt like it was a solid ball of nerves, but she just had to say it. Quickly, before she chickened out.
"I'm glad you did come."
She felt his smile rather than saw it, as she was moving away the moment the last word passed her lips, reaching out to capture her drink, the cold condensation on the glass heaven to her damp and nervous palms.
Hey, she could be brave, but she wasn't that brave!
"Are you sure about that drink, Sar?" Warrick suddenly asked her. His calm, considerate, eyes across the table making his phoney bachelor crown all the more ridiculous. " Come on… it's a party!" he continued, growling the last word, looking upwards to indicate his headwear.
"We could get a taxi home," Grissom contributed as the others nodded too, "I'll bring you back in the morning to get your car if you'd like."
All eyes shot to him, including Sara's. Silence reigned just for a moment before it was replaced by the sounds of smothered laughter and many humorous sideways glances between Catherine, Warrick, Nick and Greg.
"Trying to get yourself an invite there, Griss?!" Nick's knowing look raised his eyebrows almost all the way to his hairline and his shoulders were heaving with his laughter.
Only Nick could get away with saying that, and only after all that had happened. None of the others would have dared. They would have blinked away the lower meaning and snickered about it only later.
Oh… so this was what happened when you gave CSI's alcohol…
"Huh?" Came Grissom's bemused reply before he murmured, 'Oh!" as the double entendre of his words began to sink in, fighting against the flush, which swept up from his chest right up to the tips of his ears.
Oh God!! He'd used the words 'home', and 'we' and…
By 'we' he'd meant all of them, by home he'd meant…
He'd practically invited himself…
If they only knew just how close to his, suddenly within reach, dreams that was.
But the others were smiling, even Sara.
Actually, she was laughing the most, the pink of her cheeks exactly the same shade as her floral wreath.
She waved her hands at him through her laughter, in acceptance of his unspoken apology, understanding the excellent goldfish impression he was currently giving, but the light in her eyes told him so much more.
As the laughter died down a sudden announcement over the microphone, from the rather self-important sounding voice of the band's lead singer, boomed across the bar. Letting everyone know that the entertainment was about to start.
Greg, Catherine, Warrick and Nick, all twisted their bodies to check out the action behind them.
Sara watched Grissom watching the others. His ears were still pink. He was chewing on his lip. Pensive, worrying over what had simply been kind words that the others had, unintentionally and almost cruelly, filled in with more sordid details! Not that they were aware of how close to the mark they were, or how fragile the budding… thing… was between them. Oh, and not that going home with Grissom would be sordid… oh God no!
The corners of her lips turned up.
After a moment his head dipped, his eyes closing briefly and her heart filled with tenderness for him.
She glanced down over to where Grissom's hand lay palm down against his trousers.
The need to comfort overwhelming her, she reached out and ever so gently caressed her smaller two fingers over his. Allowing them to intertwine for a moment, squeezing gently, feeling the sweet rush of the enticing friction of skin against skin.
Both of them stared hypnotised down at their joined hands, the lazy sliding movement of them still inducing warm tingles that trailed up their wrists. Her long slim fingers, and his darker, broader ones.
Both raised their heads at the very same moment, as if their touch linked more than their hands. Their eyes met shyly and the emotions that he read in hers left him feeling heady, the light he had previously glimpsed was burning brighter, all at once forgiving, teasing and, could it really be… inviting?
And then her touch was gone, her hand withdrawn to the safety of her own lap just in time, as Catherine twisted back to pick up her drink and the band before them crashed into song.
He could still feel the ghost of her fingers, watching them as they fidgeted now, curled in her own lap.
Oh boy… he had it bad…
