Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: You spoiled readers, you... Why do I do cliff-hangers and then post the next chapter an hour or so later...?

Reward my generousity with abundant appreciation for the small amounts of smut I am slowly feeding you... Please?

Hehe. :)

Chapter 25: Welcome Home…

The night had been ridiculously slow—Warrick's trick roll had been open and close. The woman on the surveillance camera going up to the room and then leaving not fifteen minutes later with the man's wallet in her hand was still in the hotel bar downstairs, trying to pick up another victim. He and Catherine and I had spent an hour in the break room, before Catherine commented on my appearance—I'm sure I looked like hell.

"Are you tired, Gil?"

I shake my head, and then yawn. They laugh at me.

"I just… I just got used to sleeping nights, and now I'm switching back to days… it's going to be hard, for a while."

"Well… it's not like we're busy. Why don't you just take off?" I start to shake my head again, and another yawn forces its way up. Catherine scoffs at me. "Seriously, I promise if we need you, we'll call you back in to finish the shift. Go home. Get some sleep."

I want to argue, but I am tired… and the night is slow… and though I expected to have piles of paperwork to catch up on, Catherine had taken care of everything while I was gone. …And I miss Sara, and Halle. I sigh, reluctant still.

"You will call, even if it's a small case?"

She chuckles. "I will call if we need you. Get out of here."

And so I leave—with a spring in my step—excited to get home… Maybe I could have some time with just Sara. Not that I didn't love Halle—she was my whole world—but it would be nice to have some one-on-one time, now that we weren't so much at odds anymore.

I parked in the driveway, choosing to go through the front door rather than the garage, because I didn't want the sound of it opening to wake Sara if she'd already gone to sleep. The garage was right beneath her bedroom. I pull out my keys, sliding the lock over just as Hank lets out a bark. I swing the door open, and he hurries over to me to lick my hand and get an ear scratch. Some guard dog.

I softly close the door, keeping the lights off, because I still don't know if she's asleep. Hopefully Hank's bark hadn't woken her, if she'd gone to bed early. She had looked very tired at supper tonight… these strange shifts were going to get to us, sooner or later, I was sure of it. It would be easier when Halle was in school—then I could sleep through the mornings, after shift.

I slip my shoes off and Hank walks away, deciding I'm not going to give him the attention he wants and I'm about to start up the stairs when I hear Sara some ways above me.

"Don't move." I hear the sound of a gun cocking. My eyes widen, and I freeze, just like she tells me to.

"It's me, Sara."

"Gil?!"

The light above the staircase flickers on and I blink rapidly, my eyes trying to adjust. I had only a moment to take in the sight of her before she flung herself down the steps and into my arms—but it was a moment that I was unlikely to forget for the rest of my life.

She had stood at the top of the stairs, legs parted in a textbook shooting stance, one further forward than the other, her right hand gripping the gun while her other had reached out to turn the lights on. She was clad in possibly the shortest night shirt I had ever seen—black—and made from a fabric that positively clung to her body, leaving no curve in question.

I could see two erect nipples through the thin fabric, and the void across her stomach where her belly button is, and the precise moment when her hips become her thighs.

And god, those thighs… I hadn't seen them in a decade, and yet they had not suffered in the time—if anything, she was more beautiful than she had been as a nineteen year old girl… long, tensed muscles angling down into sculpted calves and the contradictory soft pink toenails—contradictory because every other part of her looked anything but soft. In truth, I was simultaneously frightened and aroused.

But none of this could compare with the sight of her face, framed by a messy halo of tousled chocolate curls—her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and bright, her lips looking almost swollen, like she'd been biting them, or engaged in intense kissing…

All this was taken in in the moment before she hit my chest, her gun abandoned at the top of the stairs, her shaking arms gripping my shoulders tightly.

"Oh, Gil! I heard the door and… you were supposed to be working! …And I didn't think Hank would bark at you, and then the lights didn't come on… and I kept thinking about that last crime scene… Tom and Erika… I wasn't going to let them get her this time!"

She shudders and grips me and sounds like she's crying, although her eyes are dry, and I hold her tightly, reveling in the feel of her body against mine—because the fabric beneath my fingers is very, very thin. I almost think I smell sex in the air—the scent of arousal… but then, when the body goes into fight or flight mode, all the body systems become aroused—adrenaline rushes will do that to you.

…Even if there was a perfectly scientific reason behind it, the idea of Sara in her tiny pajamas, clinging desperately to my body, and aroused, for whatever reason, is… incomprehensible. My head swims with the concept. I take a step back, simply to ensure that I can think clearly… that I can even speak.

She looks a little sheepish, now, and I wrap an arm around her shoulder to comfort her, leading her back up the stairs. She scoops up her service weapon when we reach it, immediately putting the safety on and unloading it—we had decided that, with a child in the house, we would always keep our guns unloaded and kept separate from ammunition, which would always be kept locked.

I give her a sideways glance. "…That was fast. You had to load your gun and everything…?"

She smiles a little shyly. "…I guess my motherly instinct kicked in."

I chuckle. "Remind me not to bait the momma-bear in you."

She laughs, and then draws in a deep breath, as if she's still shaking off her fear of an intruder in our home. Her head falls on my shoulder. "How come you're home so early…?"

"Slow night. Did I wake you?"

For some reason I don't understand, she blushes and looks away from me. "No. I… was reading."

I nod, smiling softly at her. She's so strange sometimes. "Well, uh… if I'm going to get back on a normal schedule, I have to stay up… but if you wanted to sleep… don't let me keep you up."

She shakes her head. "I couldn't sleep anyway…"

And though I don't know where I came up with the courage, I ask her, "We could watch a movie, in my room, until you're tired…?"

She smiled at me, those deep brown eyes dancing. "Yeah, that… sounds great!"

We turned into my room, and as I moved to my limited DVD collection, I watched out of the side of my eye as she climbed onto my bed, unintentionally providing me with a glimpse of light pink underwear—a modest cut, a modest color, but slightly damp…—that perfectly match those toenails.

I clear my throat, asking her what she wants to watch, trying to get the picture of a sex-faced, bare-legged, black-clad, gun-toting Sara Sidle out of my head.

Maybe the movie hadn't been such a good idea…