Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. Sigh.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I had gotten it in my head that I would finish this zombie story I started more than a year ago by Halloween, so I could post it... and that obviously didn't happen. :( But, there's this for you guys at least.

Thanks, as always, go to my super-awesome-fantastical beta and friend, PatiH. I owe you so much, dear.

Chapter Twenty:

Sara spent most of Saturday vacillating between lazing dreamily about the house, lost in memory, and anxiously biting her fingernails, fearing the fallout. Gil had not, as Grissom was wont to do, freaked and tried to back out of what had happened between them as soon as it happened. No, he had seemed like he wanted nothing more, now that he had taken the plunge, than to remain in her presence indefinitely. As if he had no greater desire than to buy her fries and a chocolate milkshake and smile at her somewhat sappily over his whipped cream. But she couldn't deny that she was a little worried about what he would do once he found time to think about what had happened. He was the same person as his skittish adult counterpart, and she would need to prepare herself—mentally, emotionally—for any negative fallout.

She knew he worked at his mother's gallery every weekend, and had half a mind to insist Ryan take her down there so she could see him, but she held herself back. She had asked him to the dance, and he'd retreated. She'd backed off and given him time, and he'd shown up to sweep her off her feet. She let him speak, let him lead, at the dance, and he'd kissed her. Grissom was a man who cared about control, and he was a master at compartmentalizing. It made sense that Gil would be similar. He had wanted to say yes to her invitation, and yet he'd said no, because he was insecure. She needed to let him get comfortable, and do things at his own pace, for this to work. Pushing got her nowhere.

Instead, she worked on steering her thoughts towards being dreamy rather than nervous, and tried not to think about Monday at all.

Saturday night, Amanda surprised her with a cake she had baked that day, in honor of Sara's 16th birthday. …Sara had known, of course, that it was her birthday. All day, in fact. But having one's birthday remembered—much less celebrated—was such a rare occurrence in her foster care experience that she had genuinely believed it would pass without notice. She had thought she would prefer it pass without notice, right up until Amanda put the cake in front of her, covered in lit candles, and everyone had sang to her—even Ryan and Frank. In messy frosting, clearly written by someone who was not a professional cake decorator, were the words: Happy Sweet Sixteen Sara! …The first time around, her sixteenth birthday had marked the transition from one foster home to another. The young couple she'd lived with had gotten pregnant, and all of a sudden they didn't want little delinquents around to corrupt their real kid. The new home smelled like chicken grease and unwashed children—a grimy, sweaty, desperate smell.

This was so much better, even though she hadn't known that she'd wanted any recognition at all.

Sunday, after church, she and Ryan sat down to work on English, primarily Hamlet. Which he apparently hadn't read at all, based on his rudimentary understanding of the plot. She had expected to be fielding questions about the protagonist's sanity, or the use of symbolism and metaphor. She expected to address the potential Oedipal complex between Hamlet and his mother, or Laertes' creepy relationship with Ophelia, or Polonius' hypocrisy.

Ryan did not know the characters, other than Hamlet, and that the ghost was his father.

Sara looked at him in disbelief for a long moment, then inhaled deeply. She wanted access to his car, and she should have known Ryan would need this level of help if he was failing. She could do this.

"Okay… let's start from the beginning. Hamlet is the prince of which country…?"

"…Danes?"

She pursed her lips. "Denmark. People from Denmark are called Danes."

"That's dumb."

Sara's eyes closed, her patience already protesting. "Regardless, he is the prince of Denmark. His father is dead, and his mother, the queen, is married to…"

"His father."

"His father is dead."

"Well, yeah, but they're still married. Like, if Frank died, it wouldn't be like Amanda had never been married."

"No, she would be a widow. Hamlet's mother is a widow, but she's also married. To her dead husband's brother."

"Geez! What a tramp!"

Sara grit her teeth, fighting to urge to roll her eyes or give him lecture on double standards between men and women. "…Hamlet thinks so too. That's why he's mad at his mother and his uncle, who is also his step-father. …Got it all so far?"

"Yeah. I got it. …But who is that Claudius guy?"

Despite her efforts, she had bitten her nails down to nothing by Monday morning, and entered their biology classroom with trepidation. He was already there, and the anxious way his head shot up to her when she walked in was proof enough that he, too, was nervous. How that nervousness would manifest itself, however…

She did her best to smile at him without looking nauseous, and moved to the back of the classroom, sliding into her seat beside him. "Hi."

"Hi," he said, and his voice cracked a little. His ears turned red, and Sara swallowed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stared at her as she stared back, and it didn't happen.

She finally let out the breath she'd been holding, and looked down at her ragged fingernails. She wanted to kiss him, or tell him how much fun she'd had Friday night, or kiss him. But… but she had to let him do things in his own time. If she came on too strong, he would shut down again.

"So… Do you think Friedman's corrected our first progress report yet?"

Gil looked half-disappointed and half-relieved, and Sara's stomach twisted in uncertainty. At the very least, though, he didn't shut down. "Yeah, you'd think so. If he had any corrections or suggestions, he'd want us to have them right away…"

"That's true. …We need to work on that this week. At least run the first trial, with the fifty/fifty baking soda to sugar ratio, so we can amend our hypothesis in this week's report.

"Well… We could work on it at my house. Tonight, if you wanted."

Sara grinned. "Yeah, that would be great. I'll have to check with Amanda, but it should be fine. …Is… are you sure your mom won't mind? Not having any notice, I mean."

"No, it'll be fine. I told her we'd be working on a project soon. Sara…"

She held her breath again, but the bell rang, and other students poured in the open door, and the moment was cut short. Sara exhaled in a huff, leaning her head against her left hand, frustrated… and then the miraculous happened. Her right hand, resting on the table, was covered by his—warm, wide, calloused—hand. She looked at him in shock, and though he looked a little like he wanted to retreat, he kept his eyes locked on hers instead. After a long moment in which her world stopped spinning and righted itself, and she realized he was probably waiting for some reassurance, she smiled and squeezed her hand around his fingers.

The first time they'd held hands. Well, as teenagers, anyway.

Her heart raced, her face felt hot, and memories of kissing him flooded her brain. She thought, for a wild moment, of leaning forward and pecking his lips, right there in their Chemistry classroom, with twenty other students present. She would have preferred they be alone, or course, but she just needed to feel close and she had spent so much time reliving their stolen moments that she couldn't be certain which sensations were real or imagined anymore. She needed a refresher. She needed to run her tongue along that pouty bottom lip. She needed…

Friedman stepped out of his office and his door swinging shut behind him made her jump, snatching her hand out of his.

She needed to get a hold of herself.

"Alright, everyone with their lab partners? Good. I've got your progress reports," he started moving around the room, distributing them to their owners, "with comments, and I'd like to talk with everyone about their project today. So, while you're waiting for me to come around to you, discuss what I wrote with your partner, make plans for what you'll be working on this week, etcetera, etcetera."

He placed their paper smack in the middle of their shared desk, and moved to the front to meet with his first students. Sara and Gil both leaned in to read what might have been the worst handwriting ever.

"Wow! Fantastic start! You two make a great team!"